by Tracy Sumner
He wanted her.
She did not mistake his need for love or consideration, kindness or respect. This blind ferocity, wild and undeniable, amounted to nothing more than overwhelming urgency.
A tortured sound rumbled deep in his throat. His lips trembled, his hands snagging in her hair. Her knees weakened, and he steadied her, fit her to his body.
Desire. Christabel had explained in vague terms what it meant to want a man so much you would do anything to have him.
"Closer," he whispered against her lips, his breath skimming her face.
Juste Ciel, she wanted to get closer. Already, his back bowed to accommodate for their disparity in height. The notion burned: they would not have this problem in a bed.
She stretched, trying. Almost... she almost—
He caught her under the arms and settled her astride his thigh. Her dress snagged between her legs as his knee wedged against the wall. His lips never left hers. Not once.
My, how ingenious, she thought.
She explored everything accessible. The muscles in his arm had grown from hauling nets and icing fish, his chest seemed broader, harder. Her mouth traversed the edge of his jaw, nipped at the skin below his ear.
How could a man who smelled of fish taste so wonderful?
She wiggled on his thigh, heat pooling between her legs. Whatever she searched for, she couldn't find.
"Let me show you," he breathed against her ear. Grasping her waist, he moved her forward, then back—a tantalizing abrasion. Oh, yes. She buried her face in his neck, a moan escaping before she could stop it.
A rusty creak penetrated the haze surrounding them; she lifted her head. Noah's mouth traveled to her cheek, to her lips. Elle fought the urge to close her eyes, drift on a cloud of moist, fervent kisses.
A gentle cough. Then another.
Elle pushed on his chest. "Noah." She forced the word between breaths, finally taking his face in her hands. "We're not... alone," she said, mouthing the last. Gradually, the music from the Nook filtered in. His eyelids flickered, opened, widened. Smoldering, charcoal gray. His nostrils flared on a rush of released air.
"Christ," he whispered, throat clicking on a hard swallow, chest rising and falling as he fought for control.
Bewildered, Elle could only stare, wondering if she looked as disheveled as he did. As appealingly undone. Gaze unfocused, lips swollen, hair plastered to his head in swirls of wet gold. Another burst of heat lit her. She wanted nothing more than to pull his mouth to—
"Stop looking at me like that. Do you want to end up beneath me?" He spoke harshly, but he was slow to release her, even slower to lift her from his thigh. The whole time, he shielded her from view, waiting for her to stand as she braced her palm against the wall.
Expelling a sigh, he slipped his spectacles on and turned.
Elle peeked around him to find Christabel standing in the Nook's doorway, hands fisted on her hips, her expression vacillating between amusement and curiosity. "Sorry to come across you in an indelicate state, but better me than some lonely fisherman." She glanced over her shoulder. "You take the back way, Noah. Honey, you come through the kitchen with me."
"What the hell do you have to do with it?"
"I'm the woman who's going to keep every gossip on the Isle from making your life hell, that's what I have to do with it."
Elle laid her hand on Noah's arm to diffuse his rigid stance. And, she couldn't stand so close and not touch him. Not when he had brought her body to life.
"Trust me, the men will be streaming in from the docks any minute, ready to drink now that the sun's set. Some are already in there raising the devil. End of the week and pockets full of money. No need to advertise you've been here. Poor man's bedroom, they call it."
Noah cursed beneath his breath and turned to Elle. His somber gaze captured hers as early evening shadows danced across his face. "I'm sorry, Elle. Sorry for this."
She stared at his lips as they moved, helpless to do anything but remember them covering hers. "I don't want you to be sorry. I'm not sorry."
"You will be." He stooped to grab his satchel. Frowning, he fiddled with the leather strap, his lips parting as if he would say more. His hand hovered near her bruised cheek. "I'm sorry," he said, his hand dropping.
The snap of shells beneath his brogans rang hollow and final in his wake. The mystical appeal of the alley departed with him, leaving only a slight chill, deepening shadows, and the stink of whiskey and fried fish.
"I waited as long as I could, but you don't need anybody seeing you tangled up like that," Christabel said.
Elle had no idea what being caught tangled up with a man was like. Although Christabel was right, of course. It wouldn't be good. Well, wouldn't be wise. Her father, Zach, Caleb. All of them would find out. She dropped her head to her hands. Her skin smelled of him, her mouth tasted of him.
How did a woman get past that?
"I didn't think he would stalk outta here. Boy, he has a nasty temper. Sure is a Garrett, that one. Do you reckon he remembers I carved Elle loves Noah into all those tree trunks?"
Elle laughed through her laced fingers. "Oh, Christa, however this ended, he wasn't going to handle the situation well. For a brief moment, the appalling happened, and he lost his beloved control. It's not your fault he's—" Scared. Stubborn. She wagged her head, frustrated to the core.
"Do you want to come inside? Have a cup of coffee? I make a mean pot."
"No." She glanced at Christabel. Blond and robust, she carried a lot of responsibility on her shoulders. Elle never underestimated her wisdom, no matter the packaging. "Thank you. I realize you did what you thought best. And you're right. I know that, too."
"Makes no difference if I'm right. Doesn't lessen the wanting. Anyway, no need to fret. I'll take care of him when he comes in tonight."
With a feeble half-turn, Elle swayed against the wall. "What?"
Christabel gave her a sympathetic look. Never had the contrast in their upbringings been more apparent. "He'll be back. Not a man alive who can walk away from what he walked away from and not seek a little relief." She winked. "And unless he comes knocking on your door, I provide the only relief in town."
Jealousy shot through Elle, vicious and unwelcome.
Christabel snorted and slapped her hands together. "Oh, honey, not that kind of relief. Whiskey is all I'm talking about. Sure, he could find the other if he wanted, but Noah's not that kind of man. Trust me, I can spot the scamps a mile off."
Elle chewed her lip, her suddenly tight clothing making her hot and itchy. "I didn't mean, that is to say, without doubt, I don't care what he does. This was simply a—a slip."
"A slip? What proper women call almost making love in an alley? Okay, honey, a slip." Christabel flapped her apron, her lips pressed to hold in a smile. "Now, get going. And, just in case Noah decides to slip with you again, dabble some toilet water between your breasts and put on a pretty dress. Maybe comb your hair."
Christabel's laughter, and her blasted advice, needled Elle the entire walk home.
7
"Forms of representative species are similar, often only to be distinguished by critical examination."
~ C. Wyville Thomson
The Depths of the Sea
Elle angled the paper into a shaft of moonlight and read the letter for the fourth time.
* * *
April 2, 1898
* * *
My Dearest Friend:
I have enclosed an application for the scholarship program I mentioned in my previous letter. As you can see, each year the fund lends money to permit a promising young woman to attend college. Our last recipient chose Cornell. I know you considered returning to Bryn Mawr, but just look at the marvelous number of universities included in the program.
I admit to rallying behind you at the scholarship meeting last month, and dearest Elle, you are so deserving. Many on the committee feel your extremely high entrance scores are an added benefit as well as your proven ded
ication to furthering women's education. I am confident a completed application is all that is standing in the way of your dream.
Now, my friend, I can see you shaking your head and telling yourself the school cannot survive without you. Actually, Elle, I have felt a fair measure of discontent lately, an urge to accomplish more than I can in New York City. I hope you consider my offer to manage the school in your absence a serious one. I would be proud to work with your students.
I am speaking at a reform meeting tonight and hope to encourage the audience members to contribute generously.
To friendship,
Savannah
* * *
The scholarship provided a grand opportunity to change her life, Elle thought, folding the letter and slipping it into her pocket. The application lay on her marble-top washstand, four pages of essay questions and personal queries. If she found additional means of income, even meager, she could survive.
In her entire life, she had only wanted one thing more than she wanted an education. She glanced at the darkened window of the coach house and realized no hope of that remained.
Reclining on the grass, she hooked her arms beneath her head and stared into a sky ripening from pitch-black to predawn blue. Birds had started to twitter, the only noise besides the distant roar of the ocean. No, not the only. She tilted her head, the thump of barrels being unloaded on the dock and a bell announcing a ship entering the harbor.
She rubbed her hand across her nose, the fragrance shooting a dart of chagrin through her. Sentimental absurdity to dab perfume between her breasts and behind her ears. A lone tear trailed down her cheek, and she scrubbed it away. How could she do this? Hadn't she learned her lesson years ago?
For her, Noah Garrett would always mean heartache.
He was not coming home, that was obvious. Elle could not picture Noah dousing his confusion in whiskey and cheap cigars. Nonetheless, Christa understood men better than she did.
Frankly, she was surprised he had not removed his possessions from the coach house. Fled to safer ground, as he would in preparation for a deadly hurricane. Losing control posed as grave a disaster in his mind. Perhaps he'd deemed it too much trouble to move the multitude of glass tubes, research books, and curious gadgets. In a sorrowful testament to her weakness, she knew they still littered every vacant surface. Darkness had provided the courage to climb the flight of stairs and peer inside. Unfortunately, a shift in wind startled her, causing her to knock a jar filled with murky water and a piece of gnarled driftwood from the landing. The driftwood she had put back in its place, the jar lay in pieces in the bottom of her garbage bin. She hoped she had not ruined an important experiment.
What had she been thinking? She twisted the damp edge of her dress in her fist. To let him kiss her as he whispered "friends" in her ear, to kiss him back, starved for his touch. Exposed, her mouth eager and open. This didn't make sense. She let him go the other night, stressing she would not fall in love with him, telling herself she was finished with men.
In fact, she told Daniel Connery the same thing not a day before. And she meant it.
Rejecting Noah had never occurred to her. She had raced into his arms. A reckless, gullible fool hoarding a vestige of absurd hope—imagining a twenty-seven-year-old man was innocent. Oh no, not after, not after the little—she groaned, but the memory loomed, terribly clear—rubbing incident. He had known exactly where to focus his energy, setting her atop his hard thigh, grasping her waist, and....
Where had he learned such a thing? And how many encounters had it taken to perfect his technique?
The image of Noah touching another woman made her queasy. He had obviously touched many. Mrs. Bartram of the scented letters, for one. He understood a woman's body too well. Living in a depraved city, who knew how many shared his bed? Elle closed her eyes, a sharp pain seizing her, riding hard from her toes to her head.
She rested her cheek on the prickly cushion of grass, images of Noah's hands upon her spinning round her mind like the phonograph in Christabel's parlor. The kiss represented a trifling part of what they could do. Even in her ignorance, she realized that. Too, she understood he had done much more at some point in his life. The presumption only made her sob and bury her face in her hands.
Damn and blast, she didn't need to wallow in the dirt when she owned only three decent dresses, and the one she wore represented the best of the lot.
Tears had never come easily or often, and they dried quickly. Crying answered no questions, abated no fears. Swabbing her face, she rolled to her back as the first delicate streaks of red and gold spread like a blush along the horizon.
I wish Noah was here to share this with me.
"I still love him," she whispered. "You fool, you still love him."
Sitting up, she pressed her hand to her chest, willing her heartbeat to return to normal. Oh, blast. I still love him.
A man armored against emotion.
She slipped her hand into her watch pocket and fingered Savannah's letter with a renewed sense of anticipation and dread.
The pounding ripped Zach from sleep. Shoving to his elbows on the bunk, he drew a hitching breath and let his head flop back. The muscles in his arms quivered; his heart raced. The dream returned in a series of flashes. Blood staining the sheets... Hannah's shrill, weak cries... his lungs burning as he went for the doctor... lifeless blue eyes and cold, stiff fingers.
A dream, Zach. A dream. The salty burn of tears stung, and he swallowed. Am I going to dream about her dying for the rest of my life?
Another round of knocking shook the door in its frame. "Coming," he shouted, praying a ship had not gotten beached on Diamond Shoals. He would have to check his list to see whose turn it was to patrol. They had been lucky lately, but luck, Zach well knew, always ran out. His certainly had.
Flinging the thin woolen blanket to the floor, he found his coat hanging on the back of a chair and was just pulling his arms through the sleeves when he reached the door.
"Cap'n Garrett, open up."
The smell of smoke and whiskey drifted in the open door, attached to Bigby Dixon, Christabel's manservant, for lack of a better description. The hulking man stood beneath the jail's narrow lean-to, broad shoulder braced against a timber post, hooked grin riding his face. Zach's shoulders slumped. Bigby helped him organize the safety drills and scrubbed salt from the breech buoys on occasion, but he did not patrol the beach on a regular basis, and never alone.
"You might better come, Cap'n." Bigby dabbed his boot in the circle of light cast on the planks. "Miss Christabel sent me for you."
Captain. Zach had ceased being a captain before Hannah died, but Bigby would hardly know it. "Who is it?" he asked, digging in his pocket for his ring of keys, knowing exactly who it was.
Bigby's held tilted quizzically. "Ah, you know, Cap'n. Your brother."
"Of course." Zach crossed the street at a fast clip, Bigby trailing in his steps. They stopped twice. To look at a frog flattened by a wagon wheel and to count the masts rising above the peaked roofs of the warehouses. Zach reminded himself, gazing into Bigby's joyful face, that all the excitement and innocence of Rory's world filled this man's and always would.
When they arrived at the Nook, he sent Bigby to fetch coffee with a promise to let him sleep in the jail cell one night next week. Sidestepping tables scattered with cigar butts and half-filled glasses, he halted before Christabel's parlor doors. She settled Caleb on the striped horsehair sofa after he'd gotten particularly rambunctious, separated from the temptation angry words, cheap whiskey, and flirtatious women presented.
He knocked once, hard and furious.
"Zach?"
"Yes."
One of the doors slid into its pocket, a flood of light spilling across his boots. He strode past her, pulling his sleeve from her grasp.
"Zach, you might...." Her words faded to a whispered sigh.
The uncharacteristic hint of caution in her voice slowed his stride. Zach halted, his gaze drawn to
the mammoth desk occupying one corner of the room. "Damn," he said and raised his hand to his face. "Damn."
"His spectacles." She tapped them against his wrist. "Didn't want him to break them."
Zach took the wire frames from her. "Lord knows, this isn't what I expected."
She tilted her head to the side and twitched her shoulders, a halfhearted shrug. "He's a man, Zach."
An inadequate explanation for finding his sensible brother slumped over her desk. Noah's arms sheltered his face, his hair bright against his rumpled black shirtsleeves.
"What happened?"
Christabel stepped beside him, the opposing scents of whiskey and flowers surrounding her. "Things were pretty quiet, most of the men summoned home by their wives long before Noah got here. He'd been sailing, I think. Had a wild glow in his eyes. Honest, I never thought he looked much like Caleb until then. I reckoned he would bust up one of my tables before the night ended." She stacked her fingers along the desk and leaned her weight on them. "Anyway, I brought him here right away. With a bottle. I knew, I just, well... oh, I probably shouldn't say, but good gracious, I want to tell someone." She knotted her hands together and recounted a story that left Zach feeling like he'd stumbled into a burning building.
"You found them what?"
She raised her hand to her heart and made a swift sign of the cross. "Kissing. And no sweet, decent kiss, either. Singed the air. I swear, plain as day, that's what I saw."
"Maybe, maybe—" His thoughtful gray gaze slid her way. "Are you sure?"
"Sure? Honey, they were practically clawing at each other."
Frowning, he watched Noah's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. "Do you think he loves her?"
She considered a moment, took in Noah's condition with a sweeping glance. "Whatever he feels, seems to me he don't want to."
"What should I do?"
Christabel cocked her head toward the heavy footfalls on the floor above, Bigby's childish laughter, and the sharp clink of silverware. "Take him home," she said.
