Tides of Love (Seaswept Seduction Series) (3 page)

Stymie altered course, thudding the pockmarked pier as he angled in. "Only one fella ever told me how to sail."

Startled, Noah straightened to his full height, an action he avoided with much shorter men. The breeze took advantage and ripped his coat wide. "Excuse me?"

Stymie released a whistle-breath through the gaping space in his teeth. "Professor used to tell me how to manage my sail. Pert near right most times. I think I mighta been pinching at that."

"Nice story." Noah shoved a few coins into Stymie's hand and took off down the pier.

The first raindrop smacked his face as he crossed the wharf, shrieking seagulls and pounding waves a seductively familiar chorus. He shouldered past a throng of whalers, cast-iron try pots slung across their shoulders, their ribald laughter peppering the air. He skirted a fishmonger's wagon and stepped over a length of rope. An old man perched on an overturned water cask glanced at him, lifted a weathered hand in greeting. Noah returned the gesture reluctantly and turned behind a concealing wall of stacked oyster barrels.

Humid air arrived in gusts from the east, thick from the increasingly steady drizzle, the final nod to the question of whether to wear his spectacles.
Maybe it's better,
he reasoned, pausing in front of a house facing the bay, the double porch sagging above a foundation of ballast stone, the cypress shake roof dull gray. The enticing scent of the marsh on the far side of the island distressed him enough without clear vision bringing added misery, transporting him back to a time of security and love, family and friendship. While he stood there, trying to remember whose house this had been, the loneliness inside him awakened, overflowing his heart, forcing aside every other emotion. Eyes downcast and shoulders hunched, he traversed the shell-paved lane, the owner of the house forgotten.

Shaking rain from his face, he broke into a trot. He must remember the promise he had made as his train exited Dearborn Station: he would not be drawn into wondering
what if;
drawn into reliving a period of his life he wished to forget; drawn into lowering his guard, allowing the people who had once meant the entire world to him to mean the world again. He had learned to survive on his own, after years of agonizing exertion.

No one to trust or lose trust in.

No one to risk his heart over.

By the time he arrived at Widow Wynne's boardinghouse, he had regained his equilibrium but lost most of his body heat. His wool underdrawers stuck to his skin, water dripped off his nose and slid past his collar. Cursing beneath his breath, he made a mad dash for the front porch and a reprieve from the storm.

The woman stepped into his path—or he stepped into hers. Her head bounced off his chest, his satchel landed in a puddle. His arms rose to steady her. "Excuse me, ma'am, terribly...." His voice tapered off.

Deep green eyes met his, glistening drops of water spiking the long lashes. A fierce ache started deep in his chest and moved to his gut.

Only one person had eyes as beautiful as these.

Goddamn luck,
he thought.

Elle tipped her head, rain washing over her fading smile. She flicked a glance at the hands holding her.
"Juste Ciel,"
she said, her throat doing a slow draw as she swallowed. Her face paled, and she lifted a trembling hand to her forehead.

Noah braced his knees, fingers tightening around her slim forearms. For a moment, he feared she would pitch into the mud at their feet. But she simply mouthed his name as her gaze again fell to his hands.

Remembering she had always liked them, even impulsively called them beautiful once, he snatched them from her and searched blindly for his satchel, trying to escape the ringing in his ears, the darkness dimming his vision. Coming home had been a mistake. If it hurt this much to face Elle Beaumont, how would it feel to face his brothers?

"Wait. Noah, there's nowhere else to stay. Unless you want to go home."

He halted by the gate, threw his head back on his shoulders, and blinked the ashen sky into view.
Go home?
God, no. Water trickled in his mouth as he said, "Nowhere? There must be."

"I've already refused two fishermen. Widow Wynne returns from her niece's in a month. Then she'll accept boarders. Trust me, I would tell you if there were anywhere else."

Trust her?
Oh, yes,
that
had turned out well before. Sighing, he cut his gaze her way, to find her standing in a shallow puddle, a sack of vegetables hanging forgotten from her fingers. A mannish blouse clung, somewhat indecently, to her bosom.

She had curves in places once flat and uninspiring.

So he stood there a moment, drenched and shivering, wondering how much better she would look if he had his spectacles on. "I could telephone—"

"No telephone. I petitioned the town committee for a public one, like they have in Morehead City. I proposed we place it at the mercantile." Swishing her toe through the puddle, she needlessly splashed her jersey gaiters with mud. "Mr. Scoggins planned to install it on the boardwalk post so his mother didn't have to see it. She threatened to move off the island if he did. Thinks spooks will creep along the line and into the store." She lifted her gaze, a mix of emotions crossing her face. Delight, caution, even a hint of anger, damn her. He read them all, like ink stamped on her forehead, the same as he could when they were children.

"We have a telegraph," she finally added.

"Impressive changes. There was a telegraph
before."

"Yes, well"—he observed in amazement as she pulled a watch from a narrow slit in her skirt and flicked open the tarnished copper cover—"impressive or no, the office closed forty-five minutes ago." She blinked rain from her eyes and pocketed the watch, faltering when she caught his look. "Oh. I have the seamstress specially sew the pockets." She stamped her foot, splashing more muddy water on herself. "Why should a man be the only—"

For the love of God
. "A hotel?"

She shoved a sodden clump of hair behind her ear, the ends bright against her skin. "You think we've gone this long without telephones but suddenly have hotels?"

A fat raindrop hit his neck and slipped inside his collar, making him shiver. He wasn't about to stand around in a downpour and explore his limited options. "Tell me this isn't your home, Elle."

She lifted her chin, a flush sweeping her cheeks.

"Tell me you're married and have three children. Tell me you're only bringing the widow her groceries."

She shook her head, an angry circle of white rimming her mouth.

No way, not living in the same goddamn
house,
he vowed, and kicked the gate open. Elle emitted a squeak of panic and caught him by the wrist, throwing him off-balance and against the white pickets rising between them. Her breasts, firm and plump, bumped his chest, and he recoiled, but not much. She had a remarkably strong grip for a petite woman, and perhaps, if he were honest, he didn't want to move badly enough.

"Don't. Please don't. Not again."

Grief and remorse claimed him. "You don't have any idea what it has taken to
get me here. But you have an idea what it took to make me leave, don't you?" He raised his hand in apology. "I've agonized for two months about this. I waited until I could... until I felt sure I could...." He tilted his head, icy drops of rain stinging his face.

"You're the marine biologist we've been expecting? The one I'm holding the coach house for?"

Nodding, he blew out a breath.

"I'll leave it to you to tell your brothers. I won't say a word. I promise. Caleb is gone for two more days, buying lumber in Durham. And Zach, well, Zach is here."

Noah closed his eyes, his skin prickling in anticipation and dread. Caleb and Zach. God, how he had missed them. "Too late for promises, Elle. Stymie Hopkins recognized me."

"Stymie Hawkins." She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. "It
will
be all over town by tomorrow then."

He tugged his hand through his hair. If he had a moment alone, he felt sure he could ease his discomfort. At least make a list of reasons for his return to Pilot Isle, something tangible to assess.

"Come in. Out of the rain," she said. "The coach house is very private. You have the second floor all to yourself."

A gust of wind pressed damp cotton against his chest, and he struggled to suppress a shudder.

"Some boxes arrived for you yesterday. Rory and I stacked them in the front room. Everything's clean, just a little dusty."

Who the hell is Rory, Noah wanted to ask? Her fiancé, most likely.
Good.
"Second floor?" he asked instead.

"It has a private entrance. Widow Wynne even had facilities installed last year."

"Facilities. Ye gods." Concentrating on the clank and rub of boats edging the dock and the bang of the unlatched gate against its post, he made an indecisive halt, a half turn. "I don't know, that is... I don't know if I can stay."

"I understand."

She probably did. Elle had always been able to sense his moods. As a young man, he'd had no choice
but
to keep his distance, when she read him like a blessed book. How he'd hated that. Every subtle expression, even the ones he worked to conceal, visible to her.

"Noah." Her teeth began to chatter, her breath chalking the air.

Wonderful.
He shrugged from his coat and flung it over her shoulders, careful not to touch her.

He left her behind, rounding the corner of the house.

Elle huffed, struggling to match her stride to his, her hands fisted in his coat lapel. "The bottom floor is vacant, pretty much. Water damage. Needs repairs before it can be rented. Right now, I use the space for my school. Two classes a week. Tuesday and Thursday mornings. The typewriting machine
is
loud, but it shouldn't wake you."

He halted at the bottom of the staircase leading to the second-floor landing. So did she, her boots skidding across slick grass, her body, warm and soft, skidding into him. He set her back, trying to ignore the teasing scent of gingerbread and soap.
"School?
What could you teach a child? How to break an arm rolling off a roof? Better yet, how to shatter the largest pane of glass in town with a misplaced kick?"

He watched her swallow her first reply, the only time he remembered seeing her halt a foolish word from tumbling past those lovely lips of hers. "For your information, it's a school for
women.
Anyway, climbing the trellis was Caleb's idea. How was I to know the roof was still wet? And I worked all summer to replace that glass." She shivered, possibly more from indignation than chill, and gripped his coat close. The sleeves hung well past her wrists, the hem hitting her just above the knee. She appeared fragile and defenseless, a facade surely, yet Noah experienced the familiar compulsion to protect.

He took the stairs two at a time.

"It'll be quite cold in there until you get the parlor stove lit."

Parlor stove?
Chrissakes, he hadn't seen a parlor stove in ten years, wasn't sure he would remember how to light one.

"If it's too chilly, you can come inside."

He glared over the railing. "I live in Chicago, Elle. In a printer's warehouse. If it gets above fifty in there, in July, I'll eat my hat. So, thank you anyway, but no need to worry."

"Fine, Professor. Freeze your skinny rump off."

He leaned out. "What did you say?"

"Nothing." She forced a smile, her lips clenched.

He couldn't halt his study of her, the little not hidden beneath his pilot coat. Reddish strands of hair curled about her face. Slim fingers locked around his lapel, pallid against the black wool. He denied the urge to squint, to see if her lashes were as long and dark as they had appeared up close. The absence of his spectacles and the misting rain painted a fanciful portrait. She even looked—
God help him
—attractive, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide and very, very green.

Noah wrenched open the unlocked door, ducked inside, and slammed it behind him. Elle Beaumont was trouble and would never be anything
but
trouble.
Forget about how much it hurts to look at her and remember the life I left behind.

Years ago, he had protected her from everyone, including herself. He wasn't going to do that again.

The woman was on her own this time.

* * *

Fury propelled Elle across the street at a fast trot.
Wait until I get my hands on Zachariah Garrett.

Noah lived in Chicago. Zach had mentioned sending telegraphs to the people building the laboratory. Telegraphs to
Chicago.
And as town constable, Zach approved all the construction permits. He had let her stumble upon, stumble
into
, the one person she wasn't sure she ever wanted to see again.

Much less
touch.

A biologist. A marine biologist. How perfect. No one loved fish and seaweed, the stink of the marsh at low tide, more than Noah Garrett.

She banged her fist on the door of Zach's office. Oh, she hoped he was inside. If not, she would find him.

The hinges squealed. Zach popped his head around the frame, a delighted smile growing. "Ellie."

Brushing by him, she charged into the office, words tumbling free. "How could... je
suis
... I never...."

"Boys," Zach said to the group of men gathered round the wood-burning stove, "how about I meet you at Christabel's in fifteen for dinner. Rory'll be along any minute, and we'll come over."

With a chorus of agreement and a few wide-eyed looks thrown toward the woman they had all seen in a similar state before, the men shuffled out.

Zach turned to her when the door clanked shut. "What's wrong? Your father? Another attack? I'll get Doc Leland. After the engagement disaster, I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to him."

Elle slumped into the nearest chair, head dropping to her hands, the heat from the stove making her queasy.