Tides of Passion (21 page)

Who was to say he and Savannah couldn't continue this affair—if that was an apt description for the most thrilling experience of his life—even after Elle returned? Maybe Savannah would want to stay, help out with the school a little longer. Or visit. Often. Caleb and Christabel had been doing whatever it was they did for years now, without a vow in sight. Course, Caleb had asked, but Christa didn't seem to want marriage.

Not every woman wanted marriage.

Savannah repeated those five words like a parrot until he believed her, or believed her as much as he could. He trusted her when she said they weren't going too far or letting things get out of control.

Shoving the ledger out of his way, he propped his elbows on the desk and dropped his head onto his hands, trying to massage away the tension.

Blazes, Irish gave a good massage.

He sighed and wiped his damp brow on his sleeve.

Out of control. That's the way
he
felt when he was with her. Hungry. For her touch and, frightening enough, for her mind. Lately, he found himself wanting to ask her all sorts of useless questions. About her family, what growing up in a big city had been like, and, most disturbing, about the man who'd hurt her. The bastard who had enjoyed arresting her, which still caused her face to pale.

Zach had come to think of her as
his
in an entirely horrible, masculine way. He would never, not on his life, tell her. He could imagine the explosion. No matter, he did feel possessive and anyone who hurt her....

His fists clenched. He glanced at the cargo ledge and shoved back his chair. About time to run over to the restaurant and pick up lunch. On the way, he'd sniff around town and see what kind of trouble his Irish was stirring up.

He tried to ignore the kick of anticipation in his belly.

* * *

Meanwhile, Savannah sat in Caroline's parlor, in a circle of women industriously stabbing needles through cloth. Some worked on quilts, others on church dresses. Lydia sat with her hand stuffed in a sock, darning a hole in the toe.

They cast pitying looks at her, although she could sew, thank you very much. A skill taught to her by her mother, one her father had frowned upon after they moved to a modest mansion in the city. They had servants for those duties, he had told her time and time again. Therefore her needlework was, to use Elle's word,
rusty
.

Dipping her head, she smiled, feeling a warm zing in the pit of her stomach.

It had been two days since she had seen Zachariah.

Actually, not two full days. She had stopped by the jail this morning and found him sleeping on the cot in the cell, his hair salt-crusted, his cheeks and nose windburned. Seeing him lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other stretched across his stomach, it was all Savannah could do to restrain herself from sliding in next to him and hugging him close. But the door was unlocked, and truly, their relationship did not include cuddling on a cot in the middle of the morning. That seemed like something you would do with your husband or possibly a true love. She and Zach had firmly defined their liaison. Love it was not. If she found herself unable to turn away from him at times, studying the way he wagged his fingers while he talked, or the tiny dimple by his mouth that flared to life at odd times and only with sincere smiles, she would admit to suffering from an impressive case of infatuation.

Savannah glanced at the faces of the women in the sewing circle. Wouldn't the unmarried ladies gathered here be infatuated with him if they had the chance to see him as she did?

"Prissy's taking a red velvet cake over to the jail this afternoon," Lydia said, nodding at the light laughter that followed her statement. "Darnella will be heading that way tomorrow morning with her scrumptious cheese biscuits. You know what that means."

"Church dance coming up," a gray-haired woman whose name had slipped Savannah's mind chimed in. One of the younger women in the circle was her granddaughter, she did remember that much. "Time to start harassing the unattached men, yep. An autumn wedding would sure liven things up."

"Wonder if Zach will ask one of them? Never any good at taking the bit in his teeth, that one. Stubborn." This from Christabel Connery, Caleb's "friend" and owner of the town's only restaurant. She snapped a length of thread with her teeth and continued, "Prissy's not his type anyway. Too much chatter and not enough thinking behind it. She would drive the man crazy. Darnella is a pretty girl, though. Maybe that's enough to entice."

Until Zach's name was mentioned, the conversation had been monotonous, the gossip harmless. Savannah leaned forward and smiled warmly, striving for the poise of one involved in a meaningless tête-à-tête but not genuinely interested. "How agreeable. A dance you say?"

Lydia dabbed a piece of green thread against the end of her tongue and worked it through the eye of a needle. "Hmmm, yes, next Saturday. What with days getting shorter before we know it, and cold weather rolling in, we like to have a dance while the evenings are still pleasant. Donations are taken at the door, a cake raffle and quilt exhibition held before the fiddlers arrive. All funds go to the church. For one thing, we need a new red pane in the stained glass window over the vestibule. A bird, poor beast, lost its way and crashed right into it last winter. Cracked it something awful. Have to go to Raleigh for the repair, you know, and everything in that city is steep."

She knotted her thread and turned with a broad smile the likes of which made Savannah extremely nervous. "Many a marriage has come about because of this dance, Savannah, dear."

Savannah jabbed her needle through her embroidery sample and straight into her thumb. Wincing, she raised it to her lips, murmuring, "You don't say." The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth.

Sensing a tenderfoot among them, the ladies starting barking like a passel of hungry dogs. They dispensed advice about what to wear, how to fix her hair—she needed help with that, everyone agreed—and how to catch a man. Talk of rallies or independence, women's schools, or shorter hours for workers at the oyster factory was not recommended.

"Wonderful, wonderful concerns," Lydia said, "but not fit conversation for charming a man, dear."

Christabel smoothed her finger along a neat row of stitches. "Too bad you and Zach dislike each other, Savannah, because he's a plum one just waiting to be picked. The Garrett men are handsome, no doubt about it. And Zach the best of the bunch." This seemed an odd comment coming from an intimately close friend of Caleb Garrett. Except for a few soft giggles, the women let it pass.

"We don't...
dislike
each other." She drew a breath of cinnamon-scented air. Cookies sat in an alabaster blue dish on the mahogany side table. "Simple disagreements, nothing more."

Christabel checked her stitching and grinned. "Spitting like cats whenever you're together. What about that argument last week in the restaurant? I thought I was gonna have to separate you like two fighters in a ring. Zach has never, to my mind, let his anger get the best of him. I'd prescribe far corners for you two."

Savannah squirmed on the settee, crossing and uncrossing her ankles. That particular argument had been silly. With Zach in the wrong, of course. Hyman Carter's daughter had every right to attend their meetings regarding the oyster factory amendments. The man had no sons and was sure to leave part of the business to his daughter. It wasn't Savannah's fault the girl came to
her
without first consulting her father. That it was such a surprise to the men in the room to see Mirabelle walk in the door was not her concern. The woman was twenty-nine years old and did not need a keeper.

"I heard about it, too," Lydia said with a sigh. "I agree. It's terribly out of character for Zach to get so cross. The two of you are a bad mix, unfortunately."

Such a "bad mix" that they met at the coach house an hour later for an extremely passionate encounter. Zach told her afterwards that he would argue with her every day if the result could be the same.

The gray-haired grandmother cackled, slapping her wadded cloth against her thigh. "Something strange about a man not looking for a wife after a couple of years of being alone. Bless Hannah's heart, the dear girl, but living is living. And men
are
men. You would think the Constable would like comfort only a woman can give. We know he isn't receiving any, not even"—her voice dropped to a whisper—"
out
of town."

"Strange indeed," Caroline agreed with a sly glance thrown Savannah's way.

She stared at her row of uneven stitches, avoiding the shrewd gaze of her newest student. Caroline was reading better with each lesson. A very bright woman, she didn't miss much.

"Magnus wants to ask you to attend with him. He told me so himself yesterday evening," Lydia said, checking her material for tears. "He's as suitable as a new penny. A mite stiff, true, but suitable just the same. Savannah, you would make an excellent doctor's wife."

"Me?" she asked, wishing she had not accepted an invitation to what was turning out to be a hellacious exploration into the world of proper sewing circles and small-town gossip.

"Of course, you." Lydia laughed, waving away the ridiculous question. "You have so much vigor and initiative. Magnus has noticed, of course. That's why he thought to mention his interest to me, since I am the co-chair for our oyster factory project." She leaned over and gripped Savannah's cold fingers. "Since we're such good friends."

Savannah fiddled with her sample, at a loss. Who would Zach take to the dance? Did their agreement include any stipulations about courting? She couldn't remember their discussing that issue.

Couldn't he have asked her to attend the dance with him? What could that have hurt?

A kind gesture to introduce her around, nothing romantic about it. Did he think she could not keep her hands off him for one evening? No one in town with the exception of a woman who had a rather scandalous past herself had an inkling that anything was going on between them.

When Savannah really thought about it, his resistance was quite insulting.

"You know," Savannah replied, squeezing Lydia's hand, "I believe I would like to attend the dance with Dr. Leland. Since I've only met him once, could you talk to him for me?"

Lydia squealed and bounced in her seat. "Oh, to introduce two people and hope for more to come of it! I would be truly honored, Savannah. This is simply so exciting."

"Yes, exciting," Caroline said in accord with the amenable nods and murmurs. But the look she gave Savannah was anything but agreeable.

And later that evening, Caroline caught up to Savannah as they walked through the door, taking her elbow in a brusque grip. "You know what they say about playing with fire, darling. Be careful."

Savannah nodded but said nothing, holding her chin high. She wasn't playing with fire.

Was she?

* * *

That evening, Zach locked his office door and started down the boardwalk. The sun was close to setting and most folks were having supper, surrounded by family and friends. An occasional wagon bearing fish or lumber swayed past. Fireflies flickered and crickets chirped. It was a peaceful evening in his town.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he suppressed an anxious twitch. He felt anything but peaceful. He'd received a letter of thanks from the wife of a sailor whose body washed up on Devil Island last month, and he had spent two hours writing a compulsory, saddening reply. How did you say "you're welcome" for delivering a man's body to his family?

He thumbed his aching eyes. The headaches were getting worse. Every afternoon, the pain started on one side of his head, creeping behind his eyes and sitting there, pulsing with each breath he took. By the time he went to bed, they were hot and watery, too tired to focus. Savannah had been massaging his temples and had told him he should see a doctor. She had mentioned the possibility of the need for spectacles once, too, he remembered.

And she had said he would look cute in them.

Cute
.

He hadn't told her he already had a pair and that vanity was keeping him from wearing them.

Sighing, he pulled the pair Dr. Leland had ordered direct from Raleigh from his shirt pocket and angled a wire arm behind each ear. He wrinkled his nose, testing the still-foreign weight. They didn't feel too bad. He wondered how they looked? Before he picked up Rory from Caroline's, maybe he should stop by Miss Vin's and see if Savannah had a moment to take a peek at them.

Plus, he had a little present for her.

Nothing much, just a fountain pen she had been admiring in the general store window the other day. She'd oohhed and aahhed over it like women do but hadn't dreamed of buying it. For some incredibly insane reason he didn't want to ponder, he had returned the next day and bought the darn thing for her.

Taking a quick side-hop into the street, he skirted a wheel rut, tossing his yarn-wrapped bundle from one hand to the other. At least thinking about Savannah made him forget that awful letter he'd had to write.

Speaking of the devil, he saw a flash from the corner of his eye. His belly tightened in the way it did whenever Savannah was near. He watched her skip off the boardwalk in front of the post office, dodge a shallow puddle, and cross the street at a brisk pace. She didn't look in his direction. He squinted, tipping his spectacles. Obviously, she wasn't interested in
his
whereabouts even if he'd been guessing about hers all day.

Her smile glowing like an electric bulb, she halted before a red safety bicycle angled against the side of Captain Willie's Net Repair and looped her basket through the front handlebars, her movements efficient and vigorous.

Well-defined hips. A glimpse of one trim ankle. Standing astride, the pedals resting against the back of her calves, she smoothed a pair of leather gloves over her hands. A twist and snap at each wrist. A rounded bottom adjusted to the seat. Lifting it indecently to gain speed, she pedaled down the street.

His chest hitched; he released an edgy breath. Crushing his package in his fist, he continued in her direction. No faster, no slower. It wasn't as if he was following her. He couldn't be faulted for taking this particular street, the quickest route home.