Tides of Love (Garrett Brothers Book 1) Read online

  Elle jerked from his grasp and shoved to her feet, knocking the chair against the wall. "I did help her, and I would help her again. Tomorrow and the next day and the next," she said roughly, her throat dry from fury and frustration. "Think highly of that monster while you think poorly of your own daughter. But I will never, I can vow this on Mother's grave, apologize for helping Annie leave."

  The slap rocked her head to the side. Without speaking, Elle walked around the desk, the pain in her cheek fading to a dull throb. However, the shock of her father's brutality had her heart pounding in her chest.

  "Marielle-Claire, come back here," he called, but she was beyond hearing. Or caring.

  The last, fragile vestige of family had been robbed from her, and she found herself racing down the staircase to escape.

  The lively confusion of the harbor crowded round Noah as he maneuvered the gangplank leading from the Nellie Dey's deck. He rotated his aching shoulders, wondering how he would ever get in good enough condition to work the nets without his muscles screaming for relief. Stepping to the wharf, he tossed a scrap of fish to a shrieking gull and watched it seize the morsel in a swooping dive. Men dressed much as he was, in bib trousers and muddy brogans, bumped past, gill nets in hand, barrels hoisted upon their shoulders, crab pots clanking at their sides. All of them, him included, reeked of fish and hard labor, the stink worsened by the scorching afternoon sun.

  "Aw, look at her, willya."

  Noah shouldered his satchel of research materials and moved next to a group of fishermen circling a corked barrel of ale that would, no doubt, be recorded as damaged in transit.

  "Wonder what the French bastard said to her this time?" Fat Jack asked in a singsong alto.

  Noah looked over their heads, to the top of a staircase leading from Henri Beaumont's warehouse. His breath caught. Elle descended at a dangerously breakneck speed.

  Her skirt flipped about her ankles; bright curls danced about her head. He squinted, imagined he saw a flush staining her cheeks. The sudden vision of his lips pressed against her smooth, moist skin pierced him like a hook beneath his.

  "She looks to be in a fine fury, don't she?" This from a young New Englander who had sailed south aboard one of the whaling ships.

  Jeb Crow, who claimed to be half Cherokee, but looked rather Nordic to Noah, laughed and ejected a stream of tobacco juice from his chapped lips. Noah grimaced and glanced at his feet. Whether he wore dirty brogans or polished oxfords, he preferred not to have his shoes spit upon.

  "She gave old Beaumont the business end of a stick, I tell you. Trying to get her hitched, he is, and she ain't agreeing," Jeb said and spit again, this time closer to the New Englander.

  "Can't blame Beaumont. Never married, never close even. If that was my daughter, I'd skin her alive," Walt Pepper stated, seeming to forget his daughter had run off with a Scottish sailor and nobody knew for sure if marriage had been part of the deal.

  Jeb crammed another wad of tobacco in his cheek. "Miss Elle's nearly thirty years old. Way past time to marry and birth some babies. Make her forget that women's school nonsense."

  Noah's gaze traversed the group. Chrissakes, what a bunch of idiots. He started to turn when, as often happens with men, the conversation degenerated.

  "Look at her twitch. Put together nice, she is."

  "Yessiree."

  Noah glanced back in time to witness Elle hop to the boardwalk. He wouldn't call it twitching, but she did jiggle a little.

  "You know what they say about orange-haired women."

  "Maybe she hasn't found the right fella, yet. Maybe I should go calling." Crude sniggers and hard backslaps accompanied this suggestion, then the discussion halted. They turned in unison to stare at Noah. "Or maybe she has found him, but he just won't find her."

  Noah's hands closed into fists. What did these men know of Elle? Would they have been willing to defy an enraged, drunken bully who beat his wife? Had they fought for freedom they believed in and lost their dreams as a result? She had more courage in her pinkie finger than the whole lot of them put together. Noah forced his feet to move before he did something ridiculous, something completely out of character. Before he allowed a quintessentially masculine response to overpower intellect.

  It seemed he fought this battle too often.

  He sidestepped a rut in the shell-paved road, navigated a crush of lumber wagons and vegetable carts, and raised his hand in greeting three times to the call of "Professor" before increasing his stride.

  The edge of Elle's skirt was mud-stained, the hem dangling. He struggled to ignore how the worn cloth clung to her hips and swayed with her brisk, rolling stride. She didn't walk like a lady, and she obviously didn't care who knew it.

  Just when he caught her, she halted. He plowed into her and gripped her waist to steady himself.

  "Noah, what are you doing?"

  Doing? He had no idea. He woke each morning, his mind full of images he couldn't shake, desires he didn't want any part of. Physical labor served as his only savior. The captain of the Nellie Dey had even offered him a job for the season, telling him he had never seen a man work so hard for free.

  "Hello, Noah?" She tapped his head with a slender finger. "Are you in there?"

  "I'll be damned if I know."

  "Don't you have some young woman waiting at the corner to walk you home? Why, in the name of heaven, are you hounding me?" Elle took a step, then stopped, and he almost ran into her again.

  Noah rocked back on his heels, chastised. Perhaps chagrined better described the itch beneath his collar. Not for following her or watching her little show on the staircase, but because Meredith Scoggins likely was waiting for him on the corner. She had been there every day this week.

  "That's right, shrug and wonder what possesses women to rant and rave. Hunch your shoulders like a boy who wants to crawl under his bed and hide. Go ahead. Congratulate yourself for your masculine restraint. Your superior intelligence."

  "Elle." He patted her shoulder in an awkward gesture of peace, opposing emotions battling for advantage. To comfort, to flee. Only, her voice, though filled with anger, held a ragged edge that rallied right through the hardened walls of his heart.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  Her back rose and fell on a deep breath. "My father asked me to apologize to Sean Duggan for helping Annie leave town. He summoned me to his office this morning, and it was stupid of me, I know, but I thought he wanted to apologize for our argument. I showed up early, finished his records for the past week, and filed the invoices. He probably won't even notice. Every time I offer him a part of myself, he throws it away. I should know not to trust him. My father doesn't give his love freely. He never has."

  "Elle."

  "The discovery that nothing will ever change, that, in fact, things are worse than I imagined. Certainly none of your concern," she said and whirled right into the path of a dray loaded with crates.

  Noah grabbed her shoulders and hauled her against him. "Hold on there," he whispered in her ear. Tremors shook her body, molding it tightly, perfectly to his.

  "Watch out, Miss Elle," the driver shouted, and jerked the reins, bringing his nag to a stumbling halt, chicken feathers drifting to the ground.

  "You watch out, Homer Crawford!" She slapped the side of the wagon and wrenched from Noah's grip.

  "Women," Homer grumbled and plucked a feather from his lap.

  Racing to catch Elle, Noah shoved her into the darkened alley running between the mercantile and Christabel's saloon. "Do you want to calm down and tell me what's going on?"

  "Please, Noah"—she tapped the toe of her boot against a broken bottle, her voice wavering—"just leave me alone."

  "What happened?"

  She shook her head in denial.

  "Tell me what happened. I'm a part of this, if you care to remember. I escorted Annie to Morehead City, not you." He pressed his elbows into his ribs, determined not to touch her.

  She straightened her shoulders and
lifted her gaze. It disturbed him to see grief riding a wall of ragged vigilance. But nothing disturbed him as much as seeing the bruise purpling her cheek.

  Something shifted: in his stomach, in his chest. Something unrecognizable, something he was sure he had never experienced before. "Did he hit you?" His hand lifted, traced the mark. A dull wash of red clouded his vision. "Did your father hit you?"

  She swallowed. "It doesn't matter."

  "The hell it doesn't." He tipped her chin high. "Why, Elle, why did he do this?"

  "Sean Duggan resigned today. The best seaman on Pilot Isle, according to my father. Because of me, he lost him to Elias Benton."

  "He did this to you because of a business deal?"

  "Yes."

  Noah stepped back, folding his arms. Rage made him think terribly ugly thoughts. "Is he in his office?"

  She grabbed his wrist, pulled him close. "You have to let me handle this. He's my father. Anyway, it didn't hurt, except in here." She pressed her palm over her heart. "And, sadly enough, that's mostly gone. You see, I left him, actually left him, when I moved from his home two years ago. Besides having dinner with him once a week, he gives me nothing, and I give him nothing. We share nothing. Heavens, sometimes it's hard to believe I'm his flesh and blood."

  "You don't have to ask him for anything. Not after this. I can help you. I want to help you."

  "I said no. Twice already."

  "Elle, be reasonable. You used your savings sending Annie home, gave her the last penny you had. Take the money. I told you I made some very wise investments in Chicago. There's more in my accounts than I know how to spend. I'll give you enough to get you through the year."

  She shook her head. "Knowing I can talk to you is enough. Maybe I was waiting for you to find me. Who knows? Old habits die hard, or so they say. I admit I felt the weight slip from my shoulders the minute you stepped behind me."

  Her words raised the hair on his arms. "Behind you?"

  "Oh, Noah." She laughed, a mix of impishness and frustration. "If you entered a room and the door was behind my back, I would know. I used to sit in school, waiting. The air changed temperature, closed in around me the second you walked in." She considered a moment, then shrugged. "It still does."

  He took an unsteady step, grinding crushed shells beneath his boots. "Hush." Panic trapped his breath in his chest.

  "If I can't tell you, who can I tell? I get tired of pretending. I don't understand why, but this connection has always been between us. At least for me it has."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "How can you lie when we each need a friend so desperately?"

  His hand shot out as his gaze snagged hers. "What if I lie? What the hell difference can it make to reawaken issues best left dead? How can admitting help either one of us?"

  "Dead issues? Is that what you think of your past, your family, your childhood? As something dead?" She searched his face, observing too much. "You carry this grief around like baggage. It's foolish. Your brothers love you. You're blessed to have them, to have Rory, and yet, you have no perception of the miracle of family. Love is a gift. Not an obligation, not a burden."

  Noah turned to pace the length of the alley. She had twisted him into a knot, as usual. Strong words and high-minded ideals. Brutal honesty. And what had he been trying to do? Comfort her. Protect her from harm because of the damned connection she spoke of. "I'm repairing the damage I've done to my family. In my own way, in my own time." Without completely ripping my soul from my body, he silently added. "What would you have me do? Cut a vein and let everything inside rush out?"

  "Yes, if the rush brought you some level of serenity."

  "Serenity?" He ripped his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. "Don't I look serene to you?"

  "You look haggard."

  "A problem at the lab yesterday. The freight company lost a shipment of materials. And, I took beach patrol with Zach and Rory last night." He shook his head. "They're trying so hard to reach me and... I don't know what to do."

  "None of this disappeared when you left."

  "Stay out of this, Elle."

  "Quit looking at me like a wild animal cornered by a predator. How can I make you believe I only want your friendship, which I would think you'd be willing to give? You can talk to me, even if you can't talk to anyone else. You always could."

  She spoke of love and friendship, but what he wanted from her had nothing to do with those things and everything to do with her melting like butter over him. The cherished boy from her childhood wouldn't be contemplating throwing her to the ground in an alley, tangling his fingers in her hair as his body covered hers.

  Noah fought the urge to run.

  "Don't shut me out." She took a step closer.

  "I want to shut you out. Better yet, shut you up."

  A small wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. "I don't know how to help with that."

  He expelled a ragged hitch of laughter. "Yes, well, makes two of us." Pacing from her, emotion bombarded him. Did she honestly think what happened in Widow Wynne's parlor occurred between friends? Blessit, was she that naive? He'd wanted one brief taste, to see if she would equal his dreams.

  Similar to an experiment.

  Relief flooded his mind, and he smiled.

  An experiment. So damned simple. Most of his torment the last week had been self-induced, pure conjecture. He had taken an instinctual sensual response of adolescence and transformed it into a man's carnal desire. The images crowding him were not drawn from past experience. In all probability, they were as spurious as a storm cloud that never brings rain.

  Before he changed his mind, he dropped his satchel to the ground and turned to her. Elle flattened against the wall, chin angled high, frightened but defiant. She wouldn't run. Not this woman.

  And for once, neither would he.

  The humming in his ears the only sign of his discomfiture, he leaned in, pressing his palms to the rough brick on either side of her head. He had no choice, no longer able to live at the mercy of his emotions.

  To expunge the temptation, he must yield to it.

  "Noah," she said, half question, half plea. A warm breath skirted his cheek, one that smelled of apple. Her gaze skimmed his face, lingering on his mouth before lowering. She made a faint sound of protest.

  "Friends, Elle." He lifted his hand and outlined her bottom lip. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the way the moist skin clung to his. Continuing to the curve of her cheek, the crescent of hair above each eye. Expelling a strangled sound, she stiffened and left his hand dangling before her face.

  "Friends," he whispered before he dipped his head. He paused, savoring the scent of her. With her next apple-breath, he guided his mouth to hers.

  He felt her tremble. "Trust me, sweet." He dug his palms into the wall, thinking only of his goal, intent on ending his fascination. Today, right this minute, he would find out.

  Find his dreams were simply dreams.

  On a sigh of surrender, a shared release of passion, her mouth parted. Seizing the opportunity, he plucked her bottom lip between his teeth. He moistened and suckled, skimming back and forth. Grasping his forearms, she groaned into his mouth, and his mission dimmed. He deepened the kiss, sensation pricking every nerve. The scent of scorched rose petals; the rough edge of her front tooth; her tentative effort to get closer. She edged up the wall, her breasts chafing his chest, her eager hands tangling in his bib straps.

  His heart slammed hard, out of control. "No," he said, and twisted away from her.

  A rush of air shot between them, and Elle blinked, looking into his impossibly young, unguarded face. Eyes closed, his lips parted to allow a throaty breath free. She captured the image, realizing she would not see it again unless she caught him sleeping.

  Merciful heavens, he looked like the boy she remembered. Her first day of school, a classroom smelling of chalk and vinegar. Herman Stanley apologizing for making fun of her accent. Noah giving her a smile of accepta
nce and unwittingly propelling love between two beats of her heart.

  Just now, he had touched her with his beautiful hands before he touched her with his lips. Had stroked her face with the intent of enlightenment. Some of the gentle-hearted child had to be left inside him.

  She curled her fingers around his bib straps and tugged.

  This is your chance, Elle. Take it.

  She ignored his grunt of protest and bounced to the balls of her feet, thanking her father for the ballet lessons. Slanting her head as Noah had done, she fit her mouth over his. She would use him for her own purpose, just as he used her for his. She threaded her fingers through the damp curls at the base of his neck, and, not sure how to ask for more, touched her tongue to the corner of his mouth.

  Noah uttered a low groan of defeat and crowded her into the wall, his arms stealing around to cushion the impact. His heat scorched her skin; the taste of butterscotch filled her mouth. He had a sweet tooth, she remembered, dazed and dreamy.

  Raising his hands, he held her head steady as his mouth, finally, truly captured hers. Her body slumped, a gradual melting. Caution, fear, logic, her father's cruelty, all liquefied, roaring like the ocean at high tide.

  Lightly at first, then using greater pressure, he teased, raising the point of pleasure. He angled his head, drew his tongue across her lips, showing her what he wanted. She didn't care if the action was right or wrong, foolish or wise—she opened.

  And he took.

  The kiss was unlike any she had dreamt of. His mouth aggressive, his whiskered cheeks rough, his hands eager, gliding past her neck, her shoulders. Control slipped as he delved, bending, wrapping her in a gossamer web of need. His need. Of course, he would deny the lapse later. But right now, this minute, with his body joined with hers, she knew.

  She had wondered the other night but now she knew.