Tides of Love

Tell him yes. What better way to show Noah Garrett you haven't been pining after him for ten years? "I was terribly distraught. The entire situation nearly broke my heart. I looked so forward to being Mrs. Magnus Leland." Her voice cracked hard on the last word.

The muscles in his shoulders tensed; he shoved to his feet. "You're a terrible liar, Elle. Truly dreadful. Scares me to think you would waste a chance at marriage because of a silly"—he nudged the coach house door open with his elbow and ducked through the entrance—"infatuation when we were children."

She slapped the door wide when he would have shut it in her face. "Why you arrogant, boorish—" Her words caught in her throat.

Stacks of books covered every surface. The desk, the leather chair and ottoman, the faded settee that had once been dark magenta.

Cautiously, she strolled to the desk. She hadn't seen this many books since the long nights spent in the university library. She recalled rows and rows of chestnut shelves, covert laughter, and the smell of dust. The thrill of learning, of taking control of her life for the first time; sadly, the only time. Burying the burst of longing, she hefted a leather-bound volume as thick as her wrist. "Depths of the Sea," she read and fingered the gold tassel marking the page. "This is magnificent, Noah." She turned the vellum slowly. "You know, I had an interest in biology once, but that, well, that was a long time ago." She shook her head, denying the impulse to tell him.

Why would Noah care about her dream of finishing university?

"They're books for the laboratory, mostly. The others are for research." Elle felt the heat of his body before she smelled him. A rush of warmth, then the tantalizing scent of sea and man. His arm circled her waist as he lifted the book from her hand. He brushed his finger across the mark Magnus's cheek had left on her palm.

Her fingers curled; her body swayed into the desk.

"This will bruise, more than likely," he said, his breath dusting her cheek.

She stared at his slim, supple fingers, the nails finely trimmed, the pads slightly callused. She had once pictured them exploring her body. Troubled, she tossed a careless smile over her shoulder, one she hoped would conceal her confusion.

Noah blinked, his gaze lowering. To her lips, she guessed, from the way they started tingling. She licked them nervously, deciding the insincere smile had been a bad idea.
Cursing softly, he stepped away.

When Elle recovered enough to face him, he had his back to her, hands braced on the frame of the only window in the room. The reddish glow of early evening spilled in, kicking glints of gold in the hair curling over his collar. "What Leland said, about you, about me. He was wrong, wasn't he?"

"Oh, that." Elle rolled her fingers into a fist to stop their trembling. "Of course he was. Magnus was always a tad jealous of... it's just, he remembered lots of things that happened... before. Nothing worth mentioning, things I'm sure you've forgotten by now. You're not the only one to light a fire beneath him. He hated Caleb, too. The proposal business rankled."

Noah slanted his head, a startled part to his lips. "Caleb?"

"He proposed at the Spring Tide Festival, five years after you left. He'd been drinking, and when I refused his offer, he bent down on one knee, stumbled into the tent pole, and knocked the fiddler from his perch. Then, he fell into another tent pole. A crucial one, evidently. The entire length of canvas collapsed on top of us. Christabel took him home that night, something she's been doing ever since, I think."

"Why in the hell did he ask you, then?"

Her teeth clicked together. "Get the dazed look off your face, Professor. I've had a number of eligible suitors."

"Yes, I got a firsthand look at one of them today. In hindsight, maybe you should have accepted Caleb."

"Caleb felt an obligation. He struggled to be everything to everybody after you left. Instead of being my friend, he wanted to act as my protector. And a woman's protector, at least in his mind, is her husband. You may not want to hear this but your leaving and us hearing no word from you just about killed him. He was lost. Completely and utterly lost. When he found himself, he had changed. He grew into a man, a good man, but not the same man."
His hands dived into his pockets. "Caleb wasn't the only one who was lost."

She closed the distance between them. "I always wondered what leaving here, frightened and alone, would do to you. If the experience would change you into someone I wouldn't recognize."

"Didn't we establish in the damned attic that none of you knew me? Hell, I didn't even know myself." He laughed, but it sounded raw and reluctant. "So, am I still recognizable?"

Elle suspected he did not want to be. He believed change would shield him. But she could not lie. He had to face them, his fears and his family, sooner than he liked. "Yes, I recognize you, because I knew him. Deep down, I feel him. I see him. In gestures you make, he comes back to me. Bits and pieces I had forgotten. The curve of your hand when you adjust your spectacles, even the absurdly neat way you roll your sleeves." Against her better judgment, she added, "What you did today, sending Magnus away. My friend would have done the same."

He jerked his head, the light profiling his shuttered gaze. "I lived on the streets for months after leaving here. While struggling to survive, I learned to smell a person's fear and recognize their anger before they turned it on me. I learned the hard way, each bruise a tough lesson I could not afford to ignore. When I rounded the corner of the house"—his shoulders stiffened beneath crisp cotton—"I reacted purely on instinct. Nothing solicitous or benevolent in the gesture, I can assure you. Don't take this for something it's not."

Her hand lifted, but he flinched before she'd even decided if she would touch him. "Would it be so terrible to find he's still in there? The boy who loved his brothers? The boy who trusted me?"

"He's dead and gone, Elle. These days, I'm the only one I trust."

She tilted her head, her neck aching from the unnatural angle. Behind glass, Noah blinked, eyes narrowing as he watched her watch him.

"Marielle-Claire!"

They leaned at the same moment, banging heads.

A hiss of breath slipped past Elle's lips, and she rubbed her brow. She looked out the window and saw her father standing in the yard below, his hand shading his face as he stared at the upper porch of Widow Wynne's house.

"Juste Ciel!" Elle dug in the pocket of her skirt. "Six-thirty," she said and glanced from her watch to her clothing. Dirt-streaked shirtwaist. Cuffs and collar missing. No belt. Hem dangling in two places. "He'll kill me. Alone in a man's apartment, late for our weekly dinner appointment, and dressed inappropriately. He will simply kill me."

Noah rolled his eyes as she smoothed the strawberry mess on her head. "It's no good. You still look like you sprinted down the street without passing a mirror."

She paused, expression frosting. "Thanks. Thanks a lot." Halting at the door, she squeezed the beveled knob until her knuckles paled and made another pathetic attempt to straighten her clothing.

And the damned urge to protect her hit him hard.

"Wait." Ah, Garrett.

Well, dammit, he had never liked her father.

She glanced over her shoulder with a weak smile.

"I'll help you this time. But this is it. I promise you, this is it."

Her eyes flashed. "Let's get this out in the open. I was infatuated, once, a long time ago. Time to move on, Professor. I've refused marriage. According to my father, the grand opportunity to improve my life. And I don't see any good prospects looming on the horizon. Not to break your heart or anything"—she angled her chin, training her stunningly green gaze right on him—"but that hasn't changed since you arrived."

He felt an odd tightness in his chest, although her pledge was exactly what he wanted to hear. "Good. We understand each other." He lifted his hand, staying her impatient jiggling of the door handle. "I'll do this, on one condition."

"Condition?" Her brow scrunched as her canvas boot tapped a tune on the planked floor.

"No more 'Professor' nonsense. Never again from those lovely lips of yours."

Elle raised her hand to her mouth, smoothed her finger over her top lip. "Of course."

Puzzled by what he'd just uttered, Noah dropped to his haunches and flipped through a pile of books. He motioned her behind the door as he approached, a burgundy volume in his hand. "Wait until I have your father's full attention, where you can see our backs are turned. Then run. Don't think, run." He stepped outside, then leaned back in. "Let me amend that. Think. Please. Don't trip crossing the yard or tumble down the staircase and break your leg. Only one doctor in town, I'll wager, and he's someone we want to avoid just now."

Elle glared and kicked the door shut, propelling him onto the small landing. "Fine show of gratitude," he muttered and yanked his cuffs.

Closing in on Henri Beaumont, Noah reminded himself that Pilot Isle differed greatly from Chicago. He had to get used to being part of a community, tipping his hat and making eye contact, engaging the fishermen he had come to soothe in discussions about the weather or the latest catch.

Inane, completely harmless conversation.

Hell, he might as well practice his rusty skills on Henri Beaumont.