Tides of Love (Seaswept Seduction Series) (19 page)

What was he doing, stumbling around his family's house, waiting for a confrontation he didn't want? Or maybe he did want to face them... oh, hell, face
Caleb.

Gathering his courage, he took a halting step. The shed, vague but tangible, sat in the back corner of the yard, sheltered from direct sunlight by a snarl of pine branches. Noah had always wondered if Caleb had chopped it to bits with the ax he'd used to destroy their models. The door creaked when he put his elbow to it, a harsh, forsaken sound.

A bird screeched and darted through a hole as he ducked inside. He mopped a cobweb from his face and turned in a slow circle. The smell of glue and raw wood had been replaced by the stale scent of abandonment. Smoothing his hand across the pine workbench Zach had made for them one Christmas, he found a tiny paintbrush tucked into a split and rolled it out with the pad of his finger.

A grinding sound fractured the silence. Noah turned more swiftly than his body could adjust to, and he bumped against the bench.

"Noah?"

He shaded his eyes. A muscular shape outlined by a thin halo of light, shoulders stretching the width of the doorway. Could be a hundred different men. But the voice called to him in his dreams.

"Caleb," he said, sounding as rusty as the shed's hinges.

"What the heck are you doing out here?"

He searched for an even tone. "Call me a sentimental fool, but I just had to see the place you redecorated with an ax. You've done a lot with it since then."

"Dammit, Noah." Caleb stalked into the weak stream of sunlight.

Noah rolled the paintbrush in his hands, his palms warming. He bent his head, shielding his expression from clumsy inspection. Beside his knee, a spider hunkered in a web spread between the bench legs. A hapless deerfly struggled in the lower corner. He watched the spider crawl toward its prey, experiencing a strange kinship with the luckless insect. "I was just looking for my spectacles. Have you seen them?"

"You and Zach are both heartless. Fine, if you want to be that way." Caleb drove his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up in a half dozen places. The face in Noah's memory altered to the one before him. It was the first time he had been this close to his brother in ten years.

He inhaled deeply to return his breathing to normal. "I hate to tell you this, Cale, but there's a big black spider spinning a dazzling web right next to me. Probably babies scurrying across the floor. You know they hatch thousands at a time."

Caleb gingerly lifted one booted foot, then the other. He glanced into each corner of the shed. A shudder shook his shoulders and rippled down his arms. Uttering a growl and a curse, he curled his hands into fists and turned on his heel. The door slapped against the inside wall, flooding the enclosure with light.

Noah hung his head and laughed, gasping for breath, his head pounding until he feared he would be sick. The barrier he had erected in a blind panic years before crumbled beneath him.

"Get out here, you skinny bastard!"

Strangely, the jagged slivers scattered beneath his feet—fragments of models he and Caleb had constructed, their knees scraping the underside of the bench, glue coating their fingertips—flooded him with tender emotion. Devotion and security, hope and concern. He regretted the past, profoundly, but for the first time in years, he did not fear the future.

He stepped from the shed, a gust of wind pressing his shirt against his chest. He tipped his head, observing a blazing sunset of deep rose, blue and green.

Emerald green.

"Noah?"

Wagon wheels clattered over crushed shell, and a dog yipped in the distance, but he heard only Elle's accented, dulcet whisper. The paintbrush snapped in two in his fingers.

"You okay?" Caleb stripped a piece of bark from the tree he leaned against and sent Noah a worried frown. "How about coming inside and having dinner? I caught two flounder and four blue this morning. We can"—he coughed, shrugged—"talk."

"How big are the blue?"

"One's a good five pounds, at least. They were running like crazy in the edge."

"Bleed and ice them yet?" Noah lifted his finger to his nose, forgetting his absent spectacles.

"I'm not some blamed ocean scientist, but I think I can clean fish well enough to suit most folks."

Noah forced his feet to move until he stood by his brother's side, registering the jolt of surprise as he realized the top of Caleb's head barely met his chin. "We'll see. Cleaning them never was your strong suit. Or cooking them, for that matter."

"Heck, little bro', you can do the cooking." Caleb winked and strode along the worn path with the same reckless energy Noah remembered. Ejecting a labored sigh, he followed with the beleaguered step of one being coerced, but he could not deny the happiness in his heart.

* * *

Noah flipped the fish and leaned back, a bubble of oil bursting in the sizzling iron skillet. A drop struck his hand, and he cursed, sucking the singed skin between his lips. Behind him, the screen door squeaked and a small projectile slammed into his legs, throwing him into the counter.

"Oh, you're here," Rory said, the delight in his voice bringing a wide smile to Noah's face. "Uncle Caleb said you would never come here, ever again."

Noah pressed Rory's cheek against his hip. "What does your Uncle Caleb know anyway?" A prickle of awareness intruded; he lifted his head. Elle stood in the doorway, her hair tousled by the wind or impatient fingers, her eyes dulled by exhaustion. He snatched his hand from his mouth and willed his heart to slow.

Ignoring him, she smiled at Rory. "Go wash your hands. Wouldn't hurt your face to hit some soap, either."

Rory lifted shining eyes and fairly danced in place. "Are you staying for dinner? Are you, huh? Guess what? I caught a sheepshead fishing with Jason. I told him what you said, about how they use those pointy teeth to chew barnacles off rocks. He called me a liar, so I slugged him."

"
Rory.
"
Elle stepped forward and lightly swatted Rory on the behind. "Upstairs. Now. And, I think you should apologize to Jason tomorrow or your father is going to find out what happened today."

Rory shuffled his feet. "Do I have to, Uncle Noah?"

Noah lifted his head, his gaze seizing Elle's and holding. His fingers itched to slip the loose tendril brushing her cheek back into her hairclip. He turned before his regard strayed to other parts of her body.

And that regard, in turn, affected certain parts of his.

"Miss Elle's right. You
will
apologize to Jason tomorrow." He grabbed a spatula and scooped the fish from the skillet. "Just because someone doesn't believe something you've said is no reason to slug them. Hitting never solves any problems. Trust me."

"Yeah, all right, I'll trust you," Rory said, clearly unconvinced. "But I still think Jason is a poop." Before Elle could get to him, he raced from the kitchen, his feet pounding on the stairs.

Elle's step was light and brisk, the swish of her skirt gentle music to his ears. Let her go, he ordered.
Let her go.

"Elle, wait." He tossed the spatula to the counter and glanced over his shoulder to find her with one hand on the door, glancing over hers. "About yesterday." He snatched a dishrag from a hook and wiped his hands, his eyes everywhere but on her. "I don't know—"

"Save your awkward apologies, Professor. Merciful heavens, it's clear you
don't know
."

He knotted the rag between his fingers. "What do you want from me? I let myself get out of control. I take full responsibility, and I'm sorry."

"I never asked you to take responsibility. Or be sorry. In fact, I told you
not
to be."

"Well, I am." A rush of apprehension threatened to buckle his knees. "Aren't you?"

She swallowed—a long, slow pull. "Of course."

A pause
.
A full second pause. He had seen it. "You're lying," he said. "What did you do, Elle? Oh, God, you didn't. Did you wait for me to come to you last night?"

In reply, a rosy streak grazed each cheek.

Her blush mirroring his desire, he spun around, afraid to look at her, yet obsessed with imagining how she looked. She had waited... wanting him and knowing what it would lead to. "So, that's the smell."

"Smell?"

"A different scent on your skin. Perfume. Real perfume." He slapped the rag to the counter. "Roses?"

"Honeysuckle. I usually put it in my shampoo."

He gripped the counter edge and prayed for restraint. His mind was trying to fool him into believing it had been years since he'd touched her instead of hours. "Elle," he said tightly, "you play a dangerous game."

"Yes, I've been told before."

He had her by the shoulders before either of them spoke or breathed. "What do you mean?" If Magnus Leland—

"My father. He... he told me that once."

Noah closed his eyes, shamed and infuriated by his reaction. He inhaled, then wished to hell he hadn't. Who knew a man could be thrown off his feet by honeysuckle? "Elle, I wish things were different." He halted. The squeaky floorboard just inside the kitchen. Turning his head, he watched Zach pile into Caleb, who stood stock-still in the doorway, jaw so slack it touched his chest.

Elle used both hands to brush past him. The door banged behind her. Noah glanced out in time to see her turning the corner, her hips swinging beneath another delightfully tattered dress. He pressed his brow to the rusted screen and sighed.

"What the heck—"

"—is going on between you two?"

"Nothing." Then he dared his brothers to dispute him.

Chapter 8

"At the time, however, it was merely

an expression of individual opinion."

C. Wyville Thomson

The Depths of the Sea

A sunset blaze of red and gold had seized the sky by the time Noah made it to the dance. He hitched his hip on the skiff and slipped on the canvas shoes he had purchased the day before. He surveyed the crowd of people gathered round the campfires, some dodging the sizzling flash of dripping meat, others using driftwood to bury potatoes deep in ash.

Lifting his head, he scanned the horizon, noting with a faint sense of unease the layer of mist drifting in from the east. As he glanced at the line of flower-bedecked skiffs, all waiting for steady hands to sail them home, his apprehension heightened.

As he walked along the packed sand, music, laughter, and conversation flowed from a tent constructed of hastily sewn blankets and yards of mosquito netting. Couples floated by, silhouetted by the glow of oil lanterns swinging in time to the whim of the wind. Was Elle inside, dancing with Daniel Connery or some other young man? He skin scented with honeysuckle, perhaps, or bright sunshine and damp earth? Plucking a scallop shell from the sand, he traced the ribbed edges and wondered if the hot flare in his chest was jealousy.

In the three days since, they had been no mention of the passionate kiss or his brusque apology. In fact, there had been no conversation at all. An abrupt greeting in front of the post office and a lengthy stare across a packed mercantile shelf.

Did the empty ache mean he missed her?

Noah neared the tent, the hum of sound increasing. A group of drunken whalers dodged him, pouring from the V-shaped opening. Hesitating, he observed the joyful display of camaraderie with a sense of detachment. Here he was, a man of considerable means and education, yet he found himself seeking refuge in an emotional storm. Zach, Caleb, Elle. The three people in the world he had once been completely at ease with. Maybe
that
laid bare his childhood protection of Elle, not to save her but to save himself.

Bunched sprays of daisies and carnations brushed his shoulder as he ducked inside. He looked merely for the sake of curiosity, searching the outer circle. His height made the task easy. That, and the undeniable cognizance he experienced whenever she was near. A whisper of air leaked past his lips, and his body warmed. She stood just inside the tent's triangular back entrance, a crush of people whisking by her.

For days, he had been unable to erase this truth from his mind:
she had waited for him.
Put perfume on her skin and waited. Knowing he would take her virginity and... leave.

Then again, Elle had the courage to grasp what she desired.

She laughed and tossed her head, exposing the lithe arch of her neck. Smooth and sweet beneath his lips, he remembered. She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, and he marveled at his witlessness. Elle Beaumont was radiant, validated in the golden wash from the oil lamp by her side. It was not wholly physical, this radiance. It flowed from her lively green eyes, from the hands she moved so exuberantly in conversation, from the confident stride that carried her along the boardwalk.

Noah admired her vivacity, her sincerity, yet he
hated
the loss of control being near her brought.

Averting his gaze, he corrected his thought:
he
feared
it.