Tides of Love (Seaswept Seduction Series) (24 page)

"A short visit only, I promise. A quick hello, and I'll be on my way."

He pressed his lips together and peeked inside. "Awake, I think."

She thanked him and entered the bedroom, instantly recognizing the stench of illness. Caroline had doctored many people in her life, mostly women, and for ailments hospitals shied from.

He lay on his back, gazing through the window, his lids sleep-heavy. His hair was longer than she ever remembered seeing it, curling over his brow in streaks of color. She suppressed the maternal urge to sweep the strands from his face, instead, clutched her hands together, and slid into the chair by his bed.

His chest crested and dipped. "What are you doing here, Caro?"

"I came to see you, darling. What else?"

Gingerly, as if movement pained him, he turned his head. Skin shadowed and cheeks gaunt, but his gaze was clear and observant. "Are you in trouble?"

She laughed and yanked at a button on her glove. "I don't get into trouble anymore." Not terrible trouble, anyway.

The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Why, Caro?"

She shrugged and tapped her fingers together. "Maybe I wanted to see the place you've talked so little about. The family you've told me nothing about."

He laughed, then made a pained sound, and rubbed a spot below his ribs. "Now that you've seen it, seen them, do you think you'd like to tell me why you left Chicago?"

"Well"—she unbuttoned and buttoned her glove—"you remember my gentleman friend, Russell?"

"The lawyer."

"Apparently, Russell conducted some fraudulent business. Something to do with whiskey and illegal importation, if I understood the agreeable magistrate correctly."

"Good God, did you get arrested?"

"Oh, gracious, no. But they searched my house. Russell apparently used the back corner for a felonious reserve. Quite a stink on Prairie Avenue, I can tell you. None of the silk stockings want a former madam for a neighbor. Even if I keep my lawn neater than theirs and drive the grandest carriage on the block. Anyway, the magistrate suggested a short respite until they had Russell, bless his dear heart, locked away."

One of Noah's brows kicked high. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"My, yes. A kind whaler gentleman offered to bunk with his friend and give me the largest bedroom at the boardinghouse. Decorated in shades of pink and ivory. Reminds me of a child's room but lovely just the same."

"You ran to Pilot Isle to escape Russell the whiskey swindler?"

She frowned and clicked her back teeth together.

"I can hear the clicking, Caro." He yawned. "Dead giveaway you're withholding information."

"How about we have a nice, long chat tomorrow?"

"Hmmm, tomorrow the... mystery unfolds."

Caroline shook the wrinkles from her skirt and walked to the window. A shaggy-headed boy raced along the street, a mutt on his heels. A wagon crept past, loaded high with barrels and crates. A strong gust shook the branches of a tree and whipped the stalks of grass into a verdant frenzy. Long ago, Carrie McTavey might have known what kind of tree this was, what to call those red-and-white flowers surrounding the house. She might have understood how to let the simple joy of life overcome the everyday pain of living.

A kind, sweet girl, Carrie McTavey. Gentle and trusting. Completely happy to share a bed with three sisters and plug the holes in the walls with scraps of salvaged newsprint. Life had been as shiny as a new penny, even if the edges were dull. Then, her father's foreman put his hands on her on her twelfth birthday. After that, men touching her became commonplace. Expected. She shrugged and let the curtain slip from her fingers. She had harmed no one by earning money for the expected.

Noah mumbled in his sleep, and she glanced back. He looked so young. Worry lines smoothed by slumber. He was the only man, besides her da, who wanted to help her and didn't seem to want her body in return.

He had
never
touched her in a disrespectful way. At first, Noah's reticence hurt, because she'd come to understand men wanted her or else they didn't know she existed. Somehow, over time, Noah's view of her had become her own.

Caroline liked Pilot Isle, the picturesque avenues and earthy smells. Reminded her of Solitude, with friendlier people. They didn't scrunch up their noses when she smiled at them. Besides, Chicago had lost some of its charm, and more important, Justin would love the town. He hated the boarding school in Michigan. He wanted her and, gracious, she wanted him. In Pilot Isle, she could have him. What she wanted most in the world was to be a true mother to her illegitimate and much-loved son.

She glanced out the window as a young woman walked up the drive, a boy about Justin's age holding her hand. Her gaze lifted, and even from a distance, Caroline saw her eyes, green as the grass beneath her feet and spiked by long lashes. Not sure why, she moved out of sight. Through a slit in the curtain, she witnessed the play of emotion across the woman's face. Confusion, anger, and ultimately, love.

Evidently, this was Marielle-Claire Beaumont. The description matched well enough. A beautiful little thing. Exquisite face, lavish body. Caroline laughed softly. She could have made a fortune in the Pink House.

She looked back at Noah, his chest rising and falling beneath a bleached sheet. Frayed holes dotted the edge. She sighed.
Men.

She remembered what little Noah had told her. Beaumont's daughter was a part of the discovery of his illegitimacy. Maybe he didn't want to have anything to do with the girl because of it.

She looked back to find the yard empty, the sun sinking low and throwing all kinds of vivid colors against the clouds. She saw more of the sky here than she could in Chicago.

She liked that.

Caroline knew from personal experience that small towns bred rumors faster than an alley cat bred kittens. A walk about town, a smile, a subtle question or two. She would ascertain enough to know if she'd made a mistake coming here.

* * *

Elle did not anticipate having Jewel Quattlebaum crash into her as the reporter tripped down Zach's front steps. "Merciful heavens, what's gotten into her?" Elle asked as Jewel strode down the path without issuing an apology.

"Noah, that's what."

Elle glanced back to find Zach leaning against the screen door, a yawn parting his lips.

"You look exhausted."

He stroked his bearded chin. "Frustration over tangling with a six-foot-two baby."

"That bad?"

"You won't believe what he told Jewel. She came here looking for details about the accident. Said Noah was a hero. Make a good story for the
Messenger
and all that. I assumed he would at least talk to her."

"And?"

Zach scowled, thoroughly disgusted. "He told her to climb on her gnawed-off pencil and ride it straight to hell."

Though she knew it would anger Zach, Elle laughed until her eyes smarted. My, she had not felt like laughing in days.

"It's not funny, Ellie, he's driving us crazy."

She nodded, struggling for breath, trying to agree.

"Go talk to him.
Please."

She straightened, the laughter dying in her throat. "No."

"What have you got in your hand?"

"The book you asked me to bring from the coach house. The one you said Noah needed."

"Talk to him. I beg you. Before I kill him or Caleb does. They've been going at it as fiercely as they did when they were children. I'm ready to run away from home."

"Zach, I—"

"I really believe you're part of this temper tantrum he's having. You haven't been by since the day of the funeral. Not that he's said anything, you know Noah. I told him you ask after him, and he just grunts."

"Me? Why would he care if—"

"What are you going to do? Avoid him until he leaves because of this woman? We don't know what to make of her, Ellie. Maybe they're good friends."

She hugged Noah's book to her chest, her father's file tucked inside. Good friends, indeed. "How is he?" she asked, unable to stop the question.

The door hinge squeaked as Zach stepped inside the house. "You've asked me a hundred times." He smiled at her through the torn screen. "This time you'll have to find the answer yourself. By the way, he's out back."

"Thanks a lot." A fine wind scattered her hair, tugged at her divided skirt. For a moment she considered leaving the book on the stoop and riding away on her bicycle. Except, she couldn't leave that despicable report for just anyone to stumble upon. For purely malicious reasons, she had decided to let Noah stumble upon it.

I really believe you're part of this temper tantrum.

Had her avoidance hurt him? Was that possible? Elle figured Mrs. Caroline Bartram would keep him entertained.

"Oh, the nerve of the man." She would give him his blasted book and then some.

Sunlight and dew sparkled on the blades of grass she crushed beneath her boot. A bout of rain the night before had cleared the air and hastened the transformation of spring. The scent of the ocean lingered, and through an open window she passed, the aroma of bacon and browning butter.

She rounded the corner of the house and halted, her fingers sticking to the book's leather cover. Noah sat in a rocking chair beneath the oak they had climbed as children, in a stretch of shade provided by a copse of branches. Wavering bursts of shadow and light swam across his profile, the pensive tilt of his lips, the taut line of his jaw. A table sat next to him, piled high with papers and books, and the box of metal instruments she had delivered two days earlier.

His hand swept the page of his notebook with rapidity she found hard to follow. He nudged his spectacles, then tapped the pencil against his straight, white teeth, staring into the distance. As she stood there, torn between love and dismay, Noah stiffened, the pencil sliding from his fingers. He cocked his head and looked directly at her, his reflective, unguarded mien hardening into the detached one she knew well. For a long moment, he stared, the expression on his face almost anticipatory.

Then he blinked and glanced down, a shrug of indifference his only reply.

Elle tipped her hat back and filled her lungs with a strong dose of courage. The wind shook the thicket of branches as she stepped beneath them and flattened a stray curl against his brow. She swallowed. He'd fastened nary a button on his shirt, leaving an open tangle of faded, blue cotton trailing past his waist. White gauze circled his ribs and a swatch of hair, darker than the hair on his head, peeked out above
and
below.

Juste Ciel,
she thought, a pool of heat unfurling in her belly. Stunned, she dropped the book to the ground and plopped her rear end upon it.

Eyes still glued to his notebook, he asked, "Which one of my textbooks are you sitting on?"

She didn't answer, just watched the wind ruffle his hair and lift his floppy shirttails, exposing more of a man's body than she had ever seen except for an intermittent fisherman on the docks.

He snatched his pencil from the grass, then drew a hissing breath.

She rocked forward, the stance bringing her between his outspread legs. The scent of rubbing alcohol and soap filled her nose. "Noah?"

He lifted a finger, jaw flexing, face pale.

"Do you want me to—"

Before she could finish the question or rise to her feet, he had her by the wrist, his grip strong and convincing, his gaze centered on her. "No. Don't go." He glanced at his hand and abruptly released her.

She sat back, missing the book and bouncing to the ground. She tried again and said, "
Depths of the Sea,
I think it's called. Isn't that the one you asked for?"

"Yes. First textbook on oceanography published in English—1873."

"Mercy, I'm sitting on
that."
She tugged the tome from beneath her bottom and thumped it on the table.

Noah dropped his head and laughed. "Oh, Elle." He dragged his fingers through his hair, his pale gaze traveling from her jersey gaiters to the feather sticking from her hat.

A leisurely stroke that set her skin aflame.

"What is this outfit you have on?" He propped his chin on his thumb and forefinger.

She glanced down. A calf-length divided skirt, a double-breasted jacket edged in black braid, a white blouse with detachable collar, a man's necktie. She would admit to affecting a masculine appearance, although the style was quite fashionable. Her father had berated her once too often, and she had hidden the clothes in the bottom of her wardrobe, forgotten, until she found them yesterday while packing. "I rode a bicycle here and traditional clothing doesn't work... because of the spokes." She shrugged, her cheeks heating. "I know they're a bit outlandish."

Noah stroked his finger across his lip, studying her. "I like them."

"
You do?
"

"Very practical, trousers. For a bicycle trip, certainly."

"Yes, yes, they are."

"The hat is nice, too."

Independent of her mind, her hand rose to touch. A burst of pleasure bloomed in her chest. "It's new."

"Ah," he said, and raised a brow.

Suddenly bashful, she pulled a weed from the ground, trying to think of something clever to say.

"Where have you been, Elle?"

She peeked at him through her lashes. He studied the pencil in his hand as earnestly as she studied the weed in hers. "Been?"

"I assumed you would stop by more often." He shrugged, then slid forward in the chair, rubbing his chest.

"Quit squirming." She rose to her knees.

He clamped the tattered end of his bandage between his teeth and struggled to untie the knot below his ribs.

"Here, let me help you." She leaned in, brushing his hands aside. She tapped his lips with her finger, and he parted them enough for the tattered end to fall into her palm. "Too tight, hmmm?" She loosened the knot as carefully as she could. "I bet Caleb tied this one." Her eyes met his as her hand settling over his heart. His intense gaze captured her, clear into her being. Her fingers curled in response, sinking into the hair on his chest.