Tides of Passion (29 page)

Lord, how like his father the scamp was.

"There?" Zach called. "She's up there?"

"Yep. I'll get her." Rory wiggled back. "Your husband wants to talk to you."

"Thanks," Savannah murmured wryly. Shading her eyes, she moved to the ladder and descended two rungs. A strand of hair whipped into her mouth. Shaking it off, she leaned out, her bare foot dangling.

Sunlight glinted off glass. He wore his spectacles.

For a long moment, he stared. She could tell by the tilt of his head, although the wide brim of his hat effectively concealed his features. She thought he dropped his gaze to her bare foot. Feeling wicked and aiming for retribution, she wriggled her toes.

Not so scandalous actually. They were covered, even if only by a tattered pair of stockings.

Zach shook his head, glanced at the sky and groaned softly. "Are you trying to kill me, Irish?"

It was then she noticed the bouquet of flowers he held in his left hand, partially hidden behind his back. Warmth flooded her. If he was coming to apologize, as it appeared he might be, even if he wasn't completely sure about having married her, she was willing to give in. Sleeping in his bed the previous night with every creak of the old house waking her, surrounded by his scent and his things—the daguerreotype of his brothers sitting on his chest of drawers, and a picture Rory had drawn tacked to the wall—loneliness had taken on new meaning.

Setting the bouquet aside, he held out his arms. "Come on down. I've got you."

Two more rungs, then she turned on the last one, holding on with one hand. The tiny leap into his arms wasn't hard to do, knowing that this man, her husband, would catch her.

Though, alarmingly, it was the first time, as Zach's arms circled her, his muscles tensing as she slid slowly down his body, that she wondered if the tight feeling in her chest meant she loved him.

And had for some time.

He stopped her downward progress when her mouth reached his. "I see you slept in my bed."

His breath washed over her, his scent sharp and spicy. He had shaved and brushed his teeth for this meeting. She smiled, wondering if he was planning to kiss her or simply tease her with the thought of it. "I did. Punishing myself."

He liked that answer. "Yeah?"

"Uh-huh."

Letting her slide the rest of the way down, directly over his blatant arousal, he whispered in her ear, "How soon can you make it up there?"

The burst of lust that hit her was so intense that she pitched forward in his arms. "Three minutes." Thinking fast, she amended, "Maybe two."

He laughed, his eyes flooding dark. "Give me five. I have to get the boy down from that damn tree house and send him off with his uncle."

"Which uncle?" she breathed.

"Sweetheart, whichever one I can find."

* * *

"I think my leg is permanently numb. It's been a long while with no feeling."

Savannah flung her arm out, groaning. "You think you've got troubles? Mister, who fell off the bed?"

Zach laughed weakly. "I tried to catch you. I really did." He wouldn't mention—because it didn't sounded entirely civil to his way of thinking—that her skin had been too slick for him to get a good hold.

"Sell
that
story in town."

Pulling her atop him, he asked, "How much do you think they'll pay me for it?" Late afternoon sunlight poured in through the window, spilling across her back and shoulders. With her skin flushed from exertion and her lips swollen from his kisses, it seemed hard to believe that this amazing woman shared his ardor, his bed... and now his name.

Stacking her arms on his chest and her chin on them, she smiled. "A story about the downfall of the prince of Pilot Isle? I imagine I could get quite a tidy sum for that." Her breasts lay heavy and warm against his chest, a definite enticement if he'd had the power to do more than lift his pinkie finger.

Muted passion softened her mouth, lit her eyes the color of dewy stalks of grass first thing in the morning. When he'd reached the room to find her naked and waiting beneath the covers, their encounter had been spectacular even in its haste.

And the second time... ah.

Zach stared into her eyes, struggling to bring the picture of her face when she climaxed into his mind. The feeling as he stroked in a slow rhythm, invading her, had scarred him a little. It was intimacy of a variety he wondered if he had ever felt before.

He could not remember such a feeling with Hannah.

Guilt rode hard on the thought, though he resisted its pull. His vow to himself in the burying ground this morning had been to allow Savannah Connor Garrett into his life if not his heart.

Zach was a man used to honoring promises.

"Look at this mess," she said, gesturing to the room. His shirt hung from the wardrobe door; his trousers had somehow made it to the top of the chest of drawers. Conversely, her clothes lay in neat puddles from the door to the bed.

"Your flowers." He gripped her waist to keep her from repeating her topple to the floor while he peered over the side of the bed.

She giggled, a sound that never failed to amuse him coming from such an independent lass. "Remember tickling my, um, you know with the iris leaf?"

Rearing back, he felt the smile pull. "Is that a blush?" He brushed her cheek with his thumb. "Have I managed, after all my strenuous effort the past three weeks, to finally embarrass you?"

"I'm not embarrassed." She ducked as she said it, tucking her cheek against his chest. "The flowers are beautiful," she continued after a slight pause. "I've never received any before unless you include that lovely spray sent from a delegation of freedom fighters in Maryland in 'ninety-six. Or no, was that from the Ohio contingent in 'ninety-five?" She squirmed while trying to figure it out, kicking his temperature up a notch. "I sent them 'Fight For The Vote' pamphlets and arranged for one of our senior representatives to assist in leading a rally in their hometown."

Brushing his lips across the crown of her head, he inhaled sunshine and roses. "Hmmm, if you like them
this
much, I'll bring them home every blessed day."

Her mouth brushed his chest, an innocuous kiss close enough to his nipple to have him tensing. "My father sent me roses once. In all honesty, I should mention those."

Zach bit the inside of his cheek to keep from rushing in. Every time he brought up her family, she shied away from the subject using blatant misdirection. "What occasion?"

She rubbed her chin back and forth like she was scratching an itch. Zach wanted to tell her to quit moving, or he wasn't going to be accountable for what happened. "My graduation from The Peterman School for Young Ladies."

Zach's burst of laughter ruffled her hair. "Like where they teach you how to hold a teacup and fold a hankie in one of those stupid little squares?"

"Of a sort, yes. I completed the program a month late due to a minor infraction that required an additional summer term. Crossed the finish line, as they say, last in the class. Although my father was elated I made it through at all. Hence the roses. They died before my train pulled into Penn Station, the poor things."

"What kind of infraction had them giving you extra work? You forget to hang up your clothes or get caught reading a naughty book or something?"

He felt her smile on his chest. "I got caught sneaking in the window of the bedroom I shared with Velma Manchester after curfew."

"That doesn't sound so bad. Probably out with your girlfriends, right?"

She trailed a finger along his collarbone. "Well, no. The headmistress, LuAnne Peterman Brice, daughter of the school's founder, nearly ran down Adair Alton McBee the Third with her buggy as he dashed down the drive after helping me climb the tree outside my window."

Zach's laughter died in his throat.
What was this
? Hands going to the sides of her face, he tilted her head where he could see her eyes. "You were out and about with some young buck? What time was this?"

Savannah squinted an eye in a show of recalling. "Ten o'clock or there about. Had to be. Curfew was eight-thirty."

He didn't like the sudden tightness in his chest or his juvenile interest. But he asked anyway. "Did you kiss him?"

A iniquitous grin lit her face and eyes. "Of course, Constable."

He reached for her but she rolled away, dancing off the bed and across the room. Pushing back the covers tangled around his ankles, he stood. It gratified him in a purely sophomoric way to see her gaze travel the length of his body, halting at his waist and holding.

"My, you're unflagging...
enthusiasm
steals my breath, Zachariah."

"I'd like to find another way to steal it," he said, moving closer, purpose in his step. She backed up in response, into the chest of drawers.

His pulse hammered in his temples; his fingertips tingled. He flexed his fingers, letting her see. "No where to go, sweetheart."

Her hands stole back to grip the curved edge of the dresser.

Damn, she looked beautiful standing there in all her naked glory, chest thrust out, bottom hitched against the top drawer. He would never open it again with the same thoughtlessness.

"Adair's kiss was terrible, truly horrible." A breathless denial.

He advanced a step. "With a name like Adair, I'm sure it was."

"There's no need to prove anything, I can assure you."

"Who says I'm out to prove anything, Irish?" He'd gotten close enough for her sweet scent to tease his senses. "I'm not a proving sort of man."

Glancing left, she scooted toward the door. Where she thought she could go without a stitch of clothing on, Zach couldn't say. "Harmless, that's what I told Mrs. Brice and my father. Basic adolescent inquisitiveness. Surely you understand."

"Oh, I do. Felt it a time or five myself."

Her gaze swung back, a flash of temper present. "Do tell."

He reached her, his arm sliding around her waist before she had a chance to bolt. "Now what kind of gentleman would that make me?"

Her chin rose high, the light of battle sparking in her eyes. "Maybe I'm not interested in a gentleman."

"Ladies never did anything for me either." His hand flew out, sweeping the contents of the dresser to the floor. Lifting her up, he moved inside her open thighs, the height too perfect. "You sure?" he asked, sliding her to the edge. In more ways than one, he hoped. "Last chance."

She held his gaze, her legs wrapping around his and tensing. His heart threatened to pound right through the walls of his chest. By God, he'd never dreamed a woman like this existed.

Maybe it was only a dream.

"In case you're wondering, Constable"—her lashes lowered, concealing the fire—"I'm ready."

Cupping her bottom and jamming his knees against wood, he thrust home in one smooth stroke. She gasped, her arms snaking around his neck.
Perfect
,
wonderful
,
amazing
, she told him.

And he could only think that this woman was more real than
any
dream.

Chapter 15

A man has only one escape

 
from his old self:
 

to see a different self in the mirror

 
of some woman's eyes
.

~Clare Boothe Luce

Zach flipped through the pages of the cargo ledger, briefly checking each entry. Savannah had recorded all the latest figures in her neat script just this morning over a shared breakfast of coffee, biscuits, and Christabel's delectable strawberry preserves.

As expected, every sum totaled perfectly. She had a fine head on her shoulders, his wife did. Brightest candle on the mantle as Elle had once said.

The burst of pride in his chest was no less than he should feel. It wasn't every day a man met—or married—a woman like Savannah. Not that every man could handle a woman like her.

She was a troublemaker, undeniably, and a habitual one at that. Argumentative and dogged and too smart to let you fool her into taking your side. Yet, in the five weeks since their wedding, life had sailed along as smoothly as a ship on a calm sea. Teaching classes at the school and writing articles for publications up north kept her busy. Not to mention the fussy changes she was making to the house, changes he welcomed if it made her happy.

Closing the ledger, he chuckled softly. Her glove lay on his desk; he lifted it to his nose and inhaled.

He tried his best to keep her busy, too.

He slept well, anyway. A definite benefit of marriage: he and Savannah were very good at exhausting each other.

The jail's front door flew back on its hinges, the accompanying gust of wind sending papers flying. Zach flinched, squirting ink across the page of his writing pad. Dabbing at the splotch, he cursed beneath his breath.

"Come quick, Zach. We got a problem on our hands." Toby Malard stood in the archway, breathing heavily and wringing his calloused hands. His head nearly brushed the ceiling; his shoulders filled the doorway. A working fisherman for years, he now owned his own boat and had a modest office in a building on the wharf. Caleb was working on a design for his second vessel.