Tides of Passion (12 page)

"Oh, that's true enough, I suppose. But you've a good heart, and I'm proof that that's all you truthfully need. All your work to help women, Ellie told me all about it. Only a first-rate heart can give that much to others."

"You always wanted children, Miss Bartram?"

Caroline released a low sigh. "I grew up in a shack full of brothers and sisters whom I loved dearly. But Justin's enough for me if that's all I get. I have the money, but I think this time I need a husband."

"Yes," Savannah agreed, "it seems to be the way everyone would like the process to work."

"I've been meaning to stop by the school, but with all the rush with your rally, and Ellie going back to the university, I figured you had enough to do."

Savannah turned her head, surprised to hear the anxious tone in Caroline's voice. "Stop by the school?"

"Uh-hum. You see, my boy is starting school in September, and part of his homework until he learns to read good is for me to read
to
him every evening before bed. I tell him stories now, which works fine, but later...."

"How much can you read?"

Caroline paused, her voice subdued. "A little."

Savannah settled back, the sand warm and supple beneath her. Working her arms beneath her head, she yawned. "A little is more than enough. We'll have you reading any book you chose from the library before the first snow. Come by tomorrow at three-thirty, and we'll begin."

"Thank you." She felt the light touch on her shoulder, then movement as Miss Bartram stood. "If you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask."

I may take you up on that,
Savannah thought as she drifted to sleep.
I may indeed
.

Chapter 6

To understand another human being

you must gain some insight
 

into the conditions
 

which made him what he is
.

~Margaret Bourke-White

Zach found her there an hour later, curled on her side, sleeping as soundly as Rory had as a baby. Her chin rested on her spread fingers, and that glorious wealth of hair spilled like chocolate all over his favorite blanket. She'd unbuttoned the top two buttons of her dress to escape the sweltering heat, exposing a space of smooth ivory skin.

Squatting, he fingered the stockings she'd placed in a neat bundle by her side, remembering a minor argument with Hannah about her leaving them hanging all over the washroom.

What he wouldn't give for that now.

Pushing aside the familiar pang of guilt, he focused on the remarkable creature who had been suddenly, wondrously thrust into his life. He would never marry again, that was certain, but he could not live any longer in a deadening state of loneliness. Whether he loved the idea or not—he loved and hated it in turn—for the first time in years, he had a woman in his life.

She looked soft and vulnerable, and he almost hated to end the nap she seemed to need. And, the aggressive, demanding Savannah was bound to be the one to wake up.

"Irish?" He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, let his fingers stray to her cheek. He glanced around and seeing that everyone had gone back to the picnic site to prepare dinner, ran his thumb along her plump bottom lip. She stirred but didn't wake. So he took one additional liberty and, not entirely certain why, slipped her stockings into his trouser pocket. Surely, she wouldn't miss them.

"Irish, wake up."

She blinked and drowsily mumbled incoherent bits of nonsense. "Zachariah," she finally said, the first time she had called him by his name that he could recall. It sounded nice rolling out wrapped in her sleepy Yankee accent. "Hmmm?"

"We're going to move back behind the dunes. Once the sun sets, the bugs won't be as bad near the campfire. Dinner should be ready soon. Ellie's digging up the potatoes you buried in ash this morning, and Caleb grilling the meat."

"I was having a dream," she murmured, pushing to a shaky sit, "and you were in it."

Zach grinned, awash in bawdy images. He'd done some dreaming of his own last night. "Yeah?" Lowering his voice, he whispered, "Tell me."

Suddenly full of vigor, which should have been a warning sign, she scooted forward until she was nearly sitting on his knee. "I was helping you find a ship that had sunk somewhere"—she waved her hand toward the ocean—"out there. It was very ominous and stormy. And hot, like it is today. Dreadfully hot. We pulled people into a boat, then I heard you calling me the name you're not supposed to, and I woke up."

Zach rose, disappointed as all get-out. Offering his hand, he said, "Well, that's a nice dream but kinda ridiculous." Couldn't she have dreamed about him kissing her? Would that have been too much to ask?

"Ridiculous? I think it's wonderful!" Ignoring his hand, she bounced up like a ball, and circled him as he walked toward the dunes. "Now I know what else I can do. Truly, the gas streetlamp project is one I can manage from a distance. Lydia needs her own project, and that one is perfect. Now, when does your life-saving group meet?"

Zach caught her as she came around the front. "You can't possibly think a woman's going to join the life-saving service."

She thrust her chin high. "I certainly do."

"Of all the...." Zach shook his head and stalked away.

Dogging his heels, she said, "Can you give me one reason why not?"

"Lady, you're loony. I must be loony, too."

"I won't relent until you discuss this with me, Constable."

They crossed the dunes at a trot, coming down into the picnic area Zach and his brothers had been using since they were children. It was a perfectly round, bare spot sitting equidistant between the dunes and the maritime forest. During the summer, the area remained the coolest due to partial shelter from a grove of loblolly pines.

"Forget it, Irish. I'll help you but not with this." He sat on a piece of driftwood as far from the fire as he could get, put on a canvas shoe, and began lacing. Unfortunately, a small female blaze threw herself at his feet.

"I could be a great asset to your group. Perhaps not during actual rescues but in another capacity. Surely, you can see the benefit of having a female crew member."

Damn, he loved watching her mouth form all those sassy words. It didn't seem possible for such dazzling lips to spill such stiff sentences. Or for such a nice-looking woman to be such a nuisance. "No," he said. "End of discussion. I know you're going to be angrier than a hornet when I say this, but life-saving is and always will be a man's job."

Behind Savannah, Elle looked up from where she squatted before the fire, digging potatoes out with pieces of driftwood. She shook her head, her eyes wide, a clear warning. Zach's temper ignited, a sizzling creep along his spine. Was he supposed to be scared of a woman who barely reached his shoulder and weighed sixty pounds less dripping wet?

All she had over him was a quicker brain-to-mouth response.

Looking from Elle to Savannah, he tied a knot and jerked the laces to tighten it. "Throw a rally right here by the campfire if you'd like. My answer is no. And that, Irish, is the final answer." He sent her the same cautionary look he sent Rory when he honest-to-God meant
no
. "I'm leader of the troops in this battle. Understand? You won't get anywhere, I'm telling you."

She threw her arms wide. "I
don't
understand. I can't understand excluding women from such an essential community task when you obviously need assistance."

He grasped her wrist and tugged until they were nose to nose, her tiny pink toes butting his shoes. "It's a horrible post, Miss Connor, rowing out to those wretched souls. I dream about the bodies and the debris... and the blood. Even in the moonlight, the sea looks red. And it has this peculiar smell, like metal. A very flat, awful smell." Swallowing, he thrust her away, marveling at how she seemed to crawl inside him to places he hadn't exposed to light in years.

Angry, passionate places brimming with memories and uncontrollable urges.

"Maybe you'd rather patrol the beaches during the dead of night and be the first person to hear a ship's stern tear in two. Hear the screams of men who know you won't make it to them as surely as you know the sharks will. That promises horrible nights of sleep for the next month."

Zach flinched when a hand covered his shoulder. Glancing up, he met Noah's troubled gaze. Caleb stood close by, too. And Elle. Of course, they were worried. When had they seen him like this? Furious and belligerent, his voice raised, his fists clenched. Zach could count on his fingers the number of times he had lost control in front of his family. Emotional outbursts suited Caleb well, had all his life. Even the once placid Noah had revealed a remarkably passionate nature since returning to Pilot Isle.

Calm, capable Zachariah Garrett never, ever traveled that route.

A sizzling flash from the spit brought him back. With a deep breath, he shoved to his feet. In the distance, the drone of sand locusts hidden in the dunes united with the crackle of the campfire. The pungent smell of roasting meat swirled around him, carried along by a healthy sea breeze.

Savannah reached out and touched his knee, a tentative brush of her fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispered, for his ears alone. The desire to haul her to her feet, strip that ragged dress from her body, and make love to her in the twilight of a warm summer evening tore through him. Intense longing of a kind he hadn't know since those wild piloting days swelled inside him.
God, to make her forget the cause, any goddamned cause, for one blessed minute
.

"Constable?" she asked, her voice full of remorse. Her shame made him angrier, with himself as much as with her. He'd have bet hard-earned money that at his age, a temping bundle of sweet smells and soft skin wouldn't have had the power to turn him inside out like this.

"Miss Connor, when Rory ignores a no, I lay his skinny body across my lap and paddle his bare bottom until it's red as those embers over there."

He heard her indrawn breath, glanced down in time to see her flush before she dipped her head. If they'd been alone, he would have damn well explored that spark of awareness in her gaze.

"Separate corners, how about it." Noah stepped between them, arms raised, voice gentle, as if he feared setting off another round of fighting. "Zach, why don't you help me gather a few more pieces of driftwood? Savannah, you can help Elle with supper."

Zach snorted beneath his breath.

Savannah jumped up and in, close enough for him to smell her undeniably unique scent. "I can cook, for your information, Constable. Quite well, in fact."

"Well, hoo-rah for men everywhere. A suffragette and a cook!"

Noah glanced over his shoulder.
Consulting with his missus
, Zach thought sourly. "It's all right; let's take a walk. Get that wood. Unless you'd like to do that, too, Miss Connor."

Savannah watched Zach stalk from the clearing, the stiffness in his stride setting off muscular ripples in his shoulders and back. She liked the shirts he wore that clung to him like a second skin.

My, he presented a handsome portrait of masculine fury
.

"You simply must tell me what you've done to whip Zach into such a frenzy." Elle came to stand beside her, dusting her hands on her skirt. "And who in the heck is
Irish
?"

* * *

Later that night, Savannah tiptoed from the makeshift campsite, following the path leading through the break in the dunes. Tilting her head, she counted until she
lost
count of the twinkling lights sheltered in the black velvet sky. An owl hooted nearby, a gull somewhere beyond that. A respected marine biologist, Noah had identified every sound for them after supper while Elle looked on with her own stars in her eyes.

Savannah had left them sitting so close their heads touched, their hands linked as if they couldn't bear to let the other go. Pushing aside the pang of envy she hoped was a natural reaction to witnessing such devoted adoration, she trudged across the warm sand, the occasional chip of quartz—another bit of information from Noah—glittering in the moonlight.

They were due to sail back to Pilot Isle in another hour, when the tide rolled in or out, whichever made it easier, or safer, to get home.
Home
. A misstep to use that word. She had not had a true home since those ragtag Brooklyn days. Or certainly not since her mother's death, anyway. Her father had not had the heart to provide a home for the daughter he always wished had been born a son.

She wiggled her toes, relishing the freedom of bare feet, and, too, the freedom of being Savannah Connor and nothing more for the summer. She wasn't sure when she would put on another pair of pinching boots or form another picket line and spend the night in a filthy jail cell for her dedication.

Maybe never.

Peering through the shadowy moonlight, she found him sitting beneath a copse of sea oats, his back against the dune, hands stacked behind his head, bare feet propped upon a massive piece of driftwood. The wind tugged his shirt wide and pitched his crow black hair into his eyes. He looked vulnerable, sitting there in the darkness, alone and silent.