Teresa Medeiros (17 page)

His world belonged to Emily. She hovered around him like a gamin angel, lithe and funny. He pressed his eyes shut, battered by images of her bending over a flax plant at his side, wading through the shallow waves at sunset with Maori children dangling from her arms like crabs. He had even glanced up from his Bible Sunday at the meeting house to find her sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, her expression pensive, her cheek resting against Dani’s sleek head. He had stammered through five verses of Matthew, then lost his place entirely. When he had looked up again, she was gone.

He’d had his share of mistresses in London, both false and true, yet none of them could compare to the mischievous charms of the barefoot waif clinging to his side.

Emily stirred. Her lips parted in a delicate snore. A twinge of shame touched him. Here he lay, plotting a seduction so lascivious it would have shamed even Nicky, and she was probably dreaming of starfish and sand castles. He ran his finger down her nose, expecting to find a dusting of cinnamon freckles on his fingertip.

Her eyes fluttered open, then widened in a mixture of
dread and horror that made him wonder if he’d sprouted fangs during the night. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They all felt reassuringly blunt.

Ruefully, he touched his bristled jaw. “I know I haven’t shaved in a few days, but I’m not that frightful, am I?”

He must have been, because she struggled to untangle her leg and roll away.

He gathered her tighter into his arms, not willing to let her go without an explanation. “Why the terrible rush? Contrary to my staid reputation, I’m not averse to a little morning cuddle.”

She gave a husky squeak. “But Penfeld—”

“—is sleeping.”

A sonorous snore from beneath the window proved his words.

“So was I,” she blurted out. “Sleeping, that is. Sleepwalking, actually. I must have stumbled and fallen on you. Perhaps I struck my head. I should walk about and see if I’m dizzy.”

She was halfway up when his arm snaked around her waist, jerking her back. He winced as her plush rear wedged against the part of his anatomy that at the moment was too prominent to be seemly.

“If you’re dizzy, you need rest,” he said, hoping she would attribute the croak in his voice to drowsiness. “You know, for a good prankster, you’re a terrible liar.”

“That’s not true! I’m a very good liar. All my teachers said so.” She wiggled in protest.

Justin’s beleaguered body reached its breaking point. He shoved her off him, then rolled on top of her, stilling her struggles with his weight. He laced his fingers through hers and imprisoned her hands above her head.

He arched his eyebrow in a wicked threat. “Now, suppose you tell me what you were doing on my pallet. Blowing pepper up my nose? Tying my blankets into knots? Planting brambles in my dungarees?”

She lowered her eyes, leaving him gazing at the velvety silk of her lashes. “I had a bad dream. I was afraid.”

Her sheepish confession touched his heart. He knew only too well how it felt to awaken trembling in the dark. He imagined her creeping to his side, trusting him to chase away her monsters. He lowered himself, wanting only to kiss away her fears. Before his lips could touch hers, his hips grazed her bare belly. A shock of pleasure electrified him. He realized too late that swapping positions had only worsened matters. The heavy fullness in his dungarees had become impossible to ignore. For both of them.

Emily’s mouth fell open in shock.

To his utter horror he felt a blush creep up his jawline. “It’s nothing,” he said tersely. Her eyes widened in comical disbelief. “A normal phenomenon of the morning, I assure you. It has absolutely nothing to do with you,” he lied.

She hesitated, then sniffed in prim sophistication. “I knew that.”

Justin sat up, swinging his legs away from her. Of course she knew that, he thought. Her smug little gardener’s lad had probably taught her. Or had it been the chimney sweep? His temper burned with a ferocious urge to shove her back on the blankets and teach her a few lessons of his own.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her sit up. She drew her skirt down to hug her shapely thighs as if she were the shyest of virgins.

He owed her a warning, he reminded himself, nothing more. “Emily?”

“Yes?”

“If you have any more nightmares”—he felt her waiting silence—“go to Penfeld.”

“As you wish, Mr. Connor. I shouldn’t wish to burden you.”

Justin was unprepared for the bitterness of her reply.
He swiveled to face her, but she had already dropped to her pallet and pulled the blankets over her head like a sullen child.

That afternoon Justin stood on the shore and watched the storm roll in with the tide. Black clouds poured from the west, driving the rain before them. Far out at sea it was already falling, melting sky and ocean into a seamless curtain of gray. Lightning crackled and snapped in a broken web above pitching waves tinted green by the eerie light of the approaching squall. Justin braced his legs against the wind and thrust his hands into his pockets. He welcomed the storm, seeking in its savage wildness a kindred spirit to his own mood.

An oppressive heat had hung in the air all day, simmering like the tension in his body since he had awakened to find Emily snuggled in his arms. He recognized it for what it was: desire—hot, potent, and too long denied. She had shattered the fragile peace he had found on the North Island, stirred the hungry beast within him who craved excitement and passion and more than the loyal devotion of a small tribe of natives.

His nostrils flared at the scent of the coming rain. If only the breaking of the storm could ease his own pent-up frustration. His gaze raked the deserted beach. A ripple of saffron caught his eye.

He watched as Emily made her way down the path from the bluff. The wind molded the flaxen skirt to her legs and whipped her curls into a blinding frenzy. Her feet slipped in the soft sand. She slid a few feet and Justin took a step toward the bluff without realizing it. She didn’t see him. As the first fat raindrops pelted his back, she ran for the shelter of the forest path and disappeared among the wind-lashed trees.

Justin glared at the bluff, his brow furrowed. This was the third time he had seen Emily descend from the path, always at twilight and always alone. Oblivious to the rain,
he strode down the beach and started up the sandy hill, groping for handholds in the tussocks of grass.

As he topped the bluff, a blaze of color brought him up short. Crimson flowers spilled like blood around the base of the cross that guarded David’s grave.
Pohutukawas
. Justin dropped to his knees and touched a fragile petal with his fingertip, drowning in the cloying sweetness of their scent. Remembered shame washed over him in waves. He pressed his eyes shut as David’s voice whispered through the rain, carrying him back through time.

Take care of my little angel, Justin. Swear you will
.

Thunder drummed the air in a sharp cannonade.

Justin flinched, smelling gunpowder on the wind. His eyes flew open. He knelt at the edge of the lonely bluff, gripping David’s watch in his hand. He did not dare open it. Even after all these years he dreaded facing the child within. The child who still waited for him in England. The child who wore David’s eyes.

Mystified, he lifted one of the flowers. He imagined Emily struggling up the narrow path, her arms laden with the fragrant blooms. Why would she carry flowers to David’s grave? Had she somehow sensed how important this place was to him?

He brushed a raindrop from the velvety petal. It melted to his touch like tears against Emily’s creamy skin. His fingers unfolded, and a gust of wind tore the flower from his hand, sending it skimming into the sea. As the storm broke hard around him, it bobbed on the water until the inky waves swallowed it without a trace.

Chapter 11
 

E
mily trotted through the forest, cradling a basket in the crook of her arm. Despite her burden her steps were as light as the shimmering air washed clean by yesterday’s storm. Tomorrow was the day they were to join Trini’s tribe in welcoming their neighboring Maori to a magnificent feast. Her own humble offering was a basket of fuzzy green fruit plucked from a rambling gooseberry vine with Kawiri’s help.

As she approached the hut, male voices rose in furious argument.

Puzzled, she stopped, then took a step backward. Yes, she thought, she was at the right hut.

Her basket slipped a notch as Penfeld’s voice boomed out. “Our dear Lord said it far better than I when he told the Pharisees ‘I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.’ I fear you’re making a tremendous mistake … sir.” The last word was bitten off in such a tone of insult that Emily broke into a grin. Apparently, Justin’s timid hamster had gone rabid.

“Sic him, Penfeld,” she whispered under her breath. She would gladly cheer anyone who dared to defy the mighty Pakeha.

“If I wanted your interpretation of scripture, King James, I’d have asked for it,” Justin shot back.

She set down her basket. She hadn’t learned many of Tansy’s more lurid skills, but eavesdropping was one she had mastered. She crept around to the window and dared a peek. Justin’s back was to her, but Penfeld’s profile was a livid shade of pink. He was definitely in the throes of what Miss Winters would have labeled “a huff.” As Justin swung around, she dropped to a crouch.

“The woman has left me no choice,” he was saying. “I haven’t two halfpennies to rub together. I have to send the old witch something even if it’s only a gesture of good faith.”

Penfeld sniffed. “Have you considered cutting out your heart? A suitable offering from a man who enjoys martyrdom as much as you do. It has always escaped me why you didn’t just throw yourself in your friend’s grave when you had the chance.”

From the pained silence that followed, Emily knew the valet had gone too far. A tiny vise squeezed her own heart.

Justin’s quiet voice finally came. In its passionless tones Emily heard a ringing chord of the duke he might have been. “I could dismiss you for that.”

Penfeld’s frosty dignity was palpable. “If you prefer, I will seek another position.”

To Justin’s credit, he didn’t point out the ludicrous nature of that offer. What was a valet going to do on this isolated coast? Offer his services to Trini’s chief? Iron his flax skirt? Polish his jade earrings?

Justin sighed heavily. “I simply don’t trust that Winters woman.”

Emily’s fingernails dug into her palms as she realized they were talking about her. No, not about her, she corrected herself coolly. About Claire Scarborough.

“If she doesn’t have word from me soon,” he added, “she might toss the child out in the street.”

Or the ocean, Emily thought, quenching a hysterical giggle.

The valet’s voice lowered to a fervent plea. “If you don’t trust her, why don’t you remove the child from her care? The calculating woman may try to sell the knowledge of your location to your family for a profit anyway. Perhaps your father could—”

“I’m dead to my father. He made that painfully clear when I threw my inheritance back in his priggish face.”

Penfeld fell into defeated silence. Emily heard the rustle of tissue paper, the clink of metal. She eased her eyes above the windowsill. Justin was drawing her father’s watch over his head. It dangled from his graceful fingers, spinning in the sunlight above a tissue-lined box.

She sank back down, pressing her fists to the cool earth. Her thoughts raced in time with her heart. What in God’s name had happened to the gold mine? Had Justin lost not only his friends and partners, but his fortune as well, in the Maori uprising? She realized he hadn’t sent more money to the school because there had been no money. And now he meant to send her father’s precious watch to Miss Winters.

Emily felt sickened by the image of the old woman digging her talons into the fragile tissue, clawing greedily for the heavy gold at the bottom of the box. She would probably send Barney to the goldsmith that very day to have the engraved case melted to a formless lump.

Emily choked back the lump in her own throat. Their words had only confirmed what she had come to suspect. Claire Scarborough’s sole inheritance lay in the inscrutable gold of Justin Connor’s eyes.

“Gor blimey, ya bloody brat! ’Aul yer arse to the other side of the beach or I’ll ’aul it there for ya!”

As the vulgar words spewed out in Kawiri’s musical
tones, Justin dropped the basket he was carrying and exchanged a startled look with Penfeld. Children swarmed over the kumaras and passion fruit heaped along the shore for the following day’s feast. Kawiri glowered at his sister.

Dani thrust her hands on her hips and stuck out her little pink tongue in a defiant gesture Justin found painfully familiar. “Ya ain’t big enough to make me move.” Justin cringed at the grating cockney. “An’ effin ye try, I’ll call my Emmy and she’ll box yer damned ol’ ears.”

Justin spared her the trouble. He threw back his head and bellowed, “Emily!”

She popped up from the newly dug clam pit, brushing sand from her stomach. “You rang?”