Teresa Medeiros (18 page)

She looked so charming that Justin almost forgot his reprimand. Her cheeks were flushed with the afternoon heat. Her hair twined in damp tendrils around her face, framing a smile that was an intoxicating mix of mischief and tenderness. A menacing thud from the direction of the baskets jarred his memory.

He pointed. “Those children. What have you been teaching them?”

She shuffled her feet primly. “The King’s English?”

“Guttersnipe English, more likely. They’d do better at an East End brawl than at court. What are you trying to do? Erase all the good I’ve done?”

She poked her toe in the sand, showing excessive interest in the tiny crab she unearthed. “Have you ever heard Dani speak a complete sentence of English before?”

“That horrid exhibition could hardly be called—” He stopped, scratching his head. “Well, no, I suppose I haven’t.”

He was spared from further thought by the solid thwack of a kumara striking someone’s head. An answering wail followed. Justin winced.

Emily wiggled past him. “I shall endeavor to set a better example,” she promised, bending over to box both Kawiri’s and Dani’s ears in one smooth motion. “Hush
your silly selves,” she hissed, “or I’ll blister both your naked little arses.”

A reverent course of “
Aye, mums
” followed.

Justin’s lips twitched as he gazed at the delectable curve of her own ripe derriere.

A voice boomed out, unmistakable in its resonant bass. “Move out them torches, laddies! We ain’t got all bloomin’ day!”

Justin groaned. “Oh, no. You didn’t. Not Trini too.”

Giving him an innocent shrug, Emily ducked back into the clam pit. Justin’s snort of mirth choked him. He dropped his basket and was forced to watch all of his hard-picked kiwi fruit roll gently into the sea.

Emily failed to return to the hut for dinner that night. Justin left Penfeld snoring and went in search of her. Several of the Maori had chosen to camp along the beach rather than return to their fortified
pa
. He drifted from fire to fire, smiling, calling out greetings, and pretending not to be as lost as he felt. From the tangled bracken came the forlorn cry of a foraging kiwi. Justin pitied the bird—it was clumsy, shy, and despite its noblest efforts to fly, forever bound to the earth.

A melody stirred the air, mingling with the lap of the waves against the shore. Justin’s melancholy vanished. He quickened his steps toward the sound, crunching the powdery sand between his toes.

At the edge of the shore a crackling fire shot sparks into the crushed velvet of the night sky. Justin squatted in the shadows just outside the circle of light.

Emily had gathered the children around the fire like a snub-nosed angel directing a choir of naked cherubs. Their pure, sweet voices rose in the air, ringing with a clarity that would have been the envy of any St. Paul’s boys’ choir. A grin touched his lips as he imagined the shocked reaction of a staid London congregation to this ensemble of chubby, nude moppets. Especially since they were lending
their lilting tones to a jolly rendition of “Naughty Maud, the Shrewsbury Bawd, by Gawd!”

He dropped his head down, laughing under his breath. He had dreamed his whole life of studying music with the masters in Vienna, but seemed destined to learn of its subtleties on his knees at the feet of a brash young girl.

As he lifted his head he met Emily’s gaze over the swaying heads of the children. His breath caught in his throat. The children’s song faded, making way for a brighter melody, poignant with longing. A shy invitation sparkled in her eyes. At that moment she was neither angel nor child, but a woman rife with tender promise. Justin’s resolve swayed. Did he truly enjoy martyrdom as Penfeld had accused? Would it be so selfish to allow himself some small measure of happiness in Emily’s arms? To awaken each morning with her curled against his side? To sleep each night with her taste burning on his lips?

To lose his heart and soul to this fallen angel and perish in the scorching flame of his own desires?

Justin stood abruptly. Penfeld was wrong. He didn’t crave martyrdom. He craved solitude. He’d tucked himself in this corner of the world for seven years just to keep anyone from looking at him the way Emily was looking at him then. Steeling his heart against her fading smile, he gave her a cool nod and melted back into the darkness, still haunted by the lonely cry of the kiwi.

The night of the feast fell in a warm explosion of wind and stars. Emily and Justin stood with Trini’s tribe and watched as a shimmering line of torches wound its way down the shore.

Justin gently rested his hands on her shoulders. Emily drew in a shuddering breath, afraid to speak for fear of destroying the tender emotion unfolding its wings in her soul. It had been so long absent, she almost didn’t recognize it.

Happiness. A chord of joy striking her treacherous
heart like the echo of chimes on the wind, once heard and never forgotten.

A song rose into the night, a melody so pure and harmonious, it seemed to quiver on the air, casting its own light across the somber dark. Justin swayed, pulling her with him in a timeless dance. She leaned the back of her head against his shoulder, feeling at one with the music, with the night, and with him. Their guests filed down the beach, accepting their hosts’ song of welcome in reverent silence.

As the last plaintive note died on the air, Justin whispered, “Don’t applaud. It could start a war.”

Just as he’d predicted, a moment of respectful silence passed before the celebration broke into full flower around them.

No nobles of the English court could have afforded such hospitality as the Maori offered their friends. If Witi Ahamera was their king and his white-haired
tohunga
their royal physician, then Justin was their cherished crown prince, greeting the other tribe with respectful familiarity. Emily tried to shrink into the crowd, but Justin caught her beneath his wing and shielded her with the umbrella of his popularity. Basking in his reflected glow made Emily feel rather like a princess herself.

A short while later she tucked a juicy piece of ham between her lips, entranced by the swirl of motion and color along the beach. Children grasped hands and ducked beneath the arms and legs of the dancers, mocking their motions with clumsy exuberance. Emily’s own toes twitched in rhythm with their song.

Trini and Justin flanked her, sitting cross-legged in the sand.

Smiling shyly, a Maori girl offered her a wicker tray heaped with chicken. She groaned and waved it away, rubbing her sated tummy. She’d been so delighted to escape Penfeld’s bean stew that she’d fairly gorged herself on
morsels of ham, pork, and the precious
toheroa
clams steamed in the sand.

Finding Justin occupied with the toothless old man to his left, she reached for his cup.

His stern hand closed around her wrist. “Tsk, tsk. Are you being a naughty little girl again?”

“I’m not a little girl,” she retorted, crossing her eyes at him. “I’m thirsty.”

They both knew his cup of icy spring water had been laced with rum, while hers was plain.

He tilted his head thoughtfully, “I suppose one sip wouldn’t do you any harm.”

“No, but denying me might do you harm.”

He held the cup out of her reach. “Patience, love. Allow me the honor.”

Emily was so stunned by his chiding endearment that the press of the cool cup against her lips startled her. The noise and confusion seemed to fade, leaving her alone, trapped in the golden heat of Justin’s eyes. He tilted the cup and she drank deeply. Liquid fire spilled through her veins, intensifying with each slow throb of the pulse at the base of Justin’s throat. He drew the cup away, leaving clear drops of flame pearled on her lips. Her greedy tongue lashed out to extinguish them, and his breath caught in a groan.

The old man tugged on his arm, begging his attention.

Emily summoned a shaky smile. “There. I promise not to be naughty anymore.”

She waited until he’d set down the cup, then deftly switched it with her own. She took care to sip, not gulp, knowing the rum was more exotic and far more potent than the cooking sherry she and Tansy used to pilfer from the seminary kitchen.

A line of oil-sheened warriors leaped into the center of the torchlit circle, their wild gyrations telling of battles won and battles still to be fought. Emily swayed to the
chant of their mighty war song. They used no drums, but kept the tempo by stamping their feet. The packed sand reverberated with their masculine fervor, churning Emily’s blood to a dangerous pitch. She shifted in the sand, feeling acutely the press of Justin’s hip against her own.

She was almost relieved when the women of both tribes appeared, weaving a dance to a lilting melody as they twirled balls of plaited flax between their graceful fingers. Her relief vanished as a dusky-eyed stranger broke from their ranks and started for Justin.

Emily slumped with a long-suffering sigh, awaiting the deferent bow, the adoring squeal of “Pakeha!”

“Justin, my darling!” the woman cried, her voice a musical purr.

“Rangimarie! I didn’t know you were coming,” he answered, breaking into a boyish grin.

Emily sat straight up.

The woman flung herself to her knees, enveloping him in her embrace. He disappeared in the straight fall of her silky black hair. Emily dazedly touched her own coarse curls. The humid air had tightened them into corkscrews.

The lush Polynesian beauty spread her skirt around her, speaking rapidly in Maori. Justin answered in kind, bringing her hand to his lips in a gesture so civilized, so purely English, Emily found it as damning a confession as if he’d laid the woman on the sand at her feet and bedded her. Their intimacy was obvious. The woman shook her hair in a seductive motion. Emily glared at it, wondering what sort of war she would start if she yanked it out by its ebony roots.

She nudged Trini, nearly overturning his cup. “She’s rather pretty, isn’t she? If you fancy women with tattoos.”

In truth, only the woman’s chin was tattooed. The etched wings emphasized the pouting tilt of her lips, the exotic slant of her eyes. Reaching across Emily, she plucked a passion fruit from a tray and snapped half of it
away with her straight white teeth. Golden juice trickled down her chin.

“Did you see that?” This time Emily did tumble Trini’s cup, spilling cold water down his bare chest. “What horrid table manners. The brazen wench wouldn’t last through tea at Miss Win—” She bit off the word, casting him a nervous glance. Trini didn’t seem to notice her slip. He was too busy sponging off his chest with his feathered cloak.

Her mouth fell open in hopeless shock as the intruder tucked the other half of the passion fruit into Justin’s mouth, her tan fingers lingering against his lips as if in memory of past delights and a promise of future ones. A jagged spear of pain plunged into Emily’s heart. Feeling small and ugly and freckled, she bowed her head, wishing for hair long enough to hide behind.

The song of the dancers swelled to a new rhythm, hypnotic and sensual. Laughing, the woman pulled away from Justin’s hands and rose to join the sultry dance of her native sisters.

Justin leaned toward Emily, forced to yell over the music. “Now you can see why I find the Maori so irresistible. They do nothing without singing.”

“Nothing?” she bit off acidly.

He hummed under his breath, blithely unaware of the petite volcano seething at his side. “Rangimarie was one of my best pupils. I taught her English.”

“Is that all?”

He missed her lethal look. His admiring gaze was hovering at the opulent bosom of his sloe-eyed friend. Her serpentine twists threatened to shake the golden orbs free. She danced toward him, stamping her feet and swinging her hips in blatant invitation.

The tips of her hair flicked Emily’s cheek like tiny eels as she bent over Justin, mouthing Maori words. He grinned and ducked his head. It might have been the
torchlight, but Emily would have sworn a flush crept along his cheekbones.

As the woman slithered away, Emily slammed her fist into Trini’s arm. “What did she say?”

Trini gave her an infuriating smile and wagged his finger under her nose. “No, no! Not for the hearing appendages of filial progeny.”

“Not for the hearing appendanges …?” She muttered the words under her breath before their meaning came to life with furious clarity.

Not for the ears of children
.

Justin’s own voice, smooth and condescending, echoed through her head.
Are you being a naughty little girl again?

Her nails dug into the woven flax of her cup. They all seemed to think her some overgrown toddler who needed her fingers slapped to keep her out of mischief. She tilted the cup to her lips, draining it in one swig. Fire raced through her limbs, throbbing in time with the music.

Rum and wavering torch smoke blurred her vision. The exotic features of the dancers melted into the smug faces of Miss Winters’s students. She had hovered in the corner during their ballet class as they floated past, wrapped in yards of delicate white organdy. Her feet had itched to join them, but it had been Cecille who drifted to her sylvan death as Giselle at the recital each spring. Emily’s own small satisfaction had come last year when Cecille had lifted her head to take her bow only to find her shimmering blond mane pasted to the stage.

The stamp of native feet thundered through Emily’s veins, enthralling her with their primal beat. She glanced over at Justin. His rapt attention was still held by the siren song of the dancers.

The empty cup slid from her fingers. She was sick of watching from the wings while others took their bows.

She rose with sinuous grace and slipped among the dancers. She had no need to mock their motions. As she
closed her eyes and lifted her hair from her sweltering nape, the rhythm took her in its masterful hands, swaying her like a long-stemmed bloom in the wind.

The wailing song of the dancers soared and the pent-up spirit of a lifetime burst into flower. Emily spun free, caught in the sheer joy of the motion. The stamping swelled until it resonated through her bones and fueled her pumping heart.