Teresa Medeiros Read online

  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

  You must be curious about the treasure we’ve found.…

  Emily 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?”

  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.