Teresa Medeiros Read online

  When he released the curl, it sprang back and hit her in the nose. Nodding as if satisfied, his chant swelled to a wail and he began to roll his eyes and wag his tongue in time to the wild gyration of his hips. Emily didn’t know if he wanted to kill her or marry her. A churning throng of natives milled behind him, their gleaming teeth sharpened to menacing points.

  Emily slammed the door in their tattooed faces and threw her back against it.

  Cannibals! Oh, dear Lord, Justin had been telling the truth! Moaning under her breath, she pressed her eyes shut, feeling sick. Perhaps they’d go looking for fatter prey. Where was Penfeld when she needed him? She eased the door open and peeped through the narrow crack. A bulbous brown eye peered back at her.

  Muffling a shriek, she slammed the door and backed away from it. Miss Winters had always warned her that disobedience would lead to a dire fate, but Emily thought being eaten by cannibals a trifle too dire. She could well imagine the superior smirk on Justin’s face as he toasted her demise with Penfeld. I tried to warn her, he would say, shaking his head sadly. The obstinate little vixen just wouldn’t listen. Mock tears would well in his golden eyes. Penfeld would snort into his own starched handkerchief and pour him another cup of tea.

  Anger stiffened Emily’s spine. She forced her frantic hiccups into slow, deep breaths. Damn Justin. Damn them all. She’d never met fate gracefully, and she wasn’t about to start now. A beam of sunlight caressed the sleek stock of the rifle hanging over the door.

  She dragged herself over the rum barrel and climbed on top of it. It teetered beneath her weight as she drew the rifle from its hook. She’d never held a gun before. Running her hand over the cool barrel gave her a heady sense of power.

  Her gaze darted between the door and the window. She had little advantage except the element of surprise. If the natives had surrounded the hut, she was done for.

  She tiptoed across the hut and poked her head out the window. Bushy fronds waved in the breeze. She might be able to slip out undetected and run for the beach. But what glory was there in running to Justin’s arms, screaming like a hysterical chicken? Wouldn’t he be far more impressed if she captured an entire band of hostile marauders alone? If she proved she could look after herself, he might grant her the freedom to roam the beach undisturbed.

  Emboldened by that thought, she heaved herself out the window and slunk toward the front of the hut, the rifle cradled awkwardly in the crook of her arm. Sheltered by a fat bush, she peeped around the corner.

  The savages’ attention was focused on the door. The one who had threatened her with his club had melted back into the crowd. They jabbered among themselves in low musical cadences. Almost every man carried some sort of weapon, except for two who bore an iron pot between them. Emily flared her nostrils indignantly. The arrogant wretches, she thought. What were they going to do? Boil her on her own doorstep?

  Her finger curled around the cold trigger. Before she could move, a burly warrior wearing dangling jade ear pendants had a heated exchange with an older man whose shock of white hair contrasted sharply with the green furrows dug into his wizened skin. The muscled cannibal made a dismissive gesture toward the door. They argued briefly, then the old man demurred, baring his yellowed teeth in a smile that conveyed respect without obeisance.

  As they turned toward the hill, Emily plunged out of the bush, waving the rifle wildly. A vine tangled around her foot.

  The Maori gaped at her as she came to a hopping halt. She realized how ridiculously pathetic she must look. Bracing the stock of the rifle against her shoulder, she swaggered forward. The natives rewarded her with several nervous glances toward the weapon.

  “Don’t take another step,” she barked. “I know how to use this thing.”

  At least she knew which end to point at them. The gun was definitely inspiring more fear than Penfeld’s feather duster.

  The tall warrior crossed his arms over his chest and glared down his nose at her. His broad nostrils flared with contempt, but the older man lay a restraining hand on his arm and made frantic signs in the air. The men holding the pot dropped it in the sand. Several of the natives covered their eyes and made whistling sounds through their teeth. The whites of their eyes swelled with fear. Emily bit back a giggle, finding it all rather gratifying. But when the old man flattened his knuckles against his skull and wiggled his fingers like snakes, obviously indicating the state of her hair, she was less than amused.

  The massive warrior took a menacing step toward her.

  She swung the rifle in a dangerous arc. “Halt, you carnivorous fellow. You won’t be putting me in your pot today. Down on your bellies! All of you.”

  Her command might have eluded them, but they understood the language of the rifle as she swept it across the sand. They flopped to their bellies like beached fish. The muscular warrior was the last to fall. His growling snarl made the hair on Emily’s nape tingle.

  An awkward silence descended over the clearing, broken only by the cheerful chirp of a cricket. Emily chewed on her lower lip. Now that she’d captured the cannibals, she hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with them. She searched the cloudless sky, wondering how long it would be before Justin returned. She considered firing a shot in the air, then realized she’d never checked to see if the rifle was loaded. A hollow click at an inopportune moment might see her well on her way to martyrdom.

  She knew of only one sure way to get Justin’s attention. Ignoring his grunt of protest, she rested her foot on the curve of the warrior’s back in what she hoped was a noble pose, threw back her head, and screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Chapter 7

  I fear Justin uses his cool head to shelter a heart more tender than he’d care to admit.…

  The scream echoed across the amber hills. The hoe slipped from Justin’s hands, smashing his toes. The pain was only a nagging reflection of a sharper agony as he whipped his head around.

  “Good Lord, sir, what manner of hellish creature could have—”

  Before Penfeld could finish, Justin was gone, his path marked by a wild crashing through the dense brush.

  Justin could not have explained how he knew the unearthly cry had come from Emily, only that the timbre of her voice had somehow become as familiar to him as his own. An icy sweat broke out on his body as he careened down a hill, scraping his back on the serrated trunk of a totara tree. Ferny boughs whipped his face, blinding him, but still he pressed on, driven by the stark terror that by his absence he had allowed something terrible to happen to her. Time spilled back to the night when he had rushed to another beach, clutching Nicky’s bloody coat like a talisman against the darkness, only to arrive a moment too late.

  He tripped over a trailing creeper and went sprawling. His cheek struck the warm, rich earth with a thud. He shook damp tendrils of hair from his eyes and flung himself to his feet, catching a tantalizing glimpse of wicker through the trees. He hurtled into the clearing and stumbled to a halt, his heart slamming against his ribs, his breath dragged from his lungs in raw rasps.

  Emily favored him with her sweetest smile. “What took you so long? I thought you’d never come.”

  Nothing could have prepared Justin for the sight of Emily holding court over a throng of prostrate Maori warriors like some triumphant Amazon queen. She cradled the rifle in her arms. Her little foot rested daintily on the spine of one of the largest and most irate warriors Justin had ever seen. Even his ears were pink with fury.

  Justin doubled over, flattening his palms on his knees, before she could begin to guess at the depth or bitter sweetness of his relief. Its intensity terrified him. He took a deep breath as a hard-edged fury born of thwarted fear flooded his veins.

  He jerked his head up. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Emily recoiled. Why didn’t Justin look more pleased with her? She shrugged. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Capturing cannibals.”

  Contempt iced his voice. “You, my dear, have just captured our neig
hboring tribe of Maori. A tribe, I might mention, that has been quite friendly to me, at least before they made your acquaintance.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said faintly. The rifle slipped a notch in her hands. “That horrid creature waved his club at me. They were all armed. They even brought their own pot. I only assumed—”

  “That ‘horrid creature’ was performing the te wero, a ceremonial dance to welcome you to his country.” Justin picked his way over several inert Maori and grabbed a long-handled tool topped by an innocuous blade. “What were they going to do? Hoe you to death?” He pulled an orangy-brown object out of the overturned pot and waved it at her. “A kumara. Sweet potatoes. Their gift to you.”

  “Oh, dear.” Emily mopped her brow, feeling suddenly sicker than she had before.

  Justin glided toward her with such lethal grace that she started to point the rifle at him. He plucked the weapon out of her arms, handling it with two fingers as if it were a deadly serpent, and tossed it in the sand.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Witi Ahamera, their ariki, their chief.”

  She squared her chin, mustering her fading pluck. “I’d like to meet him, too. I’ve got a few things to say about his tribe running about, terrorizing unsuspecting young Englishwomen.”

  “You’re standing on him.”

  A brilliant heat flooded her cheeks. She followed Justin’s mocking gaze down her calf to the foot braced against the bronze muscles of the Maori warrior. Her toes twitched nervously.

  She looked to Justin for help, hoping he’d provide a graceful dismount, but he only smirked at her.

  “Well, so I am,” she said. “Who would have thought it?” She hopped off the man and tugged at his arm. He rose slowly, towering over her. She reached above her head to brush sand from his chest, avoiding his stony glare. “If Mr. Witi would have bothered to tell me he was the chief, I’d never have trod upon him in such a thoughtless manner.”

  Biting off what sounded like a distinctly Anglo-Saxon oath, the chief shoved her hand away. She shrank against Justin without realizing it. His arm slipped around her waist, molding her to his lean frame. She felt as if she’d flopped literally from stew pot to fire.

  Taking their cue from their chief, the natives rose, shaking sand out of their raw flax skirts. An admiring murmur of “Pakeha, Pakeha” rose from their ranks. Emily looked around, but could see nothing or no one who might inspire such deference.

  The chief jutted out his hand. All murmuring ceased. A fierce intelligence burned in his bright, dark eyes. His nostrils flared as he pointed at Emily and bit off a string of guttural words that made her thankful she did not understand Maori.

  She pressed herself to Justin, basking in his strength. “What is he saying?” she whispered.

  His lips touched her ear. “You have offended his mana.”

  “His mama?”

  Justin gave her a hard squeeze. “His mana. His honor. His pride. Mana is all-important to the Maori. Every slight, real or imagined, demands retribution. He wants to declare war on you.”

  She squirmed. “Why, that overgrown, jade-headed bully! Where’s my rifle? Of all the arrogant, ridiculous—”

  Justin clapped his hand over her mouth. The chief punctuated his newest accusation by leaning forward and poking her in the chest. She gulped.

  “Cease!” Oddly enough, Justin’s soft-spoken command stilled the irate warrior in mid-poke and threw an unnatural hush over his men.

  Justin kept one hand firmly anchored over Emily’s mouth, but his other hand took eloquent wing as Maori words spilled from his lips like song. Emily felt her body relax, lulled by the velvety timbre of his voice, hypnotized by the graceful flight of his fingers in the air. The natives hung on every word. Even the chief cocked his head in reluctant attention. Justin’s hand slid from her lips and cupped her chin, tilting her face up for their regard.

  Several of the men hopped back in fear, making signs in the air. A dreamy assurance melted through Emily’s veins. He must be warning them never to trouble her again, telling them that she belonged only to him and he would protect her even at the cost of his own life.

  The chief made a disgusted gesture toward the white-haired man. He nodded and they climbed the hill, leading their men into the brush and leaving her and Justin alone in the clearing.

  Justin released her. Emily locked her knees, fearful she might melt into a besotted puddle at his feet.

  She grabbed his arm. “Thank you, Justin.”

  He shook her hand off, his lips twisted in scathing dismissal. “Don’t mention it. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to meet with them as I’d planned to do before they were ambushed by Emily Scarlet, the jungle princess.”

  He started up the hill, brushing dirt off his dungarees with a disgusted motion. Emily’s hands clenched into fists.

  “What did you tell them?” she cried, refusing to be daunted by the note of desperation in her voice. She had to hear him say he cared. She’d waited to hear the words for almost half her life.

  He picked his way over a thorny bush without slowing his pace. “I told them you were crazy. That you’d escaped from Bedlam and stowed away on a banana boat before the attendants could catch you.”

  He topped the crest of the hill. “I told them insanity ran rampant in your family and one of your ancestors thought he was a kiwi bird and tried to leap from the London Tower, not realizing, of course, that kiwis don’t fly.”

  Emily suddenly knew what it meant to be blinded by rage. Or at least by the glint of the sun off a rifle barrel. She snatched the gun, cocked it, and aimed it at the tree nearest Justin that she thought she might hit without blowing his head off. She didn’t want to maim him, just scare the hell out of him.

  She squeezed the trigger. The lifeless click seemed to reverberate for miles.

  Justin froze, his back rigid. As he came scrambling down the hill at twice the pace he’d climbed it, Emily tried to shove the rifle behind her skirt. It was a very poor fit indeed.

  His eyes blazed as he reached around her and snatched the weapon. He leaned forward until his nose touched hers. “If you think I’d leave you alone with a loaded gun, you’re loonier than they think you are.”

  He hurled the rifle into the hut and turned away, dismissing her with contemptuous swiftness.

  “Justin?”

  He stopped, his shoulders braced against the sound of her voice.

  “You must hate me, don’t you?”

  He sighed. “I wish I could, Emily. It would make life so much simpler.”

  An odd glow touched her. As he ducked into the bush she felt a grin steal over her face. In all the confusion he hadn’t forbade her to leave the hut. She gathered her skirt to muffle its rustle and slunk up the hill after him.

  Emily darted from tree to tree, running to keep Justin in sight. As she threw herself behind the trunk of a kauri tree, her foot came down squarely on a twig. The crack resounded through the forest. The quivering silence warned her Justin had also stopped to listen. She shrank into herself, holding her breath until his crashing path through the underbrush resumed. She poked her head out from behind the tree, looked both ways, then ducked after him. This might be her only chance to discover how he spent the long hours of daylight.

  The trees thinned, shrinking into thick clumps of broom fragrant with masses of delicate pink amaryllis. She dropped down, forced to scramble up the slope on hands and knees to avoid being seen.

  The hillside ended abruptly in a sprawling fence of stakes, their points whittled to menacing sharpness.

  “At least there aren’t any shrunken heads on them,” she whispered to herself.

  Not yet anyway.

  Less than comforted by the thought, she followed the curving line of the palisade, still shielded by tangled growth. A yawning gate divided the stakes. Emily parted the fronds of a bush and watched Justin disappear into its maw. Seeing no guards, she dared to follow.

  Hugging the palisade, she slipped through the ga
te to find a small village drowsing in the midday sun. Across the courtyard Justin was entering a round hut thatched with wicker. As Emily picked her way after him, a mangy dog lifted his head from his paws. Instead of barking, he greeted her with a pant and a lazy wag of his tail. These natives must be a trusting lot, she thought. Just as her father had been.

  She inched around the walls of the windowless hut. What reasons did Justin have for meeting with the Maori? Was he buying land with her father’s gold? She had read of some diabolical white men turning the natives against other whites so they could step into the carnage and steal their land. Her stomach tightened to a nervous knot. A trickle of sweat inched down her cheek.

  Her groping fingers found a weak spot in the wicker. She tore it away, then knelt and pressed her eye to the tiny hole.

  Her gaze adjusted slowly to the cavernous gloom of the meeting house. Burning torches had been spiked into the dirt floor, casting an amber glow over the gathering. Skirted natives sat cross-legged throughout the hut. A handful of women wearing feathered cloaks were sprinkled among the men. She recognized the stern chief and his white-haired companion. They all gave the center of the hut their rapt attention, their faces glowing with a common serenity. Even the fierce chief had allowed his expression to soften to curiosity, although the skeptical glint never completely left his dark eyes.

  A smoke hole had been cut in the domed ceiling and a single shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom, illuminating the finely hewn features of the man sitting cross-legged in their midst. Emily was tempted to believe he had planned it that way, but realized he must need the light to read from the leather-bound book spread across his thighs. Trini sat beside him, translating Justin’s English into Maori each time he paused.

  Puzzled, Emily strained her ears to hear. She doubted if cannibals would be that enthralled by the life and times of Mozart or Vivaldi.

  She didn’t have to strain long. Justin’s voice carried like the rich, sweet tolling of a cathedral bell.