Teresa Medeiros (15 page)

Consternation flooded him along with the waking memory of his nightmare. He shoved himself off her and stumbled out the door.

Refusing to be abandoned yet again, Emily trailed after him. He stood in the sand a few feet away, his back to her, his shoulders heaving. She was afraid for a moment that he was going to be ill, but he straightened, dragging the back of his hand across his lips, shivering despite the heat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I could have hurt you.”

“Could you?”

Only the forest answered, creaking and sighing around them in a midnight symphony.

She touched his shoulder. His skin felt like warm marble to her fingertips. He flinched, but did not pull away.

“Tell me about Nicky,” she whispered.

He swung around, and their faces almost collided. His tension had returned, as palpable as his suspicion.

“The nightmare,” she said swiftly. “You cried out his name.”

He bent to scoop up a stone and cast it into the darkness. “Nicholas was my partner.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died. His vanity killed him.”

Emily was very still. If vanity had killed Nicholas Saleri, what had killed her father? she wondered. His generosity? His loving nature?

A humorless laugh bubbled out of Justin’s throat. “Even the wilds of New Zealand couldn’t rob Nicholas of his precious vanity. He used to preen for the natives in his fine coat of English broadcloth. He even deigned to let the high priest run his shriveled hands down his silk lapels.”

“He must have been quite the swell.”

“He was.” Justin tugged his ear. “The earrings were his idea. He fancied us Gypsy rogues—daring exiles from society. He pierced our ears himself with Maori needles that seemed as long and sharp as spears. I bled for days.”

Emily bit back a small, sad smile as she tried to imagine her bewhiskered father sporting a dashing earring.

Justin’s eyes clouded. “Sometimes I can still see him in the firelight, swilling beer with the natives. I believe he thought himself immortal.”

“He was wrong?”

“Dead wrong.”

A night bird echoed a haunting refrain. Emily shivered, remembering something her father had said in his last letter. “Did you trust this Nicky?”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “He was my friend. He was penniless himself, but took me in when everyone else turned their backs on me. I suppose I loved him. But, no, I knew him too well to trust him.” He stared unseeing into the shadows. “When the land wars broke out and the Maori turned against us, he insisted on going to talk to them alone. He honestly believed his old drinking companions wouldn’t hurt him.” Justin met her gaze, his jaw set at a grim angle. “We never saw him alive again.”

Emily swallowed. Justin had been only too clear on how the Maori dispensed with their enemies. Had her father met with such a fate? Why did Justin never mention his name? Was David Scarborough haunting yet another of his twisted nightmares?

Her vision blurred. She swayed on her feet. Then Justin was there, his strong arms wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth. She buried her face in his chest, too shaken to apologize.

He rubbed his cheek against her curls. “God, girl, you’re as pale as milk. I’m bloody sorry. You’re so damned brave about everything. I wasn’t even thinking how such a story would affect you.” He tilted her chin up, running a thumb over her trembling lips. “Where’s my courageous Em? The one who fought the deadly dragon, routed savage cannibals, and even faced the dreaded scourge of naked toddlers.”

She laughed weakly. “I left her snoozing on my pallet.”

“Let’s go find her, then, shall we?”

He carried her into the dim hut and lowered her to the blankets. Penfeld was still snoring blissfully.

“Dreaming of winged teapots, no doubt,” Justin whispered.

She giggled, but his own eyes sobered as he gave the valet a furtive glance. Emily knew what he was thinking. How much noise could they make without disturbing Penfeld’s slumber? Would he hear the whisper of their lips in the darkness?

Like a thief in the night, he leaned down and kissed her with a fierce sweetness that left her breathless.

He smoothed the tangled curls away from her face. “Don’t worry about what I told you. What’s in the past is done.”

He touched his lips to her brow before slipping back into the shadows. Was he comforting her or warning her? Emily wondered. She licked the bittersweet taste of him from her lips, wondering what he would do if he only knew how wrong he was.

Emily awoke the next morning to a deserted hut and the patter of a gentle rain against the thatched roof. She felt a pang of disappointment as she crawled out of the blankets. She had hoped to continue her exploration of the beach that day and had promised Kawiri she’d teach him how to swear in English.

Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she shambled to the window. A sky frosted in pewter gleamed between dripping fronds. The rain showed no sign of abating. Was Justin safe and warm, crouched before a Maori fire, or was he out there somewhere, shivering in the cool, damp air?

Sighing, she turned away from the window. Should she once again paw through his belongings for some clue to
his past? A dull weight settled in her throat. If Justin’s nightmare was only the tip of his anguish, what new agony might her search uncover?

She dropped to her knees and reluctantly began to sort through a pile of books and papers. It seemed a waste of time to simply move books from one pile to another, so she began to dust them with a corner of the blanket and separate them according to subject and author. As exertion warmed her, the blanket slid unheeded from her shoulders. Lulled by the cozy drumbeat of the rain, she had fashioned several tidy stacks of books and whiled away half the morning before she realized it. Without books blocking every path, the hut had swelled to twice its size. It was actually beginning to look homey.

Seized by this alarming spirit of tidiness, Emily folded their blankets and decided to drag the table into the center of the room. Fluffy watched her efforts from his perch on the stove without blinking.

“You might help me, you lazy lizard,” she berated him. “I ought to light a fire under you.” His tongue darted out in disdain.

She tugged at the table. The heavy oak resisted her. Grunting, she gave it another pull. A narrow drawer snapped out, striking her hard across the thighs.

Emily’s curse faded in the silence. Was this the secret cubbyhole she had been searching for? She reached slowly into the shadowy recess as if afraid she might find a nesting adder.

Her hand trembled as she drew forth a sheaf of papers rolled into a fat tube. Fearful her knees would betray her, she sank cross-legged to the floor. She sat for a long time, staring at nothing. Claire Scarborough’s bright, loving spirit had died with her father. Why couldn’t Emily let her go? Why couldn’t she accept Justin for what he was? A kind man who had welcomed a naked stranger into his life without knowing if she was a thief, a murderer, or a pox-ridden doxy from the London wharfs. He might not have
wanted her as a child, but the fierce hunger of his kiss promised he wanted her now. Her fingers toyed with the frayed ribbon that bound the heavy scroll.

She tugged the ribbon. The pages flopped open in her lap. She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a sob of relief. Neat bars had been etched in black from margin to margin on the long sheets. These musical notes were drawn nor in the painstaking scrawl of a child, but in the thick, measured strokes of a man. She flipped through the pages, marveling at their sheer volume.

The enormity of what she was holding struck her like a blow. Justin’s life work. He had been holed up in New Zealand for the past seven years, pouring his soul into this music. She ran her hand over a page, caressing the blots of ink with her fingertips. A tremendous sadness touched her as she imagined him hunched over the table, scratching away in the feeble glow of the lantern until his eyes burned and his vision blurred. Music written in silence and hidden from the world, symphonies that would never know the joyous strains of violin or piano. A world of uncaring ears deaf to their peculiar magic.

She turned the page with reverent fingers. Music had been one of her more tolerable classes at Foxworth’s. Every girl had been taught to bang out “God Save the Queen” on the scarred piano in the music room. She squinted at the notes, forcing them to unite in a pattern she could understand.

A smile touched her lips as she began to hum softly. She picked out the melody, bright, simple, and wistful. She was haunted by its beauty, seduced by its innocent genius. Almost of its own volition her voice warbled into full-throated song, weaving a shining thread of sound through the tapestry of the falling rain.

Justin shook the sparkling drops out of his eyes. He loved the New Zealand rain. In London it had fallen in a dull curtain, heavy with soot, but here it shimmered from the
sky, misting the world in radiant defiance of its ordinary colors. It sharpened the greens to a minty gloss and deepened the browns to mahogany. Tramping through the bush on a rainy day almost made him believe the stains of the world could be washed clean. Almost.

He ducked beneath the shaggy branch of a punga tree, chagrined to realize he had made yet another loop past the hut. Thank God Penfeld had stayed behind in the Maori meeting house to nurse a cup of steaming clam soup. He couldn’t bear another roll of the valet’s expressive eyes.

Why shouldn’t he wish to check on Emily? It was nearly midday. With her penchant for mischief, she’d had ample time to sell the hut to passing natives or set her skirt ablaze.

He crouched beneath the shelter of a bush. Rain poured from his hat brim and dripped off his nose, but he paid it no heed. His hungry gaze was locked on the window, on the cozy halo of lantern light that warmed him simply by its existence. He imagined Emily within, her chestnut curls inclined toward a book or some gentle feminine task.

Like skinning Fluffy to make a pair of boots.

Justin lowered his forehead to his hand, chuckling at his own whimsy. At some point he would have to learn to trust the girl. How else was he to teach her to trust him?

He forced himself to rise and turn away. A lilting whisper of angel song drifted to his ears. At first he thought the melody was in his head, as haunting and familiar as the rhythmic rush of blood through his veins. Then a spasm of pain crushed his chest.

Emily
.

Her husky contralto toyed with his creation, gifting it with an artless charm and an innocence he had been able to envision only in the maddened inspiration of his dreams. It cut through his sophistication like a blade, peeling away the pretentious layers of oboes and French horns he had labored over for days. Without even trying she had stolen
his song and made it her own. He knew that for the rest of his life, even if that song resounded through every concert hall in Europe, he would hear only the resonant purity of her voice.

Justin felt violated. He felt as if someone had stroked the most intimate heart of him and left it quivering, too easily shattered by the next careless touch.

Burning with fury, he strode across the clearing and threw open the door.

Emily lifted her head. Her soft trilling died in her throat. “Why, Justin, it’s so beautiful.”

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted. Her eyes shone with trust and tenderness. He had seen that look before, and being unable to remember where or when only stoked the fires of his anger.

He pulled off his hat. “Who gave you the right to rifle through my private things? Who the hell do you think you are?”

Emily’s smile faded. She gazed up at him, wondering what he would do if she told him. Rain pelted the back of his oilcloth coat. Damp hanks of hair curled across his brow, shadowing his eyes. He smoothed them back and she swallowed a flinch. She had seen that look of embittered ire often enough in her life.

“Nobody gave me the right.” She dragged her knee closer to her body, cradling his symphony to her chest. “Are you angry?”

He slammed the door. A handful of thatch spiraled down from the ceiling.

“Miffed, eh?”

He crossed the hut and jerked his music out of her hands. Still glowering, he rolled the sheets into a tube, giving her the distinct impression he wished it were her neck he was throttling.

She climbed to her feet, brushing dust from her skirt. “Are you ever going to speak to me again?”

He slapped the scroll against his palm. “Not if you’re lucky.”

“Luck was never my strong suit.”

“Nor mine,” he shot back. “At least not since I met you.”

She clasped her hands behind her back. “You didn’t actually
meet
me. You sort of found me. Like a stray pup or a—”

“Bad apple?”

She looked down at her feet, but not before Justin saw her lips twist with a wry pain. Guilt shot through him. She hadn’t helped his temper by reminding him of the night he had found her. The nubile curves of her moon-drenched body still haunted him. A gift from the sea, he had so foolishly called her. A gift from hell, more likely. Poseidon had probably laughed himself off his underwater throne to be rid of her. For a savage moment Justin wished he could recall that night, wished he had thrust apart her silky thighs and ravished her before she’d ever opened her impudent mouth.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Emily asked, alarmed by the open voracity of his gaze.

“Like what?” His dangerous purr folded an aching knot in the pit of her stomach.

She pressed her fist there. “Like I’m a French pastry and you haven’t eaten in a month.”

“Oh, it’s been far longer than a month, my dear.” He stalked toward her, backing her up with each silky word. “I wish I had gobbled you up that night on the beach. Because then at least I would have had a moment’s peace in the afterglow … which is more than I’ve had since then.” He stroked her cheek in the tenderest of caresses. “Did you know you are an ungrateful, deceitful, rude, ill-tempered, nosy little wench?” His voice shot to a roar. “And those are your good points!”

Emily’s rear struck the table. She tilted her chin in wounded dignity. “I’m quite aware of my shortcomings,
but if it makes you feel better, do continue your assassination of my character.”