Teresa Medeiros (5 page)

She shrieked and scrambled backward, groping for a weapon. Her fingers curled around the first blunt object they could find. As her back slammed into a wall, dust exploded, setting her off on a quaking chain of sneezes.

“Now look what you’ve done, Trini. You’ve frightened the poor girl. I dare say she’s never seen a savage before.”

Emily wiped her streaming eyes. Now two faces were peering at her. One was still green, but the other was round and decidedly English. It was clicking its tongue and shaking its side-whiskers like a great overgrown hamster.

The fierce green face loomed nearer. “How do you do, miss? The sheer luminosity of your countenance beguiles me. I take extreme delight in welcoming you, our most charming breast.”

The round face pinkened. Emily gaped. The savage’s words had come rolling out in deep, resonant tones as if he’d just strolled from the hallowed corridors of Cambridge, his feathered cloak swinging around his shoulders. Emily realized his teeth were bared not in a snarl, but in a beaming smile. Nor was he entirely green. Deep furrows of jade had been tattooed in his honey-colored skin in elaborate curls and soaring wings.

A soft groan came out of the shadows. “Not breast, Trini.
Guest
.”

She squinted into the corner, but the sunlight had blinded her. She could make out only a vague shape.

The tattooed man stretched out a hand. She recoiled and smacked it away. “I’ll keep my breast to myself, thank you. I’m not a simpering ninny for some native Lothario to ravish.”

The savage threw back his head. His musical laughter rocked the small hut.

“Did I say something amusing?” she asked the hamster.
Her head was starting to pound and she was wishing even more desperately for that coffee.

“Oh, dear, I’m afraid so. You see—the Maori don’t ravish their victims.” He leaned forward and whispered, “They eat them.”

Emily felt herself go the same color as the snorting native. She pressed herself to the wall. “Stay away from me. I’m warning the both of you. I wasn’t kicked out of every girls’ school in England for nothing.” Emily disliked lying. She much preferred to embellish the truth.

She attacked the air with her makeshift weapon. The native danced backward. Narrowing her eyes in what she hoped was a menacing fashion, she said, “That’s right. I know how to use this thing.”

“What a comfort,” came a dry voice from the corner. “If Penfeld ever decides to stop serving tea long enough to dust, you’ll be of great service.”

Emily glanced down to discover she was threatening a cannibal with a feather duster. Her cheeks burned.

A man unfolded himself from the shadows with lanky grace. He stepped into a beam of sunlight, tilting back a battered panama hat with one finger.

Their eyes met and Emily remembered everything. She remembered swimming until her arms and legs had turned leaden and her head bobbed under the water with each stroke. She remembered crawling onto the beach and collapsing in the warm sand. Then her memories hazed—a man’s mouth melted tenderly into hers, his dark-lashed eyes the color of sunlight on honey.

Emily gazed up into those eyes. Their depths were a little sad, a trifle mocking. She couldn’t tell if they mocked her or himself. She forced her gaze down from his, then wished she hadn’t.

Her throat constricted. His physical presence was as daunting as a blow. She had never seen quite so much man. The sheer volume of his sun-bronzed skin both shocked and fascinated her. In London the men swathed
themselves in layers of clothing from the points of their high starched collars to the tips of their polished shoes. Shaggy whiskers shielded any patch of skin that risked exposure.

But this man wore nothing but sheared-off dungarees that clung low on his narrow hips. The chiseled muscles of his chest and calves drank in the sunlight. To Emily’s shocked eyes, he might as well have been naked.

Another unwelcome memory returned—damp sand clinging to her own bare skin. The pulse in her throat throbbed to mortified life. She glanced down to find herself wrapped in the voluminous folds of a man’s frock coat. The sleeves hung far below her hands, nearly enveloping the duster.

“My man Penfeld was kind enough to lend you his coat.”

The husky scratch of the stranger’s voice sent shivers down her spine. An endearing lilt had been layered over his clipped English, flavoring it with an exotic cadence. She had heard similar accents in Melbourne.

Disconcerted to find her thoughts read so neatly, she shot him a nasty look. A dazzling smile split the somber black of his stubbled chin. Dear Lord, the amiable wretch had kissed her! What other liberties had he taken while she lay in his embrace? Dropping the offensive duster, Emily buried her fists in the coat and hugged herself, fighting a sudden chill.

Penfeld-the-Hamster leaned forward in his shirtsleeves and suspenders and peered into her face with concern. “You look a trifle pale, miss. Would you care for some tea?”

“Coffee, please. Very strong and very black.”

Penfeld looked as dismayed as if she’d asked for a straight shot of arsenic. His whiskers quivered.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” said the man. “He’s been waiting years for the opportunity to serve a lady tea.”

“He’ll have to wait a bit longer, then, won’t he?” she snapped.

She couldn’t tell if it was laughter or reproach that kinked the corner of the stranger’s well-shaped mouth. While Penfeld retreated to the cast-iron stove, shaking his head sadly, the native squatted and grinned at her. To Emily he still looked hungry.

“Fix some for him, too,” she commanded. “Or does he prefer blood?”

The stranger crossed his muscular arms over his chest. “Only the blood of virgins.”

Emily pasted on her cockiest smile, determined to boast her way past these half-naked rogues. “Then I’ve nothing to worry about, have I?”

A shadow flitted over his face but was gone before she could define it. Her mind raced feverishly. She was not in London, but halfway across the world in New Zealand. What if the dim-witted Barney had been wrong? If Justin Connor
was
living somewhere on this isolated stretch of coast, she would have to flee as soon as possible. No body of land was big enough to hold the two of them.

A silver tray wielded by a pristine white glove slid into her vision. A dainty china cup perched on its gleaming surface. Penfeld held one hand behind his back with painstaking care. “Do forgive me, miss. I lost my other glove in a thermal geyser.”

“My condolences.” She snatched the steaming cup. As she brought it to her lips, her sleeve threatened to swallow it before she could.

The stranger knelt beside her and deftly rolled the cumbersome sleeves past her wrists. Emily gazed at the top of his head. Threads of sun-burnished silver webbed his silky, dark hair. She brushed a riot of tangled curls from her own eyes, shied by his nearness.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“My pleasure, Miss …?”

“Scar—” the word was halfway out before Emily could
stop it. She took a deep swig of the coffee, scalding her throat “—let,” she finished. “Miss Emily Scarlet.”

If Justin Connor was somewhere nearby, she couldn’t afford to have her name bandied about the island. Her guardian did not want her. He’d made that painfully clear by never retrieving her from the seminary. If she showed up on his doorstep demanding her share of the gold mine, she might meet the same fate as her father’s other partner, Nicholas Saleri. She might disappear. For good.

The man straightened. “Well, hello, Miss Emily Scarlet. I’m”—Emily noticed his hesitation as he exchanged a wary glance with Penfeld—“delighted to meet you. Would you care to tell us how you stumbled upon our humble shore?”

“I fell off a boat.” That much was true anyway. She hoped God was smiling down on her. From the skeptical gleam in the man’s crystalline eyes, she had a feeling she’d be needing all the heavenly help she could get.

“Shall we send a message to Auckland for you? Perhaps we could locate this boat. Find your family.”

Wonderful, she thought. Just what she needed. Another chance for the darling Dobbinses to sink their claws into her.

She shook her head violently. Coffee sloshed onto Penfeld’s coat, eliciting a soft moan from the valet. “That won’t be necessary. I have no family. I’m an orphan.”

She couldn’t help feeling rather pleased with herself. That was the second time she’d told the truth today. And it wasn’t even noon yet.

Her confession seemed to disturb her host. He rose and paced the hut, raking a hand through the scandalous length of his hair.

Emily sipped her coffee, studying him from beneath her lashes. Tansy would love to dig her pearly little teeth into this one. She had to admit he was handsome in an unpolished sort of way. Tall, broad-shouldered, and just a shade too thin. The kind of man any woman would love to
fatten up. She tucked her toes beneath the coat, wondering where that last treacherous thought had come from.

A gold chain gleamed on his chest. The sun glinted off a single earring as he turned.

Pirates! Emily thought. They must all be pirates! That would explain his reticence in introducing himself. His name and face must be plastered on wanted posters all over the South Pacific. Perhaps he would sail her off the island before Justin Connor found her. Emily’s imagination soared. Why, she wouldn’t mind turning a hand to pirating herself! She and Tansy had often sneaked off to play at Jean Laffite until Miss Winters had discovered them dueling with two of her finest parasols while Cecille du Pardieu, squealing like a piglet, prepared to walk the plank. Miss Winters might have forgiven them if they hadn’t balanced the plank on the roof—forty feet above the street.

A little pirating and she would be powerful enough to win back her daddy’s gold and send old Justin Connor himself to a watery grave.

Emily gulped the last of the coffee, immensely cheered at the thought. “You’re so very kind to let me stay. I promise to be very little trouble.”

“Stay? Stay here?” The man turned so fast that his knee dislodged a stack of books. They toppled to the floor, sending up a new cloud of dust. Penfeld wheezed.

Emily reclined against the wall with what she hoped was convincing frailty. “I don’t wish to impose on your hospitality, of course, but I do feel dreadfully weak. You’d be very generous to show mercy to a homeless orphan.” She pursed her lips in a beguiling pout that had been known to drop grown men to their knees.

But this man only rested his hands on his slim hips. A muscle clenched in his jaw, and suddenly Emily was afraid. Wasn’t it Tansy who had warned her that someday she would cajole the wrong man?

The native slipped soundlessly to his feet. As Emily’s
bravado wilted beneath the heat of the stranger’s gaze, she rather wished the savage would eat her.

But he only bowed with a flourish, then slipped a sprig of greenery from behind his ear and laid it at her feet. “Trini Te Wana welcomes you to our humble abode with the most celebratory of congratulations.” He backed away, still bowing.

The stranger’s sun-flecked eyes challenged her. “It seems Trini has made his wishes known. Go on. Take it. It’s a Maori sign of welcome.” When Emily frowned skeptically, he squatted beside her, lifted her curls, and whispered, “It means he doesn’t intend to eat you.”

His warm hand lingered against her nape. At the flash of his wolfish grin Emily wondered if it was Trini’s appetites she ought to be concerned about.

She took the sprig of shiny leaves with trembling fingers. A warbling cry sounded from outside the hut. The man leaned one elbow on his knee and snapped open the watch case dangling from his chain.

“Trini, Penfeld, could you see to that?” he asked. “I’ll be along shortly.”

As Trini and Penfeld left, the watch spun on its golden chain, sending a blinding dart of sunlight across Emily’s eyes. She stared at it, hypnotized.

“Miss Scarlet? Are you all right?” he said gently. When she didn’t answer, he nudged her chin up with his knuckle.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, studying his features with a fresh mixture of wonder and horror.

He gazed down at her; a frown deepened the tiny sun creases around his eyes.

She forced a smile. “Really. It’s nothing a fresh cup of coffee won’t cure.” She held out her cup.

As he sauntered to the stove, whistling under his breath, Emily stared at his broad back through a fractured prism of tears. She had lied. Heaven had stopped smiling, and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be fine again.

She had caught only a glimpse of the tiny tintype mounted in the watch case. An angelic moppet smiled out at her, her brown eyes twinkling with hope. Emily knew that child had died long ago with her father. And no matter how hard she tried, she could think of only one reason why the gentle pirate with the stunning eyes would be wearing Claire Scarborough’s portrait around his neck.

Her hand closed in a convulsive fist, crumpling Trini’s friendly offering to shreds.

Chapter 3
 

E
mily silently whispered frantic words of hope to herself.