A furious splashing came from behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see Justin emerge from the waves-a smoldering Poseidon, magnificent in his fury. Water streamed from his chest, plastering his dungarees to his hips and thighs like a second skin. Emily lowered her shocked gaze.
She needn't have worried. Justin strode past her as if she were no more significant than a sand crab.
"Justin?" she said tentatively.
He moved down the shore, slowing only long enough to scoop up a shell and hurl it into the sea.
"Mr. Connor?" she said louder.
He was rapidly fading into the darkness. Emily cupped a hand around her mouth and yelled, "You lied! You said you wouldn't let me go!"
She flopped to her back and let her fist fall over her eyes. "Damn," she whispered. "Damn. Damn. Damn."
He had opened up to her, given her a glimpse of the ticking works of his mind, spoken of New Zealand and adventurers and gold. And what had she done? Behaved like a galloping ninny.
The surf tickled her toes. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched the moon drift like a weightless pearl over the horizon. The night wind caressed her cheeks. She wondered how long it would take to crawl back to the hut. Justin was probably lurking somewhere in the brush, laughing at her. She considered limping up the path sprinkling her performance with a pathetic stumble or two. But maybe it was time she taught him that no one could be as stubborn as Emily Claire Scarborough when she set her mind to it.
She was still glaring at the stars when Penfeld marched down to the beach, threw her over his stalwart shoulder, and carried her back to the hut.
* * *
Justin cringed as another sneeze rocked the hut. He jerked the blanket over his ears.
"There, there, dear, just tuck this around your shoulders and have another sip of tea. I put a lovely
sprig of mint in it just for you."
Muttering under his breath, Justin flopped over on his back. He wasn't sure what was more annoying-Emily's infernal sniffing or Penfeld's motherly clucking. He stole a reluctant glance at the
other side of the hut.
There was nothing visible of Emily but a mop of damp curls and two huge, accusing eyes. She was swathed in a woolen blanket all the way to the tip of her pinkened nose. Even through the folds of
blanket Justin could hear her teeth chattering. Penfeld loosened the blanket and held a steaming cup to
her lips, but she freed an arm and waved it away. The valet watched in horrified fascination as she snuffled into his coat sleeve.
"Thank you, Penfeld, but I'm sure I'll be all right. I just caught a tiny chill lying in those icy waves."
The entire blanket shuddered.
Penfeld swiveled to skewer Justin with a reproachful stare.
"For Christ's sake!" Justin threw back the blanket. "She wasn't out there twenty minutes."
"It seemed like hours," she said earnestly.
"I dare say it did, miss," Penfeld agreed, tucking the blanket around her toes. "I can't imagine what possessed my master to be so thoughtless. Why, he rescued me from the clutches of Auckland's slums when my own employer sailed back to England and deserted me! He's usually a very caring fellow."
Emily's snort might have been a sneeze, but Justin doubted it.
He sat up on his elbow, narrowing his eyes. "Take a good look at her, Penfeld. She doesn't have a cold. She's the very picture of good health. I suppose you're going to tell me those roses in her chubby little cheeks are the ravages of some gruesome fever."
Penfeld reached to feel her brow, but Emily stopped him. "No. Justin's right. I don't have a cold." Her pale hand fluttered at her breast. "I do believe it might be consumption." Wheezing, she doubled over.
Justin smoothed his voice to liquid honey, addressing Emily directly for the first time since Penfeld had carried her in. "Perhaps Penfeld should take the rifle and put you out of your misery. That's what we
do to lame horses here."
Emily paused in the middle of a hacking cough. Her eyes widened in chiding accusation. "Why, Mr. Connor, your lack of compassion makes me feel faint." Her lashes drifted down, but not quick enough
to veil the malicious sparkle of her eyes.
Penfeld bustled off for his smelling salts. Growling, Justin pulled the blanket over his head. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep since he'd found the brat. His nightmares had worsened and all his efforts to work himself into exhaustion had failed. Only last night he had bolted straight off the pallet, a child's merry giggle still spinning through his head. He had jerked around, frantically seeking its source, but all he had seen was Emily curled in the blankets, her chest rising and falling in the sweet rhythm of sleep, her face lax in angelic repose.
Angelic, hell, Justin thought, shifting restlessly. The curate should have summoned that exorcist. The girl seemed to be possessed by at least five different spines.. She'd play the temptress in one breath, and in the next entertain Penfeld with stories of the Regent zoo, chattering of lions and baboons with all the guileless enthusiasm of a child.
But it hadn't been a child he had held in his arms, Justin reminded himself. She had brought his fingers to the softness of her lips with all the empathy of a woman, willing to absorb an anguish he'd never even dared to name. Even now the memory of her tenderness riveted him.
He threw himself over. She was like a ceaseless melody pounding at the back of his brain. There had to be a way to break the skein of enchantment she had cast over him, a way to get her out of his hut and out of his life before she drove him mad. He kicked the blankets, praying that once she was gone, the ache in his groin would become more tolerable than the one in his heart.
* * *
As soon as the door shut behind Penfeld and Justin the next morning, Emily bounded off the pallet and kicked up her heels in a fling of freedom. She didn't care if Justin brooded forever. At least he had dragged Penfeld along on his mysterious chores, to deprive her of his devoted attentions.
She hefted the blankets, holding her breath while she shook out the pepper she'd hoarded to enhance
her sneezes. Justin's little blue journal thumped to the floor.
She knelt and picked it up, turning it over thoughtfully. She was still no closer to unraveling the enigma
of the man. She surveyed the crowded stacks of books despairingly. There could be a hundred hiding places within their dusty ranks.
Tapping the book against her thigh, she straightened. The books in the rear should be the oldest. She wiggled between two stacks and squatted to peruse the titles.
A rush of warm wind teased her curls, then stilled abruptly as if a door had been slammed. Emily
pivoted on her heel to peer behind her. The thatched door was still closed.
Shaking her head, she bent back to her task. Tiny claws clicked across the floor. The hair on Emily's nape tingled to life. Justin's book slid from her fingers.
Holding her breath, she turned. The dirt floor was empty.
She blew out a shaky breath. What had Justin said? There were no snakes in New Zealand, no dangerous animals? The musty stacks suddenly seemed ominous, blocking the cobwebbed corners from the morning sunlight. Something blunt thumped to the floor. Emily snapped to attention. From the corner of her eye she saw a shadow scuttle behind the table.