He pressed against her, moving, seeking, showing her without words how easy it would be for the contours of their bodies to mold into one. He was marble, yes, but molten marble, not cool and distant, but hot and seething. He was not a saint, but a man. All man.
"Which of your foolish lads taught you to play such a dangerous game?" he asked.
"You don't like danger, do you, Mr. Connor?"
"I don't like games."
As she gazed deep into his eyes, his pupils seemed to swirl in a sea of amber. Her need. His power.
Her temptation. His challenge. Emily dropped her head back, going light-headed with fear.
He caught her by the shoulders, his face darkened with emotion. "I never asked you to worship me, Emily. All I wanted from you was a little common courtesy."
He thrust her away from him and strode down the beach. Emily knew he was lying. He wanted her. Badly. And that was one weapon she'd never thought to hold. Shaken, she sank down in the sand and watched the encroaching tide crumble her castle.
Chapter 8
Despite the similarity in our ages, he has been more
son to me than brother. . .
Justin had walked the twisted corridors of the Victorian mansion hundreds of times, first in childhood, then in dreams. The plush burgundy carpet unrolled at his feet. He was a boy again, hurrying past dim passages drenched in the shadows of flickering gaslight. Tall doors flanked the hallway, dwarfing him
with their mahogany splendor. He was late again, always late, and he knew his father would be displeased.
His thin legs would not carry him fast enough. The corridor stretched into infinity. He began to try
doors, afraid they'd be locked, but more afraid they wouldn't be. He rattled each crystal knob with shaking fingers. If he made too much noise, his father would lock away the piano and send him back
to his room without supper. His stomach knotted with hunger.
Light blazed at the end of the corridor. His steps slowed, mired in some unspeakable dread. Now the carpet was unrolling faster, dragging him into the widening air of light against his will. As the light
engulfed him, he swallowed a scream.
Thank God he had. There was nothing to be afraid of. He was standing inside the dining room, where
his family had gathered around the long oak table. He scooted into his seat, perplexed by the empty
chair at his side. They were all there. His mother. His three sisters, demure in their ruffled frocks. His ancient grandmother, nodding in her pudding.
Glowering, his father lifted a carving knife and pulled the covered warming tray toward him. The light from the gasolier burnished the keen blade. Justin glanced again at the chair beside him, haunted by its emptiness.
His father's fingers curled around the handle of the silver lid. Justin's stomach spun. He slammed his
chair back, overturning it. He had to warn his father, to somehow stop him from lifting that lid before it was too late.
His father shook his head. His mouth didn't move, but the unspoken words pounded through the
room in bass counterpart to his sisters' soprano giggles. Don't be so sensitive, boy. You're too damned sensitive for your own good.
With a terrible grin his father lifted the lid of the warming tray. Justin screamed. Then he was alone in
the dining room, alone with the shadowy figure in the chair next to him. The figure turned, basking in
the glow of the gaslight.
Nicky.
Nicholas in all of his dark beauty, his hair slicked back at the temples, his teeth flashing white against
his swarthy skin.
He pointed a tapered finger at Justin. "Your father was right, my boy. You always were too goddamned sensitive for your own good."
He threw back his head in a burst of baritone laughter. t Justin clapped his hands over his ears and
backed into the corner until his own screams faded into the bright, tinkling notes of a child's laughter.
* * *
Emily sat straight up as a hoarse whimper arrowed through the darkness. She rubbed her eyes, disoriented. How late was it? she wondered. Exhausted by the playful beating her body had taken from sea and sun, and unable to endure either the false cheer of Penfeld's prattling or the sight of Justin's empty pallet, she had crawled to her own blankets after dinner and collapsed in a dreamless heap.
Her eyes adjusted slowly. Pale wisps of moonlight drifted through the window. Penfeld's comforting
bulk was humped under his blankets. A low moan shuddered the silence.
Emily sat up on her knees, her heart hammering in her throat. Justin was only a vague shape in the shadows. She crept toward him, dragging one of her blankets behind her like a lifeline.
A shallow beam of moonlight caressed his face. His waking defenses had fled, leaving him as helpless as
a child in sleep. Sweat beaded his upper lip. Emily wanted to touch him, to smooth away the grooves of pain around his mouth, to wipe the shadows from beneath his eyes. He flung out an arm, startling her, and she jerked back her hand.
He had thrashed his way out of the blankets, and the first two buttons of his dungarees had come
undone. There was something touching about the untanned swath of skin beneath the folded flap of calico, a beguiling reminder of the pale, proper young Englishman he had once been. He muttered a
name between clenched teeth. Emily leaned over, torn between curiosity and empathy.
His body twitched. His face crumpled in a spasm of horror. She reached for him, despising herself for
her hesitation.
His eyes flew open. With dizzying speed and no more than a grunt of exertion he caught her wrists and rolled over, pinning her beneath the hard length of his body.
A single word, fraught with meaning, hoarse with accusation, flew from his lips.
"Claire."
Chapter 9
Someday, God willing, the two of
you shall meet. . . .
Emily's heart stopped.
A jolt of recognition blazed like a comet through Justin's eyes, then skimmed away, leaving her
straddled by a bewildered stranger. She didn't know whether to laugh with relief or weep with disappointment.
"Emily? What in the hell . . . ?"
She chose her words with care. "You were dreaming. Having a nightmare."
"Dreaming?"
Justin's gaze traced Emily's features in confusion. The moonlight had softened her gamin edges, given
her brown eyes a glow hauntingly familiar in its tenderness. Why did it hurt so bloody much to look at her? There was something there. Something he ought to remember flirting with the edges of his consciousness. His gaze traveled downward, held captive by the pliant sprawl of her limbs beneath him, her unspoken acceptance of his weight and will. Her slender wrists hung limp in his harsh grip.
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.