"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 lite 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.