A melody stirred the air, mingling with the lap of the waves against the shore. Justin's melancholy vanished. He quickened his steps toward the sound, crunching the powdery sand between his toes.
At the edge of the shore a crackling fire shot sparks into the crushed velvet of the night sky. Justin squatted in the shadows just outside the circle of light.
Emily had gathered the children around the fire like a snub-nosed angel directing a choir of naked cherubs. Their pure, sweet voices rose in the air, ringing with a clarity that would have been the envy of any St. Paul's boys' choir. A grin touched his lips as he imagined the shocked reaction of a staid London congregation to this ensemble of chubby, nude moppets. Especially since they were lending their lilting tones to a jolly rendition of "Naughty Maud, the Shrewsbury Bawd, by Gawd!"
He dropped his head down^ laughing under his breath. He had dreamed his whole life of studying music with the masters in Vienna, but seemed destined to learn of its subtleties on his knees at the feet of a brash young girl.
As he lifted his head he met Emily's gaze over the swaying heads of the children. His breath caught in
his throat. The children's song faded, making way for a brighter melody, poignant with longing. A shy invitation sparkled in her eyes. At that moment she was neither angel nor child, but a woman rife with tender promise. Justin's resolve swayed. Did he truly enjoy martyrdom as Penfeld had accused? Would
it be so selfish to allow himself some small measure of happiness in Emily's arms? To awaken each morning with her curled against his side? To sleep each night with her taste burning on his lips?
To lose his heart and soul to this fallen angel and perish in the scorching flame of his own desires?
Justin stood abruptly. Penfeld was wrong. He didn't crave martyrdom. He craved solitude. He'd tucked himself in this corner of the world for seven years just to keep anyone from looking at him the way
Emily was looking at him then. Steeling his heart against her fading smile, he gave her a cool nod and melted back into the darkness, still haunted by the lonely cry of the kiwi.
* * *
The night of the feast fell in a warm explosion of wind and stars. Emily and Justin stood with Trini's
tribe and watched as a shimmering line of torches wound its way down the shore.
Justin gently rested his hands on her shoulders. Emily drew in a shuddering breath, afraid to speak for fear of destroying the tender emotion unfolding its wings in her soul. It had been so long absent, she almost didn't recognize it.
Happiness. A chord of joy striking her treacherous
heart like the echo of chimes on the wind, once heard and never forgotten.
A song rose into the night, a melody so pure and harmonious, it seemed to quiver on the air, casting its own light across the somber dark. Justin swayed, pulling her with him in a timeless dance. She leaped
the back of her head against his shoulder, feeling at one with the music, with the night, and with him. Their guests filed down the beach, accepting their hosts' song of welcome in reverent silence.
As the last plaintive note died on the air, Justin whispered, "Don't applaud. It could start a war."
Just as he'd predicted, a moment of respectful silence passed before the celebration broke into full
flower around them.
No nobles of the English court could have afforded such hospitality as the Maori offered their friends.
If Witi Ahamera was their king and his white-haired tohunga their royal physician, then Justin was their cherished crown prince, greeting the other tribe with respectful familiarity. Emily tried to shrink into the crowd, but Justin caught her beneath his wing and shielded her with the umbrella of his popularity. Basking in his reflected glow made Emily feel rather like a princess herself.
A short while later she tucked a juicy piece of ham between her lips, entranced by the swirl of motion
and color along the beach. Children grasped hands and ducked beneath the arms and legs of the dancers, mocking their motions with clumsy exuberance. Emily's own toes twitched in rhythm with their song.
Trini and Justin flanked her, sitting cross-legged in the sand.
Smiling shyly, a Maori girl offered her a wicker tray heaped with chicken. She groaned and waved it away, rubbing her sated tummy. She'd been so delighted to escape Penfeld's bean stew that she'd fairly gorged herself on morsels of ham, pork, and the precious toberoa clams steamed in the sand.
Finding Justin occupied with the toothless old man to his left, she reached for his cup.
His stern hand closed around her wrist. "Tsk, tsk. Are you being a naughty little girl again?"
"I'm not a little girl," she retorted, crossing her eyes at him. "I'm thirsty."
They both knew his cup of icy spring water had been laced with rum, while hers was plain.
He tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose one sip wouldn't do you any harm."
"No, but denying me might do you harm."
He held the cup out of her reach. "Patience, love. Allow me the honor."
Emily was so stunned by his chiding endearment that the press of the cool cup against her lips startled her. The noise and confusion seemed to fade, leaving her alone, trapped in the golden heat of Justin's eyes. He tilted the cup and she drank deeply. Liquid fire spilled through her veins, intensifying with each slow throb of the pulse at the base of Justin's throat. He drew the cup away, leaving clear drops of flame pearled on her lips. Her greedy tongue lashed out to extinguish them, and his breath caught in a groan.
The old man tugged on his arm, begging his attention.
Emily summoned a shaky smile. "There. I promise not to be naughty anymore."
She waited until he'd set down the cup, then deftly switched it with her own. She took care to sip, not gulp, knowing the rum was more exotic and far more potent than the cooking sherry she and Tansy
used to pilfer from the seminary kitchen.
A line of oil-sheened warriors leaped into the center of the torchlit circle, their wild gyrations telling of battles won and battles still to be fought. Emily swayed to the chant of their mighty war song. They used no drums, but kept the tempo by stamping their feet. The packed sand reverberated with their masculine fervor, churning Emily's blood to a dangerous pitch. She shifted in the sand, feeling acutely the press of Justin's hip against her own.
She was almost relieved when the women of both tribes appeared, weaving a dance to a lilting melody as they twirled balls of plaited flax between their graceful fingers. Her relief vanished as a dusky-eyed stranger broke from their ranks and started for Justin.
Emily slumped with a long-suffering sigh, awaiting the deferent bow, the adoring squeal of "Pakeha!"
"Justin, my darling!" the woman cried, her voice a musical purr.
"Rangimarie! I didn't know you were coming," he answered, breaking into a boyish grin.
Emily sat straight up.
The woman flung herself to her knees, enveloping him in her embrace. He disappeared in the straight
fall of her silky black hair. Emily dazedly touched her own coarse curls. The humid air had tightened them into corkscrews.