"Could we talk about this later?"
God, wouldn't he love to! he thought. Much later. While he was offering tender ministrations to her ravished body. "No. We have to talk about it now. What sort of position was it?"
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Oh, very well. He was lying on the ground all bloody and I was standing over him with a pitchfork." Groaning, Justin dropped his head to her breastbone. "He should never have stuck his tongue in my mouth. He was a most unpleasant boy. He had a tongue like a grubworm." She gave his hair a nervous pat. "I didn't kill him, you know. I only wounded him."
Justin feared his own wounds were mortal. He slowly lifted his head. "One more question, darling.
How long have you been without a man?"
New patches of scarlet tinged her cheeks. The stubby silk of her lashes shuttered her eyes. "Eighteen years," she mumbled.
He threw himself off her with a yelp that was half laughter, half despair. The stars winked down at
him, giggling behind their brittle shells.
He chose his next words with elaborate care. "Do you even know how a man and a woman make love?"
She sat up, hiding her breasts behind the indignant curl of her knees. "Of course I do. A man puts his-"
Justin clapped his hand over her mouth. An anatomy lesson taught in Emily's uncompromising terms
was the last thing he needed. His fingers lingered against the softness of her lips. The shine in her eyes threatened to flow over into tears. How could he explain the agonized delight her sheepish confession
of innocence was causing him?
All the masculine vanity and hypocrisy he despised welled up inside him, penetrating the haze of his
desire and bringing the blurred visions of his heart into sharp focus: coaches rocking through the English countryside on a spring day, their lacquered roofs garlanded with flowers; bells ringing a joyful peal through the crisp air; Emily adrift in a cloud of white satin, her eyes dimmed not by tears but by the shimmering gauze of a veil.
Hope. Hope for the future.
He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. Life had finally handed him something pure and fine,
and he could not bring himself to tarnish it.
Her tears spilled over his fingers. "What is it, Justin? Don't you want me?"
A groan escaped him in lieu of reassurances. If he dared take her in his arms, he'd never find the strength to let her go. He swung away from her, welcoming the gritty reality of the sand, praying it might dispel
the heady enchantment of her nudity. He tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere-on the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven, on Bach's Concerto in D Minor, on Chopin's bloody Funeral March, but she was the
only melody he could hear.
Emily stared at the bronze expanse of Justin's back, cringing inwardly at her own pathetic question.
Don't you want me?
As his damning silence stretched on, the shrill malevolence of another voice hissed in her mind.
He don't want you. Nobody does.
Doreen had been right. He always turned his back on her. But somehow this was worse. It left her shivering, abandoned to the night wind, naked and raw, shamed in both body and soul. The darkness no longer enveloped her, but hovered like a murky cloud, the stars shards of ice in an uncaring void. A vast loneliness rose like bile in her throat.
She swiped at her nose with the back of her fist as the familiar anger slammed like a shield over her pain. "There's really no need to explain. My friend warned me most gentlemen find virgins a bore. They're clumsy and predictable and they always cry at the wrong times." She dashed a hot tear away. "Like now."
Justin swung around, shocked by the bitter tenor of her voice. How could she believe he would think her clumsy? Or predictable? She was as clumsy as a she-tiger, as predictable as a summer storm at sea. He watched, paralyzed with disbelief, as she scrambled to her feet, snatching up her skirt.
"We'll just forget this ever happened, won't we? If you like, I'll send your darling Rangimarie back to
tend to you. I'm sure she's had scads of experience. Most of it with the almighty, all-potent Pakeha."
She backed away without even bothering to cloak her nakedness with the skirt. Moonlight bathed her luminous skin and tipped her breasts with silver. Justin's head reeled as he imagined her strutting into the Maori encampment in all her naked glory to deliver a scathing invitation to the unsuspecting Rangimarie. He eased himself to his heels.
She spread a hand as if to ward him off. "Don't bother getting up. I don't want to be any trouble. I never wished to be a burden to anyone. Especially not to you."
She spun around to flee. Justin dove for her, his strength and grace serving him well. He tackled her easily, bringing her down in a soft explosion of sand. He hadn't expected her to fight him, but she twisted in his arms like a wild thing, beating at his back with her fists, raking his neck with her fingernails. She swore at him through her tears, calling him names so vile they would have made even the worldly Nicholas blush.
Grunting with exertion, he caught her hands and pinned her beneath his weight. He kissed her damp lashes, the salty curve of her cheek, the corner of her trembling mouth. "Don't you know, angel? Don't you know how much I want you?"
A broken sob escaped her. He dragged one of her hands downward. She resisted him, but his greater strength, even in gentleness, bent her inexorably to his will. "Touch me," he commanded hoarsely. "Touch me and then tell me I don't want you."
He pressed her hand inside his dungarees, cupping it around the full, rigid length of him.
The fury in her eyes slowly faded and shy wonder dawned. "Oh, my," she whispered, her fingers enfolding him like velvety petals.
A spasm of exquisite agony made him shudder.
"Oh, my!" she repeated. He had finally succeeded in rendering her speechless.
The extent of her innocence washed over him like a spring rain. He pressed an adoring kiss to her freckled nose. "That, my dear, is by far the most gratifying response I've ever had from a woman."
"A woman? Not a child?" She stroked him, enslaving him with her artless touch, her dark, questioning eyes.
He shook his head. "Not a woman." He kissed away the clouds threatening to gather across her brow.
"A goddess."
He plunged his tongue into her mouth and drove himself hard into the sheath of her palm, allowing himself one moment of shameless pleasure. Then, ignoring her dazed moan of protest, he pulled her
hand away and brought it to his lips, kissing each fingertip in turn, then her palm.
He met her gaze over her hand. "I need a gift from you, my goddess."
"Anything," she whispered.
The enticing visions that one word provoked almost wreaked havoc on his determination. He laced his fingers around hers and squeezed her hand. "Time. I need time."
"Time?" Emily echoed. Her thoughts spiraled crazily. Time? How much time did this man require before he loved her? A decade? A lifetime? He'd already had seven years of her time. Time tucked away in a golden watch case. Time ticking away against his heart. Time frozen forever in a faded tintype of a happy child.