How could he have been such a fool? Justin wondered. Emily had scattered clues like the crimson petals of the pohutukawas along every path he took, but his own obsessive desire had blinded him. Could he blame only himself, though, when she had deliberately and maliciously deceived him about her identity? As the full realization of her betrayal struck him, a new emotion ribboned through his self-contempt-anger, dark and compelling and dangerous. His gaze lifted to the ceiling above his head.
His terse interview with Miss Winters had provided some of the answers he sought, but he had some questions of his own for the elusive Miss Scarborough. Ignoring the prick of its points, he crumpled the shiny leaf in his hand and started for the stairs.
* * *
Justin scaled a mountain of pink taffeta and picked his way through a jungle of ribbons and sashes.
Toys, books, and beribboned frocks littered the burgundy carpet of the corridor outside Emily's room
as if someone had gathered careless armfuls and tossed them out the door.
He turned the knob, expecting the door to be locked. To his mingled regret and relief, it swung open soundlessly beneath his touch.
The only sounds in the room were the crackle of the flames on the grate and a slow, lazy creak.
Emily perched sidesaddle on the rocking horse he had ordered brought down from the attic that morning. She rocked idly, her pensive profile turned toward the dancing flames. The fresh shock of seeing her there buffeted Justin's senses, igniting a raw hunger to jerk her up and shake the answers out of her. Or did he just seek any pretense to drag her into his arms? A hint of white cotton stocking peeked out from beneath the navy wool of her skirt. He had seen her garbed in far less, yet the innocent sight made the blood roar in his ears.
He pushed the door shut and leaned against it, arms crossed. His puzzled family had witnessed enough
of their private little war. This battle would be their own.
The moments creaked away beneath the rhythmic shift of Emily's thighs. Finally, she lifted her hand.
A satin glove trimmed in tiny pearls dangled from her pinkie. "A bit small for me, don't you think?"
With agonizing effort Justin kept his face smooth and expressionless. "I thought you were just a baby when your father died. The only photograph I ever saw was the one in the watch. David used to tell
me stories about you. About the time you ate the buttons off his coat. The time you crawled onto the window ledge and fell asleep in the flower box. Those were hardly the actions of a girl on the verge of womanhood."
Her winsome smile never reached her eyes. "No, but they were Daddy's favorite stories."
"How was I to know?"
The glove fluttered to the floor. "You might have tried the conventional ways. A visit. A letter."
The curtain between past and present seemed to blur. "I've written you every day since I've been in London."
"Writing letters was never a problem for you, was it? Posting them was always the challenge." Her legs swung in childish defiance.
"Why didn't you simply tell me you were David's daughter?"
"We all live by our expectations, don't we, Mr. Connor? You expected Claire Scarborough to be a little girl and I expected you to be an unfeeling monster who would steal his best friend's gold and abandon
a child entrusted to his care."
Justin's jaw tightened, but he refused to quail before her taunts. "Forgive me if I disappointed you. If I'd have known you were coming, I'd have sharpened my horns. The truth of the matter is that the Maori took the gold mine during the uprising and I thought you well cared for. I had no idea Miss Winters was such an old b-"
"Battle ax," she supplied. "You really should police your language in front of your ward. Children can
be so impressionable."
She climbed off the rocking horse, the roll of her hips beneath the ill-fitting wool a taunt of its own. She gazed up at him, her lips parted, her eyes darkened in smoky accusation. Would he ever again see them sparkle in merriment? he wondered. The winter months had faded her skin to a delicate peach and
carved faint hollows beneath her cheekbones. What had she endured on the harsh voyage from New Zealand to England?
His heartbeat quickened at her nearness. "Miss Winters said they were bringing you to me. That you jumped off the boat and ran away rather than be delivered into my hands."
"And she accused me of having a vivid imagination! I didn't jump off the boat. When they couldn't find my wealthy guardian, they tossed me overboard like so much shark bait."
His hand shot out to grasp her wrist. "If that miserable wretch Barney ever laid a hand on you, I'll-"
He left the threat unfinished, but the vision of the ruffian's stringy paws against Emily's skin tightened
his grip.
"Surely you jest." Her low laugh hit an off-key note. "Miss Winters would never have allowed it. She wanted me given into the hands of my illustrious guardian, pure and undefiled."
Her words struck Justin like a blow. Reeling from its shock, he stared down at her wrist. The dusky
hairs on the backs of his knuckles stood out in sharp relief against the pale silk of her skin. His hands were strong, graceful, from long hours at the piano, honed and callused by hard physical labor, and like any man's hands, capable of both gentleness and cruelty.
His fingers had stroked her until she cried out for his touch in a voice husky with passion. His hands,
not Barney's, had defiled the child given into his care.
His thumb massaged the circlet of prints he had left in her tender flesh. "Ironic, isn't it? I'd kill any man who had touched you as I have."
She pulled her arm free and paced to the window, turning her back on him. "A pity dueling is out of fashion. You could challenge yourself. Penfeld would make a dapper second."
A ragged sigh escaped him. The flippant Miss Scarborough was beyond his reach. His only hope lay in coaxing out a glimpse of his Emily.
His voice softened. "Why didn't you wait in New Zealand? I was coming back for you."
"Too little, too late, Mr. Connor!" Emily spun around, her ruse of control snapping. Unshed tears
polished her eyes to brilliance. "What did you want me to do? Sit at the hut window until the birds built nests in my hair? No, thank you! I've had my fill of waiting for the likes of you. Seven years of it. Dreaming, hoping, praying. Sitting with my fingers pressed to the window until I thought they'd crack
and fall off from the cold. Even after I'd stopped hoping and started to hate you, I'd wake up crying in
the middle of the night and think I heard your footsteps on the stairs."
Justin started for her. She recoiled violently, stumbling over a miniature railway laid before the window.
Her foot lashed out, sending the caboose slamming into the wall, marring the wallpaper with an ugly red gash. "Did you really think you could erase years of neglect with trains and dolls?"
Her arm raked across the marble-topped chiffonier. Tiny bottles of toilet water tumbled to the carpet, their crystal stoppers rolling away. The sickly sweet fragrance of lavender water stung Justin's eyes.
"Did you hope to buy my forgiveness with baubles? Trinkets?" She hauled open the doors of the lacquered wardrobe, snatched out an armful of dresses, and hurled them toward him. "I fear you've misjudged me, sir. My affections can't be bought for a length of ribbon or a scrap of lace."