Teresa Medeiros - Once An Angel

Unable to deny himself, he touched his lips to hers in a brief caress. Her shiver of response rocked his soul. As he turned to go, the look in her fathomless dark eyes made him wonder which of them was

truly the prisoner.

Justin's words haunted the lonely hut.

I'll be back for you. I promise.

Those were the last words Emily's father had ever spoken to her.

They had faced each other in Miss Winters's elegant parlor, awkward and at a loss for words for the

first time in Emily's memory. The fawning headmistress had offered them the room for their farewells. She had assured him she would spare no expense for her cherished new pupil and her doting father, a man they all knew had a healthy investment in the booming New Zealand gold rush. Frost had webbed the windows, but a cheery fire had crackled on the hearth.

Eleven years before, when he'd been only twenty himself, David Scarborough's lovely Irish bride had died, leaving a squalling red-faced infant in her place. He delighted in telling his friends that he and Emily had grown up together. He was more than father and mother to her. He was her dearest friend. They'd never been separated, not even for a night, and now he was going away.

Emily was afraid to look at him. Snowflakes melted on the cape of his greatcoat. His own unruly curls had been tamed by a top hat of polished beaver. She thought he had never looked taller or more handsome. Or less like her daddy. She comforted herself by studying his leather shoes, memorizing

each familiar knick and scuff, ignoring the trickle of the tears down her cheeks.

He folded her face in his kid gloves, his voice choked with a helpless agony that mirrored her own. "Claire. My sweet, my darling . . ."

She had buried her nose in his waistcoat, savoring the scent of pipe tobacco that always clung to him.

He had touched his lips to her hair and whispered, "I'll be back for you. I promise."

Then he had turned and gone, leaving her standing alone in a blast of icy air.

"He would have come back, too," Emily whispered to the silent hut. "If it hadn't been for you."

She curled her lip in a snarl. How dare Justin make a mockery of her father's words! How dare his lips caress hers as if she were still a child to be pacified with a kiss and a promise! Promises were only as good as the men who made them.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "As if your words mean spit to me, Justin Connor!"

She snatched up the basket and threw the towel over her shoulder. Justin had been lying to her. The furtive dart of his eyes had given him away. Being a skilled kisser did not preclude being a bad liar. He probably wanted her safely closeted in the hut so she couldn't discover what dark deeds he accomplished in the glaring light of day. She marched across the hut, fully intending to tell him where both he and his mythical cannibals could go.

She threw open the door. A half-naked savage sprang into her path, swinging his club in a whistling arc. Emily froze. He shoved his face into hers. She recoiled from the fishy stench of his breath. The sunlight shining through her hair seemed to mesmerize him. Muttering under his breath, he wrapped one of her curls around his grubby finger, baring his yellowed teeth in a fearful grimace.

When he released the curl, it sprang back and hit her in the nose. Nodding as if satisfied, his chant

swelled to a wail and he began to roll his eyes and wag his tongue in time to the wild gyration of his hips. Emily didn't know if he wanted to kill her or marry her. A churning throng of natives milled behind him, their gleaming teeth sharpened to menacing points.

Emily slammed the door in their tattooed faces and threw her back against it.

Cannibals! Oh, dear Lord, Justin had been telling the truth! Moaning under her breath, she pressed her eyes shut, feeling sick. Perhaps they'd go looking for fatter prey. Where was Penfeld when she needed him? She eased the door open and peeped through the narrow crack. A bulbous brown eye peered back at her.

Muffling a shriek, she slammed the door and backed away from it. Miss Winters had always warned

her that disobedience would lead to a dire fate, but Emily thought being eaten by cannibals a trifle too dire. She could well imagine the superior smirk on Justin's face as he toasted her demise with Penfeld.

I tried to warn her, he would say, shaking his head sadly. The obstinate little vixen just wouldn't listen. Mock tears would well in his golden eyes. Penfeld would snort into his own starched handkerchief and pour him another cup of tea.

Anger stiffened Emily's spine. She forced her frantic hiccups into slow, deep breaths. Damn Justin.

Damn them all. She'd never met fate gracefully, and she wasn't about to start now. A beam of sunlight caressed the sleek stock of the rifle hanging over the door.

She dragged herself over the rum barrel and climbed on top of it. It teetered beneath her weight as she drew the rifle from its hook. She'd never held a gun before. Running her hand over the cool barrel gave her a heady sense of power.

Her gaze darted between the door and the window. She had little advantage except the element of surprise. If the natives had surrounded the hut, she was done for.

She tiptoed across the hut and poked her head out the window. Bushy fronds waved in the breeze. She might be able to slip out undetected and run for the beach. But what glory was there in running to Justin's arms, screaming like a hysterical chicken? Wouldn't he be far more impressed if she captured an entire band of hostile marauders alone? If she proved she could look after herself, he might grant her the freedom to roam the beach undisturbed.

Emboldened by that thought, she heaved herself out the window and slunk toward the front of the hut, the rifle cradled awkwardly in the crook of her arm. Sheltered by a fat bush, she peeped around the corner.

The savages' attention was focused on the door. The one who had threatened her with his club had melted back into the crowd. They jabbered among themselves in low musical cadences. Almost every man carried some sort of weapon, except for two who bore an iron pot between them. Emily flared her nostrils indignantly. The arrogant wretches, she thought. What were they going to do? Boil her on her own doorstep?

Her finger curled around the cold trigger. Before she could move, a burly warrior wearing dangling jade ear pendants had a heated exchange with an older man whose shock of white hair contrasted sharply

with the green furrows dug into his wizened skin. The muscled cannibal made a dismissive gesture

toward the door. They argued briefly, then the old man demurred, baring his yellowed teeth in a smile that conveyed respect without obeisance.

As they turned toward the hill, Emily plunged out of the bush, waving the rifle wildly. A vine tangled around her foot.

The Maori gaped at her as she came to a hopping halt. She realized how ridiculously pathetic she must look. Bracing the stock of the rifle against her shoulder, she swaggered forward. The natives rewarded

her with several nervous glances toward the weapon.

"Don't take another step," she barked. "I know how to use this thing."

At least she knew which end to point at them. The gun was definitely inspiring more fear than Penfeld's feather duster.

The tall warrior crossed his arms over his chest and glared down his nose at her. His broad nostrils flared with contempt, but the older man lay a restraining hand on his arm and made frantic signs in the air. The men holding the pot dropped it in the sand. Several of the natives covered their eyes and made whistling sounds through their teeth. The whites of their eyes swelled with fear. Emily bit back a giggle, finding it

all rather gratifying. But when the old man flattened his knuckles against his skull and wiggled his fingers like snakes, obviously indicating the state of her hair, she was less than amused.

The massive warrior took a menacing step toward her.

She swung the rifle in a dangerous arc. "Halt, you carnivorous fellow. You won't be putting me in your pot today. Down on your bellies! All of you."

Her command might have eluded them, but they understood the language of the rifle as she swept it across the sand. They flopped to their bellies like beached fish. The muscular warrior was the last to

fall. His growling snarl made the hair on Emily's nape tingle.

An awkward silence descended over the clearing, broken only by the cheerful chirp of a cricket. Emily chewed on her lower lip. Now that she'd captured the cannibals, she hadn't the faintest idea what to do with them. She searched the cloudless sky, wondering how long it would be before Justin returned. She considered firing a shot in the air, then realized she'd never checked to see if the rifle was loaded. A hollow click at an inopportune moment might see her well on her way to martyrdom.

She knew of only one sure way to get Justin's attention. Ignoring his grunt of protest, she rested her

foot on the curve of the warrior's back in what she hoped was a noble pose, threw back her head,

and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Her scream echoed across the amber hills. The hoe slipped from Justin's hands, smashing his toes.

The pain was only a nagging reflection of a sharper agony as he whipped his head around.

"Good Lord, sir, what manner of hellish creature could have-"

Before Penfeld could finish, Justin was gone, his path marked by a wild crashing through the dense

brush.

Justin could not have explained how he knew the unearthly cry had come from Emily, only that the timbre of her voice had somehow become as familiar to him as his own. An icy sweat broke out on his body as he careened down a hill, scraping his back on the serrated trunk of a totara tree. Ferny boughs whipped his face, blinding him, but still he pressed on, driven by the stark terror that by his absence he had allowed something terrible to happen to her. Time spilled back to the night when he had rushed to another beach, clutching Nicky's bloody coat like a talisman against the darkness, only to arrive a

moment too late.

He tripped over a trailing creeper and went sprawling. His cheek struck the warm, rich earth with a

thud. He shook damp tendrils of hair from his eyes and flung himself to his feet, catching a tantalizing glimpse of wicker through the trees. He hurtled into the clearing and stumbled to a halt, his heart slamming against his ribs, his breath dragged from his lungs in raw rasps.

Emily favored him with her sweetest smile. "What took you so long? I thought you'd never come."

Nothing could have prepared Justin for the sight of Emily holding court over a throng of prostrate

Maori warriors like some triumphant Amazon queen. She cradled the rifle in her arms. Her little foot rested daintily on the spine of one of the largest and most irate warriors Justin had ever seen. Even his ears were pink with fury.

Justin doubled over, flattening his palms on his knees, before she could begin to guess at the depth or bitter sweetness of his relief. Its intensity terrified him. He took a deep breath as a hard-edged fury

born of thwarted fear flooded his veins.

He jerked his head up. "What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Emily recoiled. Why didn't Justin look more pleased with her? She shrugged. "It's obvious, isn't it? Capturing cannibals."

Contempt iced his voice. "You, my dear, have just captured our neighboring tribe of Maori. A tribe,

I might mention, that has been quite friendly to me, at least before they made your acquaintance."