Page 210 of Once an Angel
As he topped the bluff, a blaze of color brought him up short. Crimson flowers spilled like blood around the base of the cross that guarded David's grave. Pohutukawas. Justin dropped to his knees and touched
a fragile petal with his fingertip, drowning in the cloying sweetness of their scent. Remembered shame washed over him in waves. He pressed his eyes shut as David's voice whispered through the rain, carrying him back through time.
Take care of my little angel, Justin. Swear you will.
Thunder drummed the air in a sharp cannonade.
Justin flinched, smelling gunpowder on the wind. His eyes flew open. He knelt at the edge of the lonely bluff, gripping David's watch in his hand. He did not dare open it. Even after all these years he dreaded facing the child within. The child who still waited for him in England. The child who wore David's eyes.
Mystified, he lifted one of the flowers. He imagined Emily struggling up the narrow path, her arms laden with the fragrant blooms. Why would she carry flowers to David's grave? Had she somehow sensed how important this place was to him?
He brushed a raindrop from the velvety petal. It melted to his touch like tears against Emily's creamy skin. His fingers unfolded, and a gust of wind tore the flower from his hand, sending it skimming into the sea. As the storm broke hard around him, it bobbed on the water until the inky waves swallowed it without a trace.
Chapter 11
You must be curious
about the treasure we've found.
Grnily trotted through the forest, cradling a basket in the crook of her arm. Despite her burden her steps were as light as the shimmering air washed clean by yesterday's storm. Tomorrow was the day they were to join Trini's tribe in welcoming their neighboring Maori to a magnificent feast. Her own humble offering was a basket of fuzzy green fruit plucked from a rambling gooseberry vine with Kawiri's help.
As she approached the hut, male voices rose in furious argument.
Puzzled, she stopped, then took a step backward. Yes, she thought, she was at the right hut.
Her basket slipped a notch as Penfeld's voice boomed out. "Our dear Lord said it far better than I when he told the Pharisees 'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice.' I fear you're making a tremendous mistake . . . sir." The last word was bitten off in such a tone of insult that Emily broke into a grin. Apparently, Justin's timid hamster had gone rabid.
"Sic him, Penfeld," she whispered under her breath. She would gladly cheer anyone who dared to defy the mighty Pakeha.
"If I wanted your interpretation of scripture, King James, I'd have asked for it," Justin shot back.
She set down her basket. She hadn't learned many of Tansy's more lurid skills, but eavesdropping was one she had mastered. She crept around to the window and dared a peek. Justin's back was to her, but Penfeld's profile was a livid shade of pink. He was definitely in the throes of what Miss Winters would have labeled "a huff." As Justin swung around, she dropped to a crouch.
"The woman has left me no choice," he was saying. "I haven't two halfpennies to rub together. I have
to send the old witch something even if it's only a gesture of good faith."
Penfeld sniffed. "Have you considered cutting out your heart? A suitable offering from a man who
enjoys martyrdom as much as you do. It has always escaped me why you didn't just throw yourself in your friend's grave when you had the chance."
From the pained silence that followed, Emily knew the valet had gone too far. A tiny vise squeezed her own heart.
Justin's quiet voice finally came. In its passionless tones Emily heard a ringing chord of the duke he
might have been. "I could dismiss you for that."
Penfeld's frosty dignity was palpable. "If you prefer, I will seek another position."
To Justin's credit, he didn't point out the ludicrous nature of that offer. What was a valet going to do on this isolated coast? Offer his services to Trim's chief? Iron his flax skirt? Polish his jade earrings?
Justin sighed heavily. "I simply don't trust that Winters woman."
Emily's fingernails dug into her palms as she realized they were talking about her. No, not about her,
she corrected herself coolly. About Claire Scarborough.
"If she doesn't have word from me soon," he added, "she might toss the child out in the street."
