Page 223 of Once an Angel
wealth cannot buy joy. . . .
Emily tossed the little blue journal on the stack of books and bound them together with a leather strip.
Her hands worked separately from her brain, knotting and neatening, tying and folding in a soothing stream designed to numb both mind and heart. She bundled a pile of blankets into two bedrolls and began to wrap what was left of Penfeld's tea set in soft scraps of flannel. Her hands did not falter until they ran across the box containing her father's watch. Justin would have no need to send it to Miss Winters now. He would soon discover that all the gold in the world couldn't buy him Claire Scarborough.
She padded to the table and eased Justin's symphonies from their hidden drawer. The embossed document she had seen once before slid out with them, but she tossed it aside. She had no more interest in grants or deeds or mysterious maps. The gold mine was as dead as her father's dreams.
All that remained in the drawer were Justin's letters to Claire. Emily drew them out, crumpling them in
her clumsy fingers. Justin had never shared them willingly, but they still belonged to her. They might be all she ever had of him.
Justin's shadow fell across her like a caress.
Shoving the letters into the waistband of her skirt, she spoke without turning around. "I'm afraid you won't be able to take all the books. You'd sink the dinghy. Perhaps even the steamer."
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.
"Packing," she replied, jamming the sugar bowl into a wicker basket. She folded the tablecloth, refusing
to halt her frenetic activity long enough to look at him.
She heard the betraying shuffle of claws across the dirt floor. Fluffy had taken advantage of the open door to skitter in.
She picked up another teacup, praying her clumsy motions would not betray her. "You'd best leave the lizard with me. You'd look odd walking him on a leash in Kensington Gardens. I suggest you buy a nice English bulldog instead."
Justin's footfalls sounded behind her. The cup slipped from her hand and struck the edge of the table, shattering.
"You're going with me, Emily."
She crouched and gathered up the fragile bits of china. There would be no gumming them back together this time. The pieces were too jagged to fit.
"No," she said softly. "I'm not."
He caught her arm and pulled her around to face him. "Why not?"
She inclined her head, fearful of finding her own pain mirrored in his tawny eyes. "I can't go back to England with you."
He was silent for a long moment. She could almost hear the facile little wheels of his mind clicking.
"If you're in trouble with the law, Emily, I can help you. I'm an influential man now. I'll have an army
of barristers at my disposal."
She laughed weakly. "Probably a few judges as well."
His fingers bit into her arm. "What is this? Your brave attempt at gallows humor?"
Tilting her face to his, she flattened her quavering voice to dead calm. "Unless you care to tie me up
and put me on that ship, I'm not going."
Justin was tempted to do just that. But as he gazed down at her, he didn't see her pale and drawn as she was now. He saw her pelting down the beach with the children, her curls dancing, her merry, freckledface turned to the sun. He saw her swaying in the firelight with sensual abandon, her skirt billowing around her ankles. Try as he might, he could not imagine her trapped in the winter chill of London, her glow fading to pallor beneath a gray sky dulled with soot.
Grief stabbed him, fresher than anything he'd felt at the news of his father's death. Emily was right. She didn't belong in London any more than he did. She belonged here, bathed by sunlight and sea, cloaked in the sweet melodies and loving grace of the Maori. Despite her tough veneer, she was a wild, fragile
bloom that would surely wither if transplanted.
He paced away from her, raking a hand through his hair. If it weren't for David's child, he would stay. But he couldn't offer Emily a heart unfettered by the past until he'd repaid that old debt. "I have to go.
