Page 62 of Once an Angel
"Tease," he countered, nipping her ear.
Justin caught himself whistling as they strolled hand in hand down the gleaming strand of beach. Sunlight sparkled off crystals in the sand. A gull soared into the deepening blue of the sky.
"I've been thinking about building a house," he shyly confessed. "Not a hut, but a real house with polished wood floors and scads of sunlight. I don't want any shadows or gloom like the house I grew up in."
Emily was strangely silent although she gripped his hand so tightly he was in fear for his fingers. He attributed her pensive mood to a new shyness. He grinned at that. Shyness was the last trait he would have associated with Emily. He would soon break her of it. He fully intended to keep his private vow of celibacy, but that didn't mean he couldn't give her a taste of what they would share once they were wed. The weeks of waiting to hear from his father might be agony for him, but it would be a sweet agony indeed.
As they rounded the bend and came in sight of their own beach, Emily gave his hand a squeeze that
made his knuckles crack.
He winced. "Careful, dear. I might want to play the piano again someday. Or—" He lowered his head to whisper a more enticing suggestion, but his voice faded as he saw the massive steamer anchored offshore.
The sun gleamed off the two words emblazoned on its mighty hull.
WINTHROP SHIPPING
Chapter 13
I've always wanted the best for you.
The. steamer loomed offshore, squat, ugly, and incongruous against the crystalline sea. Even at rest its towering stacks belched out smoke as if some serpentine beast snored within its belly. The black wisps fouled the air with their stench. Justin clung to her hand, squeezing it as hard as she had squeezed his
own just a moment before. An icy knot hardened in Emily's throat.
The Maori had fled back to their fortified pa at the approach of the foreign vessel, leaving only scattered clam shells and barren ashes to mark the site of their feast.
"Damnation," Justin muttered. "I should have been here to reassure them."
Down the beach a dinghy had been dragged up on the sand. Two sailors lounged beside it, smoking
pipes and talking among themselves. If the steamer looked odd against the pristine background of sea
and sky, the scene on the beach appeared positively ludicrous. Emily might have laughed if she could have choked any sound past the lump of dread in her throat.
A folding table draped in snowy linen and spread with gleaming china had been set up in the sand. Three men perched like black crows around it. In the middle of the table sat Penfeld's teapot, dripping a steady amber stream from its inverted spout. The valet jumped to his feet as they approached, pinkening as if he'd been caught with his pants around his ankles at a bawdy house.
A fat man in a towering stovepipe hat rose with him, but his companion remained seated, in no apparent haste to abandon his leisurely breakfast.
"Good morning!" he called out, spearing something with a silver fork. "Care for a kipper?"
"No, thank you," Justin replied. "May I help you gentlemen?"
"We certainly hope so," the plump man boomed out. He offered Justin his hand. "Thaddeus Goodstocking at your service."
Justin released her with obvious reluctance and allowed the man to pump his hand, but Emily noticed he did not offer his name. Wariness cut shallow grooves around his mouth.
"And I am Bentley Chalmers." The seated man dabbed his waxed mustache with his napkin. "Your charming valet was kind enough to offer us a spot of tea to wash down our breakfast."
Penfeld inched toward Justin as if sneaking out of an enemy camp. It was only too easy to understand how he'd been seduced by their creamy china, their salted kippers, their London gossip.
Both of the strangers looked hot and stifled in their quilted waistcoats. The leaner man had been smart enough to drape his heavy frock coat over the back of his chair. Emily pitied Mr. Goodstocking. Sweat dripped into his bushy whiskers, and the points of his starched collar cut into his heavy jowls.
"You must forgive our interruption," he said. "We do so hate to draw you away from your native delights." Her sympathy vanished as his piggish eyes raked her in leering curiosity.
She was suddenly and painfully aware of her appearance. Her curls were tangled, her feet bare and sandy. With her scant garb, tan skin, and sun-burnished freckles, she must appear to these proper
