Page 181 of Once an Angel
"Mr. Connor?" she said louder.
He was rapidly fading into the darkness. Emily cupped a hand around her mouth and yelled, "You lied! You said you wouldn't let me go!"
She flopped to her back and let her fist fall over her eyes. "Damn," she whispered. "Damn. Damn. Damn."
He had opened up to her, given her a glimpse of the ticking works of his mind, spoken of New Zealand and adventurers and gold. And what had she done? Behaved like a galloping ninny.
The surf tickled her toes. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched the moon drift like a weightless pearl over the horizon. The night wind caressed her cheeks. She wondered how long it would take to crawl back to the hut. Justin was probably lurking somewhere in the brush, laughing at her. She considered limping up the path sprinkling her performance with a pathetic stumble or two. But maybe it was time she taught him that no one could be as stubborn as Emily Claire Scarborough when she set her mind to it.
She was still glaring at the stars when Penfeld marched down to the beach, threw her over his stalwart shoulder, and carried her back to the hut.
* * *
Justin cringed as another sneeze rocked the hut. He jerked the blanket over his ears.
"There, there, dear, just tuck this around your shoulders and have another sip of tea. I put a lovely
sprig of mint in it just for you."
Muttering under his breath, Justin flopped over on his back. He wasn't sure what was more annoying—Emily's infernal sniffing or Penfeld's motherly clucking. He stole a reluctant glance at the
other side of the hut.
There was nothing visible of Emily but a mop of damp curls and two huge, accusing eyes. She was swathed in a woolen blanket all the way to the tip of her pinkened nose. Even through the folds of
blanket Justin could hear her teeth chattering. Penfeld loosened the blanket and held a steaming cup to
her lips, but she freed an arm and waved it away. The valet watched in horrified fascination as she snuffled into his coat sleeve.
"Thank you, Penfeld, but I'm sure I'll be all right. I just caught a tiny chill lying in those icy waves."
The entire blanket shuddered.
Penfeld swiveled to skewer Justin with a reproachful stare.
"For Christ's sake!" Justin threw back the blanket. "She wasn't out there twenty minutes."
"It seemed like hours," she said earnestly.
"I dare say it did, miss," Penfeld agreed, tucking the blanket around her toes. "I can't imagine what possessed my master to be so thoughtless. Why, he rescued me from the clutches of Auckland's slums when my own employer sailed back to England and deserted me! He's usually a very caring fellow."
Emily's snort might have been a sneeze, but Justin doubted it.
He sat up on his elbow, narrowing his eyes. "Take a good look at her, Penfeld. She doesn't have a cold. She's the very picture of good health. I suppose you're going to tell me those roses in her chubby little cheeks are the ravages of some gruesome fever."
Penfeld reached to feel her brow, but Emily stopped him. "No. Justin's right. I don't have a cold." Her pale hand fluttered at her breast. "I do believe it might be consumption." Wheezing, she doubled over.
Justin smoothed his voice to liquid honey, addressing Emily directly for the first time since Penfeld had carried her in. "Perhaps Penfeld should take the rifle and put you out of your misery. That's what we
do to lame horses here."
Emily paused in the middle of a hacking cough. Her eyes widened in chiding accusation. "Why, Mr. Connor, your lack of compassion makes me feel faint." Her lashes drifted down, but not quick enough
to veil the malicious sparkle of her eyes.
Penfeld bustled off for his smelling salts. Growling, Justin pulled the blanket over his head. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep since he'd found the brat. His nightmares had worsened and all his efforts to work himself into exhaustion had failed. Only last night he had bolted straight off the pallet, a child's merry giggle still spinning through his head. He had jerked around, frantically seeking its source, but all he had seen was Emily curled in the blankets, her chest rising and falling in the sweet rhythm of sleep, her face lax in angelic repose.
Angelic, hell, Justin thought, shifting restlessly. The curate should have summoned that exorcist. The girl seemed to be possessed by at least five different spines.. She'd play the temptress in one breath, and in the next entertain Penfeld with stories of the Regent zoo, chattering of lions and baboons with all the guileless enthusiasm of a child.
