Page 192 of Once an Angel
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.
Chapter 7
I fear Justin uses his cool head to shelter a heart
more tender than he'd care to admit. . . .
