Page 196 of Once an Angel
Her gaze adjusted slowly to the cavernous gloom of the meeting house. Burning torches had been spiked into the dirt floor, casting an amber glow over the gathering. Skirted natives sat cross-legged throughout the hut. A handful of women wearing feathered cloaks were sprinkled among the men. She recognized
the stern chief and his white-haired companion. They all gave the center of the hut their rapt attention, their faces glowing with a common serenity. Even the fierce chief had allowed his expression to soften
to curiosity, although the skeptical glint never completely left his dark eyes.
A smoke hole had been cut in the domed ceiling and a single shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom, illuminating the finely hewn features of the man sitting cross-legged in their midst. Emily was tempted
to believe he had planned it that way, but realized he must need the light to read from the leather-bound book spread across his thighs. Trini sat beside him, translating Justin's English into Maori each time he paused.
Puzzled, Emily strained her ears to hear. She doubted if cannibals would be that enthralled by the life
and times of Mozart or Vivaldi.
She didn't have to strain long. Justin's voice carried like the rich, sweet tolling of a cathedral bell.
" '. . . she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.' "
He paused so Trini might translate. The glowering chief shook his head as if saddened by the fate of the hapless child.
" '. . . And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round them . .
Emily had squirmed through seven interminable Christmas pageants at the seminary. Pageants where Cecille du Pardieu played Mary while she got stuck as the far end of a sheep or donkey. But as she
closed her eyes, it was as if she were hearing the power of the old, old words for the first time.
". . . And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which
shall be to all people . .
She opened her eyes, blinking away the tears caught in her lashes. The hut seemed to reel, pivoting
slowly around a man with somber gold eyes caught in a web of sunlight. It sparkled across his hair,
glinted off the gold watch case that lay against his breastbone.
Emily shoved herself away from the hut, clapping a hand over her mouth. A hysterical giggle escaped
her, them another. The dashing rogue Justin Connor a missionary? Had her father bequeathed both his gold mine and his daughter to a madman? What had he done with the gold? she wondered. Given it to
the natives to buy supplies? Or Bibles?
She doubled over, clutching her stomach as helpless laughter crippled her. How could she have let her own suspicions and the gossip of London society blind her to the man's true character? He had opened
his life and heart to every stray who wandered past, taking in abandoned valets, reformed cannibals—even ugly lizards.
Everyone but his ward, she realized. There was no room at the inn for Claire Scarborough.
Until she felt the tears streaming down her cheeks, Emily didn't realize she was crying. She backed
away from the meeting house. The emotional carousel she'd been on since her guardian had stepped
out of the shadows was spinning out of control and, dear God, she had to get off.
The village blurred as she pelted past the gate into the tangled arms of the forest. Behind her a dog barked, the sound hollow against the blood rushing through her ears. She might have heard a man's
frantic cry, or it might have been only the careening slam of her heart. Dappled shadows lured her
deeper into the bush, promising escape. Vines swatted her face, but she barely felt their sting.
