Teresa Medeiros - Once An Angel

His thin legs would not carry him fast enough. The corridor stretched into infinity. He began to try

doors, afraid they'd be locked, but more afraid they wouldn't be. He rattled each crystal knob with shaking fingers. If he made too much noise, his father would lock away the piano and send him back

to his room without supper. His stomach knotted with hunger.

Light blazed at the end of the corridor. His steps slowed, mired in some unspeakable dread. Now the carpet was unrolling faster, dragging him into the widening air of light against his will. As the light

engulfed him, he swallowed a scream.

Thank God he had. There was nothing to be afraid of. He was standing inside the dining room, where

his family had gathered around the long oak table. He scooted into his seat, perplexed by the empty

chair at his side. They were all there. His mother. His three sisters, demure in their ruffled frocks. His ancient grandmother, nodding in her pudding.

Glowering, his father lifted a carving knife and pulled the covered warming tray toward him. The light from the gasolier burnished the keen blade. Justin glanced again at the chair beside him, haunted by its emptiness.

His father's fingers curled around the handle of the silver lid. Justin's stomach spun. He slammed his

chair back, overturning it. He had to warn his father, to somehow stop him from lifting that lid before it was too late.

His father shook his head. His mouth didn't move, but the unspoken words pounded through the

room in bass counterpart to his sisters' soprano giggles. Don't be so sensitive, boy. You're too damned sensitive for your own good.

With a terrible grin his father lifted the lid of the warming tray. Justin screamed. Then he was alone in

the dining room, alone with the shadowy figure in the chair next to him. The figure turned, basking in

the glow of the gaslight.

Nicky.

Nicholas in all of his dark beauty, his hair slicked back at the temples, his teeth flashing white against

his swarthy skin.

He pointed a tapered finger at Justin. "Your father was right, my boy. You always were too goddamned sensitive for your own good."

He threw back his head in a burst of baritone laughter. t Justin clapped his hands over his ears and

backed into the corner until his own screams faded into the bright, tinkling notes of a child's laughter.

* * *

Emily sat straight up as a hoarse whimper arrowed through the darkness. She rubbed her eyes, disoriented. How late was it? she wondered. Exhausted by the playful beating her body had taken from sea and sun, and unable to endure either the false cheer of Penfeld's prattling or the sight of Justin's empty pallet, she had crawled to her own blankets after dinner and collapsed in a dreamless heap.

Her eyes adjusted slowly. Pale wisps of moonlight drifted through the window. Penfeld's comforting

bulk was humped under his blankets. A low moan shuddered the silence.

Emily sat up on her knees, her heart hammering in her throat. Justin was only a vague shape in the shadows. She crept toward him, dragging one of her blankets behind her like a lifeline.

A shallow beam of moonlight caressed his face. His waking defenses had fled, leaving him as helpless as

a child in sleep. Sweat beaded his upper lip. Emily wanted to touch him, to smooth away the grooves of pain around his mouth, to wipe the shadows from beneath his eyes. He flung out an arm, startling her, and she jerked back her hand.

He had thrashed his way out of the blankets, and the first two buttons of his dungarees had come

undone. There was something touching about the untanned swath of skin beneath the folded flap of calico, a beguiling reminder of the pale, proper young Englishman he had once been. He muttered a

name between clenched teeth. Emily leaned over, torn between curiosity and empathy.

His body twitched. His face crumpled in a spasm of horror. She reached for him, despising herself for

her hesitation.

His eyes flew open. With dizzying speed and no more than a grunt of exertion he caught her wrists and rolled over, pinning her beneath the hard length of his body.

A single word, fraught with meaning, hoarse with accusation, flew from his lips.

"Claire."

Emily's heart stopped.

A jolt of recognition blazed like a comet through Justin's eyes, then skimmed away, leaving her

straddled by a bewildered stranger. She didn't know whether to laugh with relief or weep with disappointment.

"Emily? What in the hell . . . ?"

She chose her words with care. "You were dreaming. Having a nightmare."

"Dreaming?"

Justin's gaze traced Emily's features in confusion. The moonlight had softened her gamin edges, given

her brown eyes a glow hauntingly familiar in its tenderness. Why did it hurt so bloody much to look at her? There was something there. Something he ought to remember flirting with the edges of his consciousness. His gaze traveled downward, held captive by the pliant sprawl of her limbs beneath him, her unspoken acceptance of his weight and will. Her slender wrists hung limp in his harsh grip.

Consternation flooded him along with the waking memory of his nightmare. He shoved himself off her and stumbled out the door.

Refusing to be abandoned yet again, Emily trailed after him. He stood in the sand a few feet away, his back to her, his shoulders heaving. She was afraid for a moment that he was going to be ill, but he straightened, dragging the back of his hand across his lips, shivering despite the heat.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I could have hurt you."

"Could you?"

Only the forest answered, creaking and sighing around them in a midnight symphony.

She touched his shoulder. His skin felt like warm marble to her fingertips. He flinched, but did not pull away.

"Tell me about Nicky," she whispered.

He swung around, and their faces almost collided. His tension had returned, as palpable as his suspicion.

"The nightmare," she said swiftly. "You cried out his name."

He bent to scoop up a stone and cast it into the darkness. "Nicholas was my partner."

"What happened to him?"

"He died. His vanity killed him."

Emily was very still. If vanity had killed Nicholas Saleri, what had killed her father? she wondered. His generosity? His loving nature?

A humorless laugh bubbled out of Justin's throat. "Even the wilds of New Zealand couldn't rob Nicholas of his precious vanity. He used to preen for the natives in his fine coat of English broadcloth. He even deigned to let the high priest run his shriveled hands down his silk lapels."

"He must have been quite the swell."

"He was." Justin tugged his ear. "The earrings were his idea. He fancied us Gypsy rogues-daring exiles from society. He pierced our ears himself with Maori needles that seemed as long and sharp as spears.

I bled for days."

Emily bit back a small, sad smile as she tried to imagine her bewhiskered father sporting a dashing

earring.

Justin's eyes clouded. "Sometimes I can still see him in the firelight, swilling beer with the natives.

I believe he thought himself immortal."

"He was wrong?"

"Dead wrong."

A night bird echoed a haunting refrain. Emily shivered, remembering something her father had said in

his last letter. "Did you trust this Nicky?"

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "He was my friend. He was penniless himself, but took me in when everyone else turned their backs on me. I suppose I loved him. But, no, I knew him too well to trust him." He stared unseeing into the shadows. "When the land wars broke out and the Maori turned against us, he insisted on going to talk to them alone. He honestly believed his old drinking companions wouldn't hurt him." Justin met her gaze, his jaw set at a grim angle. "We never saw him alive again."

Emily swallowed. Justin had been only too clear on how the Maori dispensed with their enemies. Had

her father met with such a fate? Why did Justin never mention his name? Was David Scarborough haunting yet another of his twisted nightmares?

Her vision blurred. She swayed on her feet. Then Justin was there, his strong arms wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth. She buried her face in his chest, too shaken to apologize.

He rubbed his cheek against her curls. "God, girl, you're as pale as milk. I'm bloody sorry. You're so damned brave about everything. I wasn't even thinking how such a story would affect you." He tilted

her chin up, running a thumb over her trembling lips. "Where's my courageous Em? The one who fought the deadly dragon, routed savage cannibals, and even faced the dreaded scourge of naked toddlers."