DANGEROUS HEAT
Justin knew he would never forget the way Emily looked, standing alone on the stretch of beach where he had first found her. She was as rare and exotic as a wild English rose blooming in the desert. The wind tousled her curls and whipped at her skirt. Her chin tilted in defiance even as she twisted her hands together for courage.
As he angled toward her, he could feel his face hardening in ruthless lines of desperation. “I don’t like you,” he said.
“I don’t like you either.”
Each weighted step through the damp sand carried him nearer to his destruction “I’m too old for you.”
“Much.”
He tangled his hand in her curls, drawing her head back until her mouth was a scant breath from his own. “I won’t marry you.”
Her hand crept around his nape. “I wouldn’t have you.”
“Oh, you’ll have me.”
She shivered at his husky promise. His mouth closed on hers, tracing its shape, its softness with a patience and delicacy he was far from feeling. He wanted to make her ache deep inside, as he was aching. He rubbed his lips across hers, nibbling and coaxing with an expertise he’d almost forgotten he possessed. He was determined to stoke the flame of her need with exquisite stealth until she burned for only him.
Her lips parted shyly beneath the tantalizing pressure, burning his restraint to cinders.…
BANTAM BOOKS BY TERESA MEDEIROS
HEATHER AND VELVET
ONCE AN ANGEL
A WHISPER OF ROSES
THIEF OF HEARTS
FAIREST OF THEM ALL
BREATH OF MAGIC
SHADOWS AND LACE
TOUCH OF ENCHANTMENT
NOBODY’S DARLING
LADY OF CONQUEST
CHARMING THE PRINCE
THE BRIDE AND THE BEAST
A KISS TO REMEMBER
ONCE AN ANGEL
A Bantam Book / April 1993
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1993 by Teresa Medeiros.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78536-7
Bantam Books an published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in ether countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
I remember clinging to Mama’s hand and watching you walk away in your uniform to fight for your country in Vietnam. You were the most handsome man in the world to me. But nothing could top the sight of you coming home again. You’ll always be my hero, Daddy, and this one’s for you.
For Barbara Caldwell and Anne Hall Eiseman, the finest two sisters I never had.
And for Michael, who proved to me that angels do exist.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
Prologue
New Zealand
1865
Justin Connor’s numb fingers uncurled. The smoking pistol fell from his hand. Frightened by the blast, the natives had fled, leaving him alone with the primeval roar of the waves and the dark shape crumpled a few feet away.
He bit off a savage curse.
Dread flooded him as he moved toward the motionless figure sprawled like a broken doll in the sand.
The moonlight caressed David’s face, a face handsome in its good-natured ordinariness, a face one might pass on the London streets without giving it a second glance. A thin trickle of blood eased from the corner of his mouth.
His eyes fluttered open. “I do say, lad, could you move a bit to the left? You’re blocking the breeze.” His voice was such a matter-of-fact comfort that Justin wanted to weep.
He sank to his knees and caught David in his arms. “Damn you, Scarborough. Don’t you dare die on me now!”
Blood soaked the front of David’s shirt. Justin had seen too many fatal wounds in the taming of this brutal land. Even as he struggled to stanch the bleeding with his palm, he knew this man who had been friend, brother, and father to him was going to die. He brushed a wayward curl from David’s pallid brow.
David lifted his hand. A gold chain was tangled around his fingers. “Claire,” he whispered hoarsely.
As he pressed the chain into Justin’s bloody hand, Justin knew why David had fled back to their tent instead of to the waiting boat. He hadn’t gone to fetch a weapon as Justin had supposed, but the precious miniature of his daughter that he carried in his watch case.
David’s voice was waning. “Go to her. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I loved her. Take care of my little angel, Justin. Swear you will.”
Justin couldn’t speak. A lump welled up in his throat. He stared down at the watch in his hand, afraid to open it. How could he face that gamin smile, those gentle brown eyes, and be forced someday to tell her how her father had died in his arms on a lonely shore? If he didn’t say the words, perhaps David would not die.
With a last burst of strength David’s fingers dug like claws into his arms. His words were driven through clenched teeth. “By God, Justin! Swear it. You must!”
Justin bowed his head, refusing to meet David’s fevered gaze. His tears washed over David’s face. “I swear it,” he whispered.
David slumped across his lap. “That’s my boy.” A shadow of a smile creased his mouth. “I shan’t be needing a gold mine where I’m going,” he murmured. “The streets are paved with nothing but gold.”
Justin managed to smile through his tears. “The eternal optimist, aren’t you?”
But there was no one to answer his question.
He cradled his friend’s lifeless body to his chest, rocking back and forth as guilt and desolation washed over him as pounding and relentless as the waves against the sand.
When he finally rose, his stiff legs trembled. He hefted David in his arms like a child. His limp head dangled over Justin’s arm, the auburn tangle of his hair gilded by moonlight. Justin laid him in the bottom of the curricle, arranging his limbs with the utmost tenderness. Using a long pole, he shoved off from the shore, then sank down beside David’s body, frozen with numbing anguish.
His hand throbbed. He looked down to discover he had been clutching David’s watch case so hard that the imprint was embedded in his palm. He slowly opened it.
A
moppet’s face, framed in unruly curls, gazed up at him, her eyes trusting and merry. David’s eyes, sparkling with life. Justin snapped the watch shut. All their dreams were done now. All of it gone—the gold mine, Nicholas, little Claire’s inheritance. He leaned his head against the rim of the boat, drifting, endlessly drifting as the mocking glitter of the stars blurred before his eyes.
London, England
1865
Miss Amelia Winters stole a look over the rim of her spectacles as the child slipped into the library. Only a few months ago Claire would have come pounding through the door, ribbons flying, boot buttons unhooked, chattering a merry stream. It was a pity it had taken her father’s disappearance to tame her exuberance and make a proper young lady of her.
Except for that hair. The headmistress sniffed in disdain. All the brushing in the world couldn’t subdue those absurd curls. Even garbed in somber colors, the child more resembled a disheveled cherub than a Foxworth girl. At least her pinafore was clean for a change. There was none of the coal dust that revealed she’d been romping with the maids again and none of the hairs that warned she’d sneaked out to the stables to feed the mewling litter of kittens rescued without Amelia’s approval from a neighbor’s well.
As the girl bobbed a perfunctory curtsy, her breath wafted out on a chill cloud. It wouldn’t do to waste coal when it was nearly February, thought Amelia, snuggling deeper into her heavy tweeds.
Claire perched on the edge of the upholstered cushion as if afraid the rosewood armchair would swallow her. Amelia suppressed her shock. Where had the girl’s childish plumpness gone? The black dress made her look gaunt and leggy, all enormous dark eyes in a face as pale as milk. Those eyes, so solemn and unflinching, rested on her now with an expression far older than Claire’s eleven years. Only the child’s hands betrayed her restlessness, crumpling the yellowed paper that was to be her last letter from her father.
A thread of pity stirred in Amelia. Better to be brisk and kill the child’s hopes with one swift, clean blow.
She rattled the crisp sheaf of paper on her desk and cleared her throat. “I regret to inform you—”
“Do you?” Claire interrupted.
She lifted her gaze from the paper. “Do I what?”
“Regret it?”
Miss Winters blinked. Their gazes locked for a moment. The child did not look insolent, merely curious, which only infuriated Amelia more.
She adjusted her spectacles, dismayed to discover her hands were shaking more in fear than anger. “I must remind you to curb your impertinence, young lady. I have before me a letter from Sir George Grey, the governor of New Zealand. He regrets to inform you that your father, one David Scarborough, is dead.”
The word fell flat in the still room. Claire went a shade paler. Her small fist convulsed around her father’s letter. She knew, Amelia thought. My God, she already knew.
Regretting her sharpness, Amelia blundered on. “Your father made no provisions for you, but you shall be welcome to stay at Foxworth Seminary until satisfactory arrangements can be made.”
What was she saying? She could hardly tolerate the precocious little creature. All those shocking years of living unchaperoned with her father had given her a self-confidence bordering on arrogance. Hardly a proper demeanor for a Foxworth girl. She must pack her off to the orphanage without delay.
But caught in the web of the girl’s unnerving calm, Amelia droned on. “You will have to give up your sitting room, of course, as the paying students will—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Amelia winced. The girl was interrupting again. Had her doting father taught her no manners?
“I shall have no need of your charity,” Claire continued, her manner as cool and regal as that of a recently deposed princess. “My father’s dear friend and partner in the gold mine will be coming for me very soon. Mr. Connor is heir to the present Duke of Winthrop and a rich and powerful man. My father promised he would take care of me should anything untoward happen to him.”
A hint of a sneer curled Amelia’s lips, showing Claire what she thought of her father’s extravagant promises. She, too, had been taken in by David Scarborough’s winning smile. She had been so confident that he would pay the tuition that she had made several purchases for both the school and herself credited only to his charm. Who would pay her debts now? His ghost?
He promised to come back for you as well, didn’t he, dear?
Amelia bit back the cruel words, forcing a smile. “We don’t feel you should harbor any childish hopes, Claire.”
“Don’t call me that!” Suddenly the girl was looming over the desk, her eyes seething with fierce emotion, her hands clenched into fists. “Don’t ever call me that again. Only my daddy called me Claire. My name is Emily.”
Amelia shrank back in her chair without realizing it. Her hand fluttered at her lace collar.
The girl fled for the door. She flung it open, almost tripping over the aproned child kneeling at the portal. By the time Miss Winters reached the door, she was gone. The pounding of her footsteps echoed through the listening silence. A flash of white dimity through a far door warned the headmistress that the maid had not been their only audience.
Amelia clung to the door frame, her breath coming in short, hard gasps. The maid straightened, weeping too hard to pretend she’d been doing anything but eavesdropping.
“Oh, mum, the poor dear,” she wailed. She swiped at her reddened nose with her apron, leaving a smudge of coal dust on its tip. “Only this mornin’ she gave me the sweetmeat off ’er plate to take to me consumptive brother Freddie.”
Amelia straightened, giving the girl a quelling look. “If I’d wanted your opinion on Miss Scarborough’s charitable activities, Tansy, I’d have asked for it.”
The maid snatched up her cloth and dabbed at the face of the hall clock as the headmistress jerked her jacket straight and marched back into the library. The slam of her door thundered through the school.
The little maid rolled her eyes heavenward, her hands clasped around the rag. “ ’Elp the dear child, Lord,” she whispered fervently. “If ever ya sent an angel to this earth, I knowed me sweet Emily Claire to be the one.”
“Damn it! Damn it to bloody hell!” Emily stamped her stockinged foot on the Aubusson rug.
A porcelain doll stared back at her from a lace-trimmed pillow, her round blue eyes glazed with apathy. A delicate thread of gold circled her tiny wrist. Emily shuddered. Only the allure of gold had been strong enough to drag her father away from her. Somewhere in New Zealand there was a mine full of gold. What good was it, though, when her daddy slept beneath the earth, bound by its shining chains? Emily’s hand lashed out, knocking the doll across the elegant bedroom.
She dropped to her knees and stuffed the hem of the satin coverlet into her mouth so the whole school wouldn’t hear her scream. Tears scalded her cheeks. Her sobs had faded to choked whimpers before she dared to open her eyes to the lonely extravagance of the suite.
The doll lay in a pitiful heap before the window, her petticoats tossed over her face.
“Oh, Annabel,” Emily whispered. She crawled to the doll and turned her over.
A thin crack gashed her china temple. Emily hugged her, feeling the jagged fissure that ran from the doll’s hairline to her own shattered heart.
“I’m so very sorry, Annabel.” She smoothed the doll’s velvet skirt and gently kissed the crack. “We have to be very brave now, dear. Daddy said we must be very brave.” Her laugh came out as a feeble hiccup. “All we have to do is wait.”
She climbed into the window seat, clutching the doll to her breast. A lamplighter wound his solitary path down the cobbled street below, nursing the gaslights to flickering life. Their misty halos pierced the twilight with a greenish tint. Annabel’s reflection gazed back at her from the window, her rosy cheeks and blond ringlets a startling contrast to her own tousled, dark curls and wan face. She tucked the doll beneath her chin. A shiver wracked her slender
body.
“We’ll wait like good girls, Annabel,” she whispered. “Daddy can’t come for us now, but Mr. Connor will. Daddy promised he would come.”
As she rocked back and forth in the gathering darkness, a tear splashed from her chin and trickled slowly down Annabel’s porcelain cheek.
PART I
And Yet, as angels in some
brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth
sleep …
—HENRY VAUGHAN
What angel wakes me from my
flowery bed?
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Chapter 1
My darling daughter,
I pray this letter finds you well.…
New Zealand,
the North Island
1872
“If ever a brat needed a beatin’, it’s Emily Claire Scarborough!”
Barney’s snarled refrain almost made Emily smile. She turned, bracing her back against the prow of the small steamer. He glared at her, his pockmarked face twisted with hatred.
Flexing his wiry hands on the boat’s rail, he muttered, “And I’m just the lad to give it to ’er.”
Doreen grabbed her brother’s ear, twisting it with one of the pinches that had made her the terror of every classroom at Foxworth’s Seminary for Young Ladies.
“Ow, sis!” he howled. “Turn loose. I ’aven’t laid a fist on ’er. Not yet, anyway.”
“It’s more than a fist I’m thinkin’ you’d like to be layin’ on ’er. I saw yer eyes when we was stuffin’ ’er into that fancy frock.”
Emily did smile then, and Doreen twisted harder, her lapse into cockney enraging her further. They all knew it was only her ability to mock the genteel speech of the upper classes that had earned her a position at the school. That and Miss Winters’s rapidly failing finances.
Barney knocked her hand away. “Between you two buggers, I’m like to be blind and deaf before we ever see New Zealand. Women!” he spat out, reluctantly including his sister in that scathing epithet.
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