sliding down the banister in her Sunday pinafore.
"Why were you expelled from boarding school?"
Damn. Could the man read her very thoughts? she wondered. "Which time?" she replied innocently.
The questic n took him aback. "The most recent?" he offered.
She crossed her arms over her chest, mentally arming both barrels. She liked to see how well a man
stood up under fire.
Drawing in a deep breath, she recited, "I ate a bucket of green apples and threw up on the headmistress's best cloak. I put a snake in Cecille du Pardieu's bed. I substituted firecrackers for the candles on last year's Christmas tree. I cut off the buttons on the teacher's boots… while she was teaching. I sawed
off the newel post at the end of the banister. I replaced all the pepper in the kitchen with saltpeter, and
I called the neighborhood curate a pompous, lily-livered, Satan-spawned, son-of-a-"
"Enough!" he shouted. "Thank you very much. That will be quite enough. There's really no need for further explanation."
She ducked her head modestly and cast him a shy look from beneath her lashes. "Oh," she added as if
in afterthought. "And the headmistress caught the gardener's son and me in a rather… um… compromising position."
Justin gazed down at her, thinking that a man could become intoxicated from the wicked sparkle of her eyes. Her grin slashed an impish dimple in one cheek and crinkled her nose. What manner of girl was she? She had tossed the torrid facts of a ruinous scandal in his face with the naughty aplomb of a fallen angel. Thank God he had a few more years of reprieve before David's little Claire was faced with temptations so grave.
He was forced to turn away, the image of Emily rolling in the leaves with some pimpled gardener's lad filling him with unexpected fury. Did they rendezvous in the gazebo? he wondered. Behind the toolshed? Did he bring her roses? Weave chains of daisies to crown her chestnut curls?
He found himself at the stove, fiddling aimlessly with the tin coffeepot. She'd been kicked out of other schools, had she? Had there been other boys? Grocery lads? Lamplighter's nephews? Chimney sweeps? A series of visions, erotic and vivid, raged through his mind, obliterating all his hard-earned sanity in their path. Because in those visions it wasn't some boy who took her, but he himself who knelt between her thighs and showed her how it felt to be loved by a man.
His knuckles whitened on the warm edge of the stove as he struggled to remind himself how fast a desire this hot could scar.
He stole a glance at her. With her tousled curls and flushed cheeks, she looked to be no more than a
child, a little girl playing dress-up in her father's coat.
Perhaps he should be locked away for even entertaining such notions about her. "How old are you,
Miss Scarlet?" he choked out.
She lifted her cup in a mocking toast. "Grown." Taking a deep breath, he turned. His voice came out
with the cool detachment of a stranger's. "I am terribly sorry, but I fear it's impossible for you to remain here unchaperoned. There are missionaries in Auckland who can help you."
"The curate suggested an exorcist." Justin suspected she needed an exorcist less than a sound spanking. He lowered his voice to a hollow whisper. "I could call on Trim's tohunga, the high priest. I'm sure he'd know some way to get those nasty spirits out of you." "Oh, no, you don't." She shook her head violently. "I'll not be an hors d'oeuvre for some leering skull shaker." "Why, Emily, you insult the Maori! They're quite civilized, you know. They never eat their friends. Only their enemies."
"How benevolent." Emily blew a stray curl out of her eyes. She had no intention of being frightened off so easily. Not until she'd quenched her burgeoning suspicions. "Very well, then. If you want to be rid of me, then rid of me you shall be."
Justin thought he had won until she began to briskly unbutton Penfeld's coat. His mouth fell open as the ebony folds parted to reveal the creamy swell of her breasts.
He leaped across the hut and grabbed her wrists. "What in heaven's name do you think you're doing?"
She blinked up at him. "Returning your valet's coat. I'm not blind. I can see he cherishes it."
"I'll buy him another in Auckland," Justin growled. He released her, ashamed to find his fingers had dug red marks into her creamy flesh. "Come on," he said gruffly. "We'll borrow a wagon from Trini."
He pulled her up. Before she could take a step, her leg collapsed. Justin caught her in the circle of his arms.
Moaning, she clung to him. "Oh, my ankle. I must have twisted it when I crawled ashore."
Her curls tickled his nose, maddening him with their softness. He was tempted to drop her, but forced himself to lower her gently. He knelt to examine her ankle. No swelling. No bruising. Not so much as a freckle marred the smooth satin of her skin. He pressed the bone with his fingertips. She winced and clenched her teeth.
"Terrible pain, eh?" He cocked a skeptical eyebrow.
"Dreadful." Tears welled in her luminous eyes. "Do you think it might be broken?"
Her face was next to his, her lower lip soft and trembling. Justin wanted to bite it. He trailed his fingers
up her calf to the hem of Penfeld's coat, helpless to keep from envisioning what she wore beneath it-nothing. She gave him one of those melting glances-her eyes all sparkling coffee innocence. He
was tempted to give her what she was so unwittingly asking for. Tempted to continue the slow glide of
his fingers up her thigh toward a dark and sensual destruction. But whose destruction? Hers or his own?
He snatched back his hand and stood, his spirits sinking. Unless he wanted to carry her all the way to Auckland, the girl was staying for a few days. He suspected she was faking her injury, but other than setting fire to the hut and hoping she'd run out, he had no way to prove it. A thread of relief ran through his irritation. Auckland would swallow a girl like her without a qualm. If it was a hint of purity shining in her eyes, he didn't care to see it destroyed. New Zealand took little mercy on innocents. He was living proof of that.
"It seems you'll be staying until you're well enough to travel." He shook a finger at her. "But if you've
any thoughts about slipping a snake into Penfeld's pallet, be warned. There are no snakes in New Zealand."
Her cheek dimpled. "I shall endeavor to put forth my best behavior."
He sensed her best behavior might be more than he could handle. He strode to the door, then paused.
He wanted desperately to question her further, but to do so would violate the unwritten creed of this
land. Too many ships had dumped their secrets, their scandals, and their unwanted convicts on these shores. It had resulted in a privacy hard won and so jealously guarded that a man might honorably
defend it to the death. At least his past would die with him. So Justin bit back his questions, knowing
he, too, might die or kill before he let someone rake open his own raw scars.
"You've no need to fear discovery here, Miss Scarlet. There are many who come to New Zealand to elude the past."
She inclined her head. A fall of curls veiled her expression. "And there are some, sir, who come to find it."