A hefty libretto of Wagner's Tristan and Isolde slowed her progress. She gave it a vicious yank. The entire heap weaved dangerously. She threw her arms around it, bracing the books with her chest. Dust tickled her nose. She swallowed a sneeze. All she needed was for Penfeld to return and find her buried beneath a pile of musty tomes, her skull crushed by The Encyclopedia of West Indian Dance Rhythms.
The shift had revealed a tiny cavity between two larger books. Emily drew out a slim volume bound in morocco. Although the leather had worn well, the gilt-edged pages had tarnished with age. It was almost as if the book had been tossed aside and forgotten. Or carefully hidden.
Emily's hands began to tremble as she stroked the unmarked cover. Perhaps now she would learn her guardian's dark secrets.
She sank down cross-legged on the floor and opened the book. Inscribed across the frontpiece, not in
the strong, measured script of a man, but in the clumsy scrawl of a child were the words: This book is
the property of Justin Marcus Homer Lloyd Farnsworth Connor III. (Peek at your own peril.)
"Homer?" Emily whispered, smiling in spite of herself.
Her finger traced the ominous skull and crossbones sketched beneath the warning. She turned the page, already suspecting what she would find. But instead of hasty jottings about how many frogs he'd caught or plum puddings he'd pilfered, she found wavering lines connected into grids and splotched with ink.
She held the book up to her nose. "Why, the clever little brat was already writing his nasty secrets in code!"
Her vision blurred; the lines danced, then steadied into a recognizable pattern. Her mouth fell open as
she fanned the pages, turning them faster than her eyes could follow. Not a code after all, but wavering bars connected by blots of ink. Music. Bar after bar, note after note, transcribed with a patience that should not have belonged to any child.
Baffled and oddly touched, Emily let the little book fall shut. She almost didn't hear the warning creak
of the door.
She made a diving roll for the pallet, praying Penfeld's coat would follow. Losing it could have dire consequences. Apparently no one had thought of offering her the valet's long underdrawers.
As Justin ducked beneath the lintel, Emily realized with horror that she was still clutching his journal.
She shoved it under the blankets, faking a tremendous yawn.
"Hello, Emily," he said, his voice notably devoid of warmth.
She bit her tongue to keep from blurting out Hello, Homer. "Good evening, Mr. Connor."
He gazed around the hut. "Where's Penfeld?"
She folded her hands in her lap. "He went out to pick some mint."
Justin lifted an edge of the stained linen tablecloth and peered beneath. "You sure you don't have him trussed up somewhere?"
She flashed a deliberate dimple. "Why, Mr. Connor, you flatter me."
He drew off the watch and laid it on the table.
"Beautiful workmanship," she murmured, hoping his face might betray something.
"Pity I don't have a waistcoat pocket to keep it in. I have to wear it around my neck like a woman."
One would have to be blind, deaf, and comatose to mistake him for a member of that fairer sex, Emily thought as he dipped into the wash bucket and poured handfuls of water over his flushed face. Sparkling drops caught in the dark filaments of hair along his forearms. An errant trickle eased down his muscled abdomen and disappeared into the low-slung waistband of his dungarees.
She swallowed, wishing for even a drop of tea to wet her throat.
He turned toward the door. "Tell Penfeld I went down to the beach."
It was all Emily could do to keep from scrambling to her feet. She would have gone to the beach with Lucifer himself to escape the stifling confines of the hut.
"Take me," she blurted out.
Her innocent plea stopped Justin in his tracks. She would be gone in a few days, he reminded himself, and then he could resume the orderly tempo of his life. All he had to do was turn around and tell her
he wasn't interested in her company.
He turned around. Her ardent brown eyes sparkled up at him. "Penfeld's coat is due for a washing.
We might as well wash it with me in it."
Justin ruffled his hair. She lowered her lashes, obviously bracing herself for his refusal.
"I have only one question, young lady," he said sternly, bending over her.
"What?" Emily replied, biting her lower lip. To her embarrassment, genuine tears of disappointment
stung her eyes.
She gasped as he caught her under the knees and shoulders and swept her into his arms, bringing her
nose to nose with him. "What if Penfeld should decide to iron the coat with you in it?"
She giggled. "It wouldn't be the first time I'd been ironed. My teachers used to sit on me and iron my hair."
His gaze softened. He raked his fingers through her mop of curls, mesmerizing her with his tenderness. "What a crime."
* * *
As they started down the short, sandy path to the beach, Emily threw an arm around Justin's neck.
They burst onto the beach and her senses exploded in drunken abandon. The warmth of the setting sun branded her skin; the wind dragged soothing fingers through her hair. Moaning with delight, she tilted her face back and closed her eyes.
When she opened them, Justin's face was very close to hers. She could see each stubbled hair along his jawline and was seized with a strange urge to rub her cheek across it and see if it felt as prickly as it looked. Her face flushed with more than the heat of the sun.
"You may put me down," she said primly.
Mischief glinted in his golden eyes. "Oh, no. You wanted a bath, and it's a bath you'll be having."
Before she could even squeal, he strode through the damp sand into the waves. She buried her face in
the haven of his chest, clinging as he waded deeper into the swirling surf. Cool water licked her thighs. Penfeld's coat ballooned around her hips. She pressed it down with frantic fingers.
"There now, isn't that pleasant?"
"No." Her teeth chattered against his chest. "It's bloody cold."
"I'm afraid there's only one cure for that."
He dropped her.
Emily thrashed wildly. Salty water rushed into her mouth. Good Lord, the lunatic was trying to kill her! She should have suspected as much. He must have recognized her from the photograph. Her toes churned up a mass of sand and she realized the water was only a few feet deep. She also realized the muffled sound above her was not the pounding of the surf, but the infuriating rumble of a man's laughter.