Teresa Medeiros: Once An Angel

Copyright © 1993 by Teresa Medeiros

ISBN 0-553-29409-1

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.

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.

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 at 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 welcomed 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?