Книга - The Maverick’s Bride

The Maverick's Bride
Catherine Palmer


Her faith takes her across the world and into the path of a most extraordinary man. Freshly arrived in East Africa, Emma Pickering is instantly drawn to Adam King.The rugged cowboy is as compelling as he is mysterious. And if he'll agree to a marriage of convenience, it would solve both their problems. Emma could secure her inheritance–and with it, her chance to find her sister. Adam could gain the funds needed to carve his ranch out of the savanna. Yet their match is anything but "convenient" when Emma's fears gain hold, and malicious whispers threaten to tear the couple apart. Only their love and shared faith can save their life together.









“Leave me, I beg you. You have no place here.”


“Emma, wait. Listen to me.” Adam caught her wrists and pulled her back toward him. He’d never been a man to think things through too carefully. He did what felt right.

“I want you to come with me,” he told her. “I need your help. Let’s go right now. Emma, I’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” she shot back. “God is watching over me.”

“Emma!” Both turned toward the open door where Emma’s sister stood, eyes wide.

“Emma, go with him!” Cissy crossed the room toward them. “Run away with him, Emma. It’s your chance to escape—to become a nurse, as you’ve always wanted. You’ll be safe at last, and you can have your dream.”

Emma turned back to Adam.

“Come on,” he urged her. “Let’s get moving.”




CATHERINE PALMER


The bestselling author of more than fifty novels with over two million copies sold, Catherine Palmer is a Christy Award-winner for outstanding Christian romance fiction. Catherine’s numerous awards include Best Historical Romance, Best Contemporary Romance, Best of Romance from Southwest Writers Workshop and Most Exotic Historical Romance Novel from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. She is also a Romantic Times BOOKreviews Career Achievement Award winner.

Catherine grew up in Bangladesh and Kenya, and she now makes her home in Georgia. She and her husband of thirty years have two sons. A graduate of Southwest Baptist University, she also holds a master’s degree from Baylor University.




The Maverick’s Bride

Christy Award-Winning Author

Catherine Palmer





Refreshed version of THE BURNING PLAINS newly revised by the author.





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give the desires of thine heart.

—Psalms 37:4


For Tim

With all my love

Always…




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Questions for Discussion




Chapter One


1898, British Protectorate of East Africa

“Oh, Emma, what shall I do?” Priscilla Pickering lifted her tear-rimmed blue eyes. Sniffling, she raised her white lace handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek.

Emma sighed inwardly as she looked at her sister. “You will do as you’ve always done, Cissy. You will put on your brightest smile and bid him farewell as if he didn’t mean a thing in the world to you.” Stepping back from the open trunk, Emma tossed a pink ostrich-plumed hat onto the bed. “This will have to do, Cissy. We haven’t time to look for the white one. Father is already waiting on deck.”

“But, Emma, you don’t understand. Dirk is different. I do love him—truly.”

Emma buckled the trunk and picked up her own lavender hat. How many times had she helped her sister recover from a broken heart? She pursed her lips for a moment. “I know you love him. But, Cissy, honestly—you’ve loved them all. You insisted you loved that awful what’s-his-name who tried to take you off to Sussex. And you loved that banker chap who was going to carry you to France if Father hadn’t ordered him away and locked you in your room.”

“Emma, Dirk isn’t like those other men.” Cissy sniffled again and ran her delicate fingers through the ostrich plumes. “Dirk is good and kind. He loves me, Emma. We want to be married.”

Stifling another sigh, Emma crossed the floor of the steamship cabin and knelt before her sister. “Cissy, dear, you must try to accept the truth. Dirk Bauer is a soldier. He has no money at all. He’s leaving the ship in less than an hour for his post along the border. And Cissy—he’s not even English.”

At this Cissy burst into renewed sobbing. “Oh, Emma, I know it’s hopeless! We’ll leave this ship so Father can survey his silly railway—and I’ll never see Dirk again.”

Emma took her sister into her arms. “There, there. It’s not so bad.”

She reflected for a moment upon that morning—was it only three weeks ago?—when she and Cissy had been promenading on the deck. They had rounded a corner and come upon a cluster of young German soldiers. She smiled, remembering the awkward introductions, the men gazing in awe of Cissy, as men always did, and Cissy’s hat blowing, as if on cue, into the arms of the handsomest of them all.

Emma had gone off on her own then—preferring the ocean breeze and the rolling waves to flirtatious chatter. She recalled climbing to the top deck and standing alone beneath a brilliant azure sky. She had stared out across the endless ocean as if she might catch a glimpse of her future.

Subsequent meetings between Dirk and Cissy had been a great secret, although of course Emma had known. It was her responsibility to keep Cissy in hand. As the practical sister, Emma had attempted to dissuade her sibling from the fruitless course. But perhaps it had been the sea air, or the glorious sunshine. At any rate, Emma filled most of her hours with contemplation and study of the land to which God had led her.

The British Protectorate of East Africa.

Books, geographical society pamphlets, maps—as she devoured them, Emma shivered at the wonders in store. But the land held more than beauty. It was a place of hidden promises. God had laid out His plan for Emma’s life nearly two years before. While making her debut into society at St. James’s Court, she had heard someone coughing as she stepped down from the carriage. Wearing nothing but rags, a little girl huddled alone against the cold iron fence that surrounded the palace.

Despite longing to help the child, Emma had heeded her father’s command to stop dawdling. When she emerged several hours later, she saw two men lifting the girl’s lifeless body into a cart. That moment had propelled Emma on a journey that led her to Africa and the hope of finding a hospital where she could practice her hard-won skill as a nurse.

“It’s lovely for you, Emma!” Cissy pouted, breaking into her sister’s thoughts. “This is just your sort of thing—savages and wild animals. But where does it leave me? You’ll never get married—and Father won’t let me marry until you do.”

Emma wished for the thousandth time that her sister would follow the example she set and take hold of her emotions. At age twenty, Cissy should not be weeping and flailing about all the time. Common sense kept trouble at bay. Emma had learned that lesson the hard way.

“Cissy, you know Father dotes on you,” she said. “He’ll let you marry soon enough, I’m sure he will.”

“But I won’t have Dirk!”

“But you will have someone. Someone who will take care of you. You’ll have children and a happy home and everything you’ve dreamed of.”

“I want to marry Dirk.” Cissy wadded her handkerchief into a ball and set her jaw.

It was a look Emma knew well enough. With a grin, she gave her sister a hug and set the pink hat on Cissy’s head. “There now. Dry your eyes and put on your smile. We must leave the cabin soon. Father will be growing impatient.”

Rising, Emma shook out the folds of her lavender silk skirt and stepped to the mirror on the bulkhead beside the door. Cissy joined her, and together they adjusted and pinned their hats to the rolls of hair coiled on their heads. Emma watched Cissy dab at her soft blue eyes—twin sapphires set in the palest porcelain—and pinch her cheeks to bring out the roses. It was easy to see why men went mad for Cissy, Emma thought. Her sister’s hair shone like the sun and she had curves in all the right places.

Cissy smiled at her reflection, a flash of pearl-white teeth between pink lips. “When I have my inheritance,” she declared, “I shall hire servants to tend me wherever I go. Then I shall never be without the proper hat for each dress.”

Emma watched her sister fussing with the plumes. Did Dirk know Cissy would inherit half of their father’s money? She would have half, too—if she married a man of her father’s choosing. The very thought threw cold water on the embers of hope burning in her heart.

For a moment Emma gazed frankly at her own reflection, then she turned from the mirror to pull on her gloves. Her olive-green eyes were an advantage, but her hair waved so wildly and it was that awful wheat color. Her legs were simply too long, her neck too thin and her back too straight for popular fashion.

But what did she care for hats and gowns? Emma would much prefer diving into a pond, perching atop a hay cart or riding a horse, given a choice. But then, she never had been given a choice.

Picking up a lavender parasol from beside the trunk, Emma wandered from the mirror toward the other side of the cabin to wait for Cissy to finish her primping. From the porthole above her bed she had gazed out at the turquoise Indian Ocean, longing for a sight of the protectorate.

Finally, just that morning, they had made port. This raw, untamed territory on the east coast of Africa held her destiny on its burning plains. And she was determined to answer the call of God that flamed in her heart.

“Emma, do you think this pink gown is suitable today?” Cissy asked. “Perhaps Dirk will think it too bright. Perhaps he won’t believe how sad I am to lose him.”

“You look lovely,” Emma said absently as she lifted her skirts and placed one knee across her bed to move closer to the porthole. Pushing back the curtain with one hand, she leaned up to the round window.

Through the film of salt on the glass, she gazed at the busy harbor of Mombasa. An array of small wooden craft bustling with Arab traders surrounded the steamship. From one of its upper decks, a long gangway stretched to the pier. Down it, crewmen carried bale after bale, crate after crate of goods brought up from the hold of the ship. Other laborers scurried about on the wharf, rolling and muscling the cargo into place.

Mangy dogs and scrawny children chased one another through the throng of sailors and dockworkers. Stray chickens, blind in their quest for spilled grain or seed, bobbed across the footpaths and were kicked aside to flutter and squawk in the dust. Groups of men Emma recognized from the ship had just set foot on the soil of British East Africa—a land they had come to colonize. The Englishmen stood stiffly among scampering natives who wore little more than a cloth tied about the waist.

Just then Emma’s eyes were drawn to a frenzied movement near the cargo plank. A large wooden crate had broken loose from its ropes and was careening down the long ramp toward the pier. Gasping, she watched helplessly as dockworkers attempted to slow the runaway box. Gaining momentum, it threatened to tip and fall into the sea. But it righted again and continued its downward plunge. Shouts echoed across the harbor as men fled before the hurtling crate.

“Oh!” Emma cried out just as the box collided with two men, knocking them into the water. On impact, the crate began to break apart—jagged, splintered boards seesawing this way and that. As it tumbled the final few feet toward the pier, Emma spotted a child—oblivious to the commotion around him—spinning a tin hoop directly into the crate’s path.

“No, stop!” Horrified, she pressed her palms on the glass.

The ragged boy’s brown eyes darted up and his face transformed to terror. His brown sparrow legs froze, rooted to the dusty pier. Just as the splintered box slid off the gangway, a black horse thundered through the crowd of petrified onlookers. A dark figure swept the child into the air. The crate slammed onto the wharf and split into a hundred fragments. Boxes of tea, chairs, iron barrels spilled out. Emma glimpsed a man in a black hat cradling the frightened boy in his arms, and then the crowd swarmed them.

Bolting from the window, she ran for the cabin door. Her heart in her throat, she could barely choke out the words. “Cissy, come quickly! An accident. People are hurt.”

“Emma, what do you think you’re doing? We’re not to go ashore yet!” Cissy grabbed her parasol and rushed into the hallway after her sister. “What has happened?”

“A crate broke loose. There was a child. Hurry, Cissy!”

Emma lifted her skirts and sprinted up the stairs from the first-class cabins onto the deck. As she emerged, bright sunshine broke over her and she sucked in a great gulp of fresh sea air. The certain knowledge that she was needed propelled her toward the gangway. Racing past the row of Englishmen lining the ship’s guardrail, she started down the sodden wood ramp.

Nearing the bottom, she assessed the situation. One of the African laborers knocked into the water had been rescued. He lay motionless on the pier. Pushing through a circle of agitated onlookers, Emma knelt beside the unconscious man. Her mind hastily reviewed the nursing instructions she had learned under the tutelage of Miss Florence Nightingale and Mrs. Sarah Wardroper, matron of St. Thomas’s Hospital.

Sound and ready observation, Emma recalled Miss Nightingale repeating. Sound and ready observation. The first and most important tool for a good nurse.

Stripping off her lavender kid gloves, Emma laid a hand on the man’s chest. He was breathing.

“Thank God,” she whispered.

Never let a patient be waked out of his first sleep, Miss Nightingale had instructed. But this man was not asleep. He had collapsed and was utterly insensible. What to do in such an emergency?

And now Emma realized she had left her instruction manual in the cabin. Without Miss Nightingale’s Notes on Nursing to guide her, would she pass this first true test of her skills?

Emma was no doctor and such a dire situation called for a physician. Aware of the crowd pressing around her, she ran her hands along the African’s limbs to check for distortion. He was dripping wet but not bleeding, insensible but whole. Yet, how to rouse him? How to restore him to consciousness?

Miss Nightingale’s words flickered through her mind. Accurate observation. A certainty of perception.

Emma’s fingers traveled swiftly across his skull and she noted a swelling near his ear. Yes, he had taken a blow—a serious one. As she watched the man breathe, her fear turned to resolve. At the least, she would do something to ease his suffering.

She mentally cataloged the essentials for a patient’s comfort and healing. Pure water. Cleanliness. Light. Warmth. Effects of the loss of vital heat must be guarded against—especially in cases of collapse such as this.

First and foremost, he needed fresh air.

“Stand back,” Emma ordered the crowd jostling around them. “Please, someone fetch a pail of clean water. Cissy?”

Before she could speak again, a pair of well-muscled arms slid beneath the man and lifted him from the ground.

“Let’s get him out of the sun,” a deep voice rumbled.

Emma glanced up in surprise to find the injured dockworker supported against the broad expanse of a leather-vested chest. Eyes the color of a rain-washed sky looked down at her from a face that might have been carved from oak. Although young, it had been worn into striking planes and hollows. The sun had burned it to a buckskin brown. A shock of black hair fell across the forehead and brushed the dark brows.

Recognizing him as the man she had seen on the horse, Emma nodded. “He should be in the shade. But he needs fresh air, and we must keep him warm.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The tall man turned from her, and the crowd parted as he strode toward a grove of palm trees.

Her patient momentarily out of her care, Emma stared after the stranger. Clad as no man she had ever known, he wore trousers of a blue that might have been indigo once but had long since faded into a soft, light shade. They molded to his long legs as if almost a part of him. His thick brown leather boots were nothing like the soft leather spats and buttoned footgear her father sported. These had odd chunky heels, squared-off toes and silver spurs that spun when he walked.

Her petticoats causing some difficulty, Emma stood from the wharf. As she started toward the palm grove, she noted that the stranger’s shirt was clean and white—brilliant in the afternoon sun—but it didn’t do the things a shirt was meant to do. It had somehow lost its stiffness, the collar hanging loose at his neck and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Oddest of all was the man’s hat. Not a derby, a top hat or even a straw hat, this was made of jet-black felt, and it bore a wide, curling brim with a black leather band. The crown rose above his head, then dipped into a valley at the center.

As Emma approached, she saw him place the injured African on a patch of cool white sand near his horse. Then he slid a wool blanket from behind the black saddle.

“Emma, come quickly!” Cissy’s voice drew her attention. “They’ve taken the other one out of the water. No one will touch him.”

Whirling away, Emma followed Cissy through the crowd to the second African, who lay among the debris of the shattered crate. His body, clothed only in a fabric of native weave tied at the waist, glistened with water. He was awake but bleeding from a deep slash across his arm.

“Oh, Cissy, you know I’m not a surgeon,” Emma exclaimed, kneeling. “But we can’t wait for one. We must bind this wound without a moment’s delay.”

She glanced up to find her sister’s normally rosy cheeks pale, eyes wide with trepidation. Realizing Cissy would be no help, Emma turned her attention to the injured man. With effort, she lifted his trembling shoulders into her lap.

“I am here for you now,” she murmured. “With God’s help, I shall put you to rights.”

Miss Nightingale abhorred the practice of cheering the sick by making light of their danger or by exaggerating their probabilities of recovery. A good nurse must be concise and decisive, she instructed her pupils. Any doubt or hesitation should be kept to oneself and never communicated to the patient. Yet, Emma believed kind words could never hurt.

“Now, let me have a look at your arm,” she said gently. The man probably could make little sense of her English language, yet she prayed her tone and touch would suffice. As she lifted his wounded limb, he flinched and tried to pull away. The gash was deep.

“I must bind your arm. I need a clean bandage. Can someone fetch a—”

Observing the sea of dark faces surrounding her, Emma understood at once that she was alone in this effort. The crowd hung paralyzed, every eye focused on her.

“What would Miss Nightingale say now?” she mused. In such a place as this, everything necessary to good patient care was unavailable. Shaking her head, Emma lifted the hem of her lavender skirt, grasped her cotton petticoat and tore off a wide strip. It would have to do. She wrapped the fabric around the man’s arm and tied the ends into a neat knot.

“You must go home and wash this wound, sir. Use soap and hot water. Put on a clean bandage and then…” She paused and looked up again. Cissy had vanished, and the row of silent faces gaped at her. “Does anyone here speak English?”

“I’ll talk to him for you, ma’am.” The oddly dressed gentleman shouldered his way through the crowd and knelt in the dust beside her. “Touching a dead man is against these folks’ religion. They’re afraid both fellows are going to die.”

“Not if I can help it. Will you please tell this man something for me?”

“If he knows Swahili.”

“You’re American, aren’t you? I can tell by your manner of speech.” Emma looked up into the brilliant blue eyes. “At first I thought you might be Italian.”

“Italian?” The man’s mouth curved into a slow grin. “Born and raised in Texas. But I’ve lived here long enough to get by in the language.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She made a desperate attempt to calm her fluttering stomach. “Please tell this man he must find a doctor as soon as he can. A surgeon if at all possible.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, ma’am. He won’t be able to afford the treatment.”

“He should have stitches.” Dismayed, she shook her head. “Please tell him to wash the wound in fresh water. And keep it wrapped in cloths—clean ones, mind you.”

The stranger listened intently, then turned his focus from her and addressed the wide-eyed patient in a string of incomprehensible syllables.

“What did you tell him?” Emma asked.

“What you said, but he won’t do it. He’ll visit the mganga—the local medicine man—and get some homemade remedies. He’ll be all right.”

“Medicine man? You mean a witch doctor? But that’s dreadful—”

“Emmaline Ann Pickering, what do you think you’re doing?” A familiar voice growled overhead. Hard fingers clamped around Emma’s shoulders.

She cried out as she was jerked to her feet. The wounded man’s head slid from her lap to the ground as Emma confronted a pair of hard gray eyes.

“Father.”

Godfrey Pickering scanned his daughter from head to toe. “Explain yourself, girl.”

“I was helping…” Suddenly faint, she realized her serious lapse in judgment. Any effort to justify her actions would fall on deaf ears, but she must try. “This poor man was badly hurt and—”

“Emmaline, look at yourself,” Pickering ordered.

She glanced down at her silk skirt, now dusty and spotted with blood. Her puffed sleeves had collapsed, all the air gone out of them like a pair of burst bubbles. A wisp of hair had slipped from beneath her velvet hat to curl down her arm. Attempting to find a pin and tuck up the stray tress, Emma focused on her father’s red face.

“How do you do, sir?” she murmured, dipping a slight curtsy. She had no choice but to play the demure daughter. “I hope I find you well.”

Her father’s portly chest rose in an annoyed sigh. “Emmaline, do attempt to conduct yourself in the manner to which you were raised. I should like you to meet the assistant director of the East Africa Railway, Mr. Nicholas Bond. Mr. Bond, my elder daughter, Miss Pickering.”

A gentleman with brown hair, hazel eyes and a pleasant face stepped forward to extend a gloved hand. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Pickering.”

Emma knitted her bare fingers for a moment, then held out her hand. “Mr. Bond, my pleasure. Do forgive me—I seem to have misplaced my gloves.”

“Not at all.” His lips brushed the back of her hand. “I’m dreadfully sorry you’ve had such a rude introduction to the protectorate.”

“A rude introduction?” Emma turned her eyes to the injured man again. He was sitting up, picking at the cotton bandage. “Such a mishap could hardly have been predicted, sir.”

The American gentleman who had assisted Emma earlier now stood and removed his black hat. He glanced at Mr. Bond as if expecting an introduction. When he received no response, he shrugged and thrust out his hand.

“I’m Adam King, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

Emma placed her hand in the large warm grasp. She studied his blue eyes, assessing and finding them sincere. “Emmaline Pickering. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Any time.” He continued to hold her hand. “You’re a nurse.”

“No, she is not a nurse,” Emma’s father broke in, taking her hand and setting it on his arm. “She is my daughter.”

“Mr. Pickering, may I speak plainly?” Nicholas Bond asked. “This man is unworthy of your acquaintance. Adam King is a troublemaker. He has been most unwelcome in Queen Victoria’s protectorate.”

“As bad as that, are you?” Mr. Pickering surveyed the American. “Perhaps I should know more about such an adversary.”

“Adam King. Rancher.” He held out his bare hand to the heavy-jowled man.

“Godfrey Pickering, director of the British Railway.” After a moment’s hesitation, he shook the extended hand. “Your name is familiar, Mr. King. Is your family occupied in a transportation industry, sir? Railway, perhaps, or shipping?”

Nicholas’s eyes darkened as he inserted his own answer. “I assure you, sir, this man is involved in no enterprise so honorable. His closest associates are uneducated farmers. He consorts with the native population—with savages of the lowest form.”

A flicker of anger briefly transformed the taller man’s features, but he made no reply. As the two men stared at each other in silence, Emma feared the confrontation would come to blows.

But Mr. Bond turned away with a nod. “If you will accompany me, Mr. Pickering, we shall make our way back to the ship and see that your baggage is sent directly to government quarters. Miss Pickering will be eager to prepare for tonight’s reception in honor of her father. Indeed, I should be honored to escort you myself. May I have the pleasure?”

Taken aback by Nicholas’s cutting remarks about the American who had been of such help to her, Emma nonetheless put on a smile. “How kind, Mr. Bond. I had no idea there was to be a reception.”

“It’s not every day the protectorate is graced with a dignitary of your father’s rank. We rarely have such charming company as you and your sister.”

With that he crooked his elbow for her to take. Reluctant to leave Adam King so abruptly, Emma nevertheless slipped her hand around the railway director’s arm. But as she lifted her skirt, she turned back to the Texan. Nicholas had no choice but to pause.

“Mr. King,” she said quietly. “Again, I thank you for your assistance.”

The rancher nodded.

“Will the two men be all right, Mr. King?”

Adam’s eyes met hers. “They will, Miss Pickering. I’ll make sure of it.”

“And the child—the one you lifted onto your horse?” For some reason, she wanted him to know she had seen him save the boy.

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “He’s with his mother.”

“Your actions belie your reputation, sir,” she said. “I’m glad. Good day, Mr. King.”

Without meeting his disturbing gaze again, Emma allowed herself to be led up the gangway and back onto the ship. Spotting Cissy at the rail, she disengaged herself from Mr. Bond, who was eager to accompany her father toward the myriad trunks and hatboxes emerging from below deck.

Joining Cissy, Emma noted her sister’s damp cheeks. “What is it, dearest? Are you ill again?”

Clutching her hankie tightly in one fist, the younger woman gripped the railing with the other. “Dirk. He’s leaving and I shall never see him again.”

Emma spotted the contingent of German soldiers marching down the pier, beginning their long journey toward the border post. Dirk Bauer kept the formation. But as the brigade turned inland, he glanced back for an instant, his eyes locking on Cissy. Then he rounded a corner and was gone.

Cissy stifled a sob with her handkerchief. “I love him, Emma,” she said softly. “Truly, I do.”

“I know, dearest. Your heart is broken.”

“Don’t mock me, Emma! The pain is so great I can hardly bear it.”

“I’m not making light of it. I understand your suffering.”

“Impossible. Romance is as foreign to you as this sweltering continent is to me. You’ve never known real love.”

I don’t suppose I have, Emma mused, placing her hand over Cissy’s. But then, I’ve never cared a fig about men.

Emma would not fall in love—of that she was confident. Certainly she would never marry. God intended her to labor for Him as a nurse. He had called her into that glorious service, just as certainly as He had called Miss Nightingale.

Even as Emma recited the assurance she had held in her heart these two long years, her focus wandered to the pier below. Amid the dispersing crowd, the tall rancher stood watching her. He clutched his hat in one hand and hooked the thumb of the other over his belt. His weight rested on one leg, while his broad shoulders slanted in an easy slouch.

Unlike her father and the other Englishmen of her acquaintance, this American looked comfortable, perfectly at home in his body. She had never been allowed to feel so at ease with herself. Corsets, laces and petticoats were tangible reminders of the strictures that bound her.

What would such a man as Adam King be like alone, away from the crowds? Hadn’t the warmth of his hand on hers made her shiver? Hadn’t it conveyed a promise of strength and security she had never felt in her life?

“Emma, who are you staring at?” Cissy’s voice broke into her thoughts. “It’s that man on the pier, isn’t it? The one in the strange hat. Who is he?”

“His name is Adam King,” Emma murmured. “He’s an American.”

He had begun speaking with the ship’s purser now, a much shorter man with a protruding belly. As Emma made to turn her sister away from the rail, she saw the rancher lean forward, his index finger punctuating his words with regular jabs at the other man’s chest. Clearly furious, he edged the ship’s officer backward step by step.

“What could the purser have done to anger him so?” Cissy asked.

“I can hardly imagine,” Emma replied. The American looked so different now—all his dark strength surged upward into black fury. She gripped the iron rail, conscious of her heart beating in heightened rhythm with the rancher’s advance. Just as the purser backed into a low wooden box and could go no farther, Adam stopped. He appeared on the verge of throwing the hefty adversary into the harbor, when the purser whisked a long white envelope from behind his back.

The American snatched the envelope, and the purser scampered up the gangway like a hare eluding a fox. Tearing open the envelope, Adam took out a letter and scanned its contents.

Emma craned forward, anticipating the reaction. Suddenly lifting his head, Adam raised his eyes to the sky. For a moment the man stood frozen—a great tower of pulsing strength, barely leashed by rigid muscles. Then, as if a cord had been severed, the bonds broke and he snapped back to life. Ripping the letter in two, he hurled it to the ground and spun on his spurred heel.

He strode to the grove of palm trees, took his horse’s reins and mounted. The animal reared, hooves churning, then it turned away from the ship to gallop along the harbor and out of sight.

“Heavens,” Cissy exclaimed. “I should like to know what was in that letter. Shall I go down and fetch it?”

“No, Cissy.” Emma caught her sister’s arm. “That man’s business is not our affair.”

“But haven’t you the least bit of curiosity? After all, it’s not every day one sees a cowboy.”

“A cowboy?” Emma frowned. “Mr. King introduced himself as a rancher.”

“He’s American, isn’t he? With those boots and spurs, what else could he be?”

Emma watched the dust settling along the path the horse had taken. A cowboy…the sort of character she had only read about in books. Cowboys led wagon trains across the prairies and drove herds of longhorn cattle down dusty trails. What could such a man be doing in Africa?

“I hope we see him again,” Cissy said. “I should like to tell my friends at home that I talked to a real cowboy.”

“We won’t see him again,” Emma told her sister. “Mr. King must have come to Mombasa for that letter and he certainly wasn’t pleased with its news.”

“He was in a great hurry to be off.” Cissy tilted her head. “Emma, are you all right?”

Stiffening, Emma realized she was still staring after the man. “I’m fine, of course. Look, Cissy, our father’s new acquaintance is moving our way. He’ll expect an introduction.”

His top hat a burnished black in the late sunlight, Nicholas Bond held his shoulders straight and his chin up as he approached. Nothing about him echoed the casual slouch of the cowboy rancher. A sudden thought brightened Emma’s spirits. Perhaps Mr. Bond might capture her sister’s fancy and draw Cissy’s attention from poor Dirk Bauer.

“I should like you to meet Mr. Nicholas Bond,” Emma said as the man presented himself. “He’s the assistant director of the railway. Mr. Bond, my sister, Miss Priscilla Pickering.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Pickering.” He smiled, swept off his top hat and pressed his lips to Cissy’s hand. “And now your father awaits. May I direct you ladies from the ship?”

With a polished clip in his step, he escorted the sisters down the gangway behind their father.

“Your trunks are safely stowed,” Bond announced, clapping his hands to summon a trolley. As a pair of young African men pulled the wheeled vehicle to a halt, he turned to the women.

“Miss Priscilla,” he said, holding out a hand. “Take care, please. This is no English carriage.”

Cissy dipped her head in polite acknowledgment. As Nicholas and her father helped Cissy up the squeaky stair into the covered trolley, a flutter of white caught Emma’s eye. Half of Adam King’s letter tumbled toward her in the gentle breeze. After a moment’s hesitation, she snatched it up.

Roses the color of blood and wine bloomed in a tangle of green vines across the top of the paper. Watercolor florals, done in an elegant hand. The scent of perfume, heady and evocative, clung to the letter as Emma began to read.

My darling. The words swam out in flowing blue ink. How I’ve longed to be in your arms! How I’ve missed you—

The torn page stopped the words. Emma glanced up to see the men busily tucking Cissy’s skirts into the trolley. She read on.

As you know, I had planned to arrive in January, but unfortunately—

Another stop. Emma rushed to the next line.

—the governor’s inauguration on the twenty-fifth, and I do wish you could—

—such a long trip, but I know it will be worth it to see you—

—I understand how lonely you’ve been and how much you want someone to—

—and so after a great deal of careful deliberation as well as many conversations with—

“Emmaline?”

Her father’s tone froze Emma’s eyes on the final words: I remain forever, your faithful wife—

—Clarissa

The torn paper cut through her like a razor’s edge.

Dropping the letter, Emma saw the breeze catch it and whip it across the pier, whisk it high into the air and send it fluttering into the turquoise sea.

“Emmaline!”

Her father’s voice left no room for longing.




Chapter Two


Emma adjusted her crinolines on the narrow trolley seat as Nicholas Bond sat down beside her. She would have preferred to sit by Cissy, but the layers of petticoats lining their skirts prevented that possibility. As a result, she was forced to ride back-to-back with her sister. The space was cramped, and Emma found herself pressed awkwardly against Nicholas as the trolley jerked to life.

The air smelled of the sea. Emma lifted her face to the sunshine. The turquoise ocean mirrored the sky. Long rippling clouds paralleled an endless white-sand beach. Between shore and sky, seagulls fluttered, calling raucously above the crash of waves and the shouts of dockworkers.

“Mombasa town is on an island,” Nicholas explained over the rattle of the trolley. “Actually the coastal strip belongs to the sultan of Zanzibar, while we English control the inland region all the way to Lake Victoria. As you’re well aware, Mr. Pickering, we’re in dispute with the Germans over control of the Uganda territory to the west.”

“Why do you think I’ve come, young man?” Godfrey Pickering retorted. “It is imperative that our railway reach the lake before theirs does. I don’t mean to leave until I’m certain we shall win that race.”

The younger man nodded. “I am glad to hear it, sir. My own dream is to see the protectorate become a full-fledged colony of the Crown.”

Aware the conversation was little more than bluster, Emma gazed out across the landscape. Huts with thatched roofs graced the shade of stately palm trees. Chickens wandered across the road, oblivious to the trolley. In this populated area, the air was thick with the smells of salted fish and smoke.

Emma had longed for this moment, dreaming of the day she would see Africa. Lying awake at night on board the steamship, she had pictured a land, animals and people known only from sketches in books. Here at last, she could hardly keep her focus. Rather than the white-rimmed waters and the fishing boats, her eyes saw a dark man rising into the sky on a black stallion. Her ears heard not the sounds of clattering trolley wheels, but a deep voice with a strange, lazy accent like a long, slow river winding to the sea. Her ungloved hands felt the touch of a man’s fingers—worn and callused yet gentle, too. Even the strong sea scent faded beneath a memory of leather and dusty denim.

Emma wondered what her Aunt Prudence would have thought of Adam King. She smiled, knowing that her beloved mentor would find the man intriguing. Her thoughts slipped back in time to Aunt Prue’s large house in London where she and Cissy had spent the years after their mother’s death. Before Mrs. Pickering’s calamitous visit to the continent, the family had enjoyed happier seasons at their country estate. But after she died, their father’s business and his failing health had forced Emma and Cissy to the city.

Emma redirected her thoughts from her father to the memory of her clandestine ventures to the Nightingale Training School for nurses at St. Thomas’s Hospital. In a year’s time, she had attended all the required lectures and worked with patients under the supervision of the ward sister. Like the other new nurses, she enjoyed the culminating event of her training—an invitation to take tea with Florence Nightingale herself.

Miss Nightingale had told Emma that at age seventeen, while in the gardens of her home in Embley, she had experienced a call from God. Emma felt a similar divine urging. She intended to imitate Miss Nightingale who had never married, preferring to spend her time writing books and overseeing the nursing school.

When Godfrey Pickering’s daughters learned his business was to take him to Africa, they had pleaded to go along. Cissy was eager for the adventure. Emma viewed the journey as God’s open door to escape her father and find a mission hospital.

“And how is the railway progressing, Mr. Bond?” Pickering’s voice broke into Emma’s thoughts.

“Quite well, despite a few setbacks.” Nicholas hesitated a moment. “Did you receive the letter about the lions?”

“Lions? No, what about them?”

“We’ve had a bit of trouble, sir. Farther north, in the Tsavo area…” Nicholas glanced at Cissy. “Perhaps we should discuss it later.”

Emma sat up straight. What was this about lions? The Englishman’s classic profile, pale against the black trolley hood, revealed a subtle tension.

“Do speak frankly, Mr. Bond,” Emma told him. “My sister and I are familiar with railway business.”

Nicholas cleared his throat. “It appears…it is quite clear, that lions have taken to…to raiding the workers’ camps.”

“Raiding?” Cissy spoke up. Her eyes darted from Emma to Nicholas. “Whatever can you mean, Mr. Bond?”

His cheeks suffused an awkward pink color. “The lions…two of them…have become man-eaters.”

Cissy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Emma touched the foreman’s arm. “Mr. Bond, are you telling us that lions have been killing…and eating rail workers?”

“Do let us discuss this later, sir,” Pickering cut in. “Your first instinct was correct. Such conversation has no place in the company of ladies.”

“I quite agree, sir.” A thin line of perspiration trickled from Nicholas Bond’s sideburn. “The situation is righting itself even as we speak. Lieutenant Colonel Patterson has tackled the problem head on. Your daughters have nothing to fear, I assure you.”

“Have you need for additional personnel or munitions? I can telegraph for the funds from England if need be.”

“No, no.” Nicholas shook his head. “It is under control.”

Emma heard her father give a brief harrumph. This lion business was no small thing. With laborers huddling in fear of their lives, work should be stopped. But her father would never halt the race against the Germans toward Lake Victoria. Surrender was not an option.

Looking out again, she saw that the trolley had taken them into the narrow, cobblestone streets of Mombasa town. Flat-roofed two-story houses sagged upon one another as if weary of standing in the blazing heat. Corroded iron balconies thrust out over the street. Wooden doors, carved in geometric shapes and studded with brass, stood open to let in air.

“This is the business sector,” Nicholas said, his voice stronger now. “Luxurious wares arrive from the Far East on dhows—the small trading ships you saw in the harbor. They sail the monsoon winds up and down the coast. Ah, here we are…”

The trolley rolled up to an iron gate, and the four passengers descended. The grounds of the compound were a sea of lush grass dotted with islands of orange and blue birds of paradise, deep purple bougainvilleas and green philodendrons.

The men deposited their hats with white-gloved servants and walked ahead into the shadows of the wide verandah.

“Emma,” Cissy whispered, catching her sister’s arm. “Do you think there’s danger here? From those lions?”

“No, Cissy,” Emma assured her. “There’s a fence all around. And guards. We’re quite safe.”

“I feel at odds with everything here. It’s dreadfully hot, and the talk about man-eating lions gave me a fright. Oh, Emma, I’m not suited to this sort of place.”

Emma squeezed Cissy’s hand and led her up the stairs into the cool depths of the verandah. “Perhaps you are and you just don’t know it yet.”

“Emmaline, Priscilla, do come here.” Their father stood beside a handsome couple. A tailored tea dress identified the woman as a lady. Her husband’s refined face with its aquiline nose was a study in classic grace.

“Lord and Lady Delamere,” Pickering said. “I present my elder daughter, Miss Emmaline Pickering. Her sister, Miss Priscilla Pickering. Ladies, this is Hugh Cholmondeley, third Baron Delamere of Vale Royal in Cheshire, and his wife, Lady Delamere.”

“Such formality!” Lady Delamere laughed. “I’m Florence, and everyone in the protectorate calls my husband ‘D.’ You must do the same.”

“You have a lovely home,” Emma spoke up.

“Oh, this is not our home! It belongs to Sir Charles Eliot, Her Majesty’s commissioner in East Africa. He’s on leave in England. Hugh and I live up country at Njoro. But you both must be exhausted. Shall I have tea sent to your rooms?”

“Yes, thank you.” Emma looked ruefully at her blood-spattered gown and dusty hem. “I must apologize for my appearance today.”

“Take no trouble over it, Miss Pickering,” Lord Delamere said. “You’ll learn one can’t be terribly proper here—though we try to keep up a good show.”

“Thank you, sir. You see—”

“Never mind, Emmaline,” Pickering interrupted. “Get on with you now. I shall see you at dinner.”

Biting her tongue at being summarily dismissed, Emma watched her father step into the house with Lord Delamere. His wife led the young women into the house. The grand home might have been in England for all the lace antimacassars and porcelain figurines scattered throughout. Only the zebra skin on the hall floor reminded Emma that she was in Africa.

Left alone at last in their suite, Emma and Cissy hurried to the settee and dropped onto the soft cushions. “I could do with a bath to calm my nerves.”

“Nothing better,” Emma agreed. Then she frowned. Actually, things could be better. But a bath would have to do.



With a warm soak and a cup of tea to rejuvenate her, Emma set her sights on the evening ahead. As Cissy laced the corset over her sister’s chemise, Emma worked out her strategy.

She would not allow the evening to go to waste. Nicholas Bond had lived in the protectorate for some time. She must make him tell her everything she wanted to know—locations of hospitals, the need for nurses and all the other questions that clamored to be asked.

Once she had answers, Emma could map out a plan. The sooner she set that plan into motion, the less time her father would have to think up other options for her future.

When the sisters were dressed at last, they descended the stairs to dinner. Cissy floated in a cloud of blue silk and feathers. A pair of nervous African ladies’ maids had managed to arrange her golden hair around an artificial bluebird, and she did look stunning.

Emma felt as awkward as she always did beside her glowing sister. Although her green gown had a silk sash and was trimmed in soft pink roses, she could never compare with the dainty treasure at her side. Her sleeveless shoulders were just as creamy and her waist as narrow, but she knew she would never look as enchanting as Cissy did. Such trivialities had long ago ceased to matter. Neither men nor fashion were the objects of her dreams.

Cissy placed a gloved hand on Emma’s arm and leaned close. “Do I look all right?”

Emma smiled. “You’ll turn all the men’s heads.”

Cissy’s face did not brighten. “I miss Dirk. I miss him dreadfully.”

Stifling the sigh that threatened to escape at the hundredth mention of Cissy’s German soldier, Emma directed her sister’s attention to the opposite side of the room, where their father stood. “You must not speak of Dirk to Father, Cissy. You know how he feels about that sort of thing.”

“I know how he feels about our future husbands,” Cissy replied. “Well, I won’t marry without love. I assure you that.”

The dinner bell rang, and the young women made their way to the dining room. It might have been an evening at Aunt Prue’s house in London for all Emma could tell. Course followed course down the long table with its spotless white cloth. The gentlemen and ladies attending behaved as though they were visiting Queen Victoria herself. Even the conversation revolved around the empire.

After dinner, Emma rose with the others and left the dining room. She stepped into the center of the ballroom, her eyes on the tall figure standing beside the fireplace. Nicholas turned, and for an instant Emma felt as if she were in the presence of her father. Something in the set of the man’s shoulders and the look in his eyes evoked the dark, uncompromising demeanor of Godfrey Pickering.

But the moment passed as Nicholas smiled and made a gallant bow. “How lovely you look, Miss Pickering. I’m delighted to be your escort this evening.”

Emma saw that Lord Delamere had ascended the platform to stand before the military band. He was addressing the hushed crowd.

“I have known Mr. Godfrey Pickering only a few hours, yet I assure you, he is as fine a representative of our Queen as I have ever had the privilege to meet. Mr. Pickering is a man who believes—as do we all—in the supremacy of our beloved isle and the God-given directive to expand her empire. It is with pleasure that I give you the director of the East African Railway, Mr. Godfrey Pickering.”

Emma clapped with the others as her father stepped to Lord Delamere’s side. She should be proud, but as he lauded England and his part in her glories, she saw nothing but a hollow man. For all his wealth and power, Godfrey Pickering was a bitter person who expected the world and the lives of those around him to conform to his exacting expectations. He had demanded that of her mother, and look what had happened.

“Your father is the sort of gentleman who has made England what she is today,” Nicholas murmured, surprising Emma as he took her into his arms and turned her onto the dance floor. Lost in memory, she had not heard her father stop speaking nor the music start. She stumbled a little as she strove to match her step with that of her escort.

“You were brave this afternoon at the harbor, Miss Pickering,” he murmured, his mouth a little too close to her ear. “I don’t wonder that your father was concerned. This is not England. You must be careful.”

Emma recognized her chance and seized it. “I assist others as the need for my skills arises, Mr. Bond. I am a nurse.”

“A nurse?” The flicker of a frown crossed his face. “Nursing is an unusual pastime for a woman of your standing, is it not, Miss Pickering?”

“Pastime? Nursing is my vocation, Mr. Bond.”

“Strong words for a strong belief. I like conviction in a woman.”

Emma glanced up at him in surprise. Although Nicholas seemed sincere, she wondered whether he spoke the truth. If so, he was a rare man, indeed.

A disturbance in the hall drew his attention, and he paused in the dance. Emma took the opportunity to study this railway officer who so admired her father.

Nicholas Bond wore a finely tailored black suit with a tailcoat and white gloves, and his stiff white collar stood fashionably high. Not a bad looking fellow at all. Just the sort to turn Cissy’s thoughts from her German soldier.

As for her own feelings about the man, Emma had only one mission in mind. “Mr. Bond,” she ventured. “Can you tell me where I might find a hospital in the protectorate? I’m hoping to—”

“Excuse me, Miss Pickering.” He released her and took a step toward the door, his eyes on something at a distance.

Emma followed his gaze across the room. As the dancers ceased moving and all attention turned to the hallway, the musicians broke off in awkward discord. Voices, arguing and growing louder, carried into the ballroom. A group of agitated men surrounded a figure who rose head and shoulders above them.

Emma caught her breath as she recognized Adam King. The American. The cowboy. His blue eyes surveyed the crowd until they met hers. His focus unwavering, he took off his black hat and started across the room in her direction. Instantly the commotion began again.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Delamere’s voice rose over the hubbub.

“Sir, this man insists on entering the consulate without invitation,” a servant explained apologetically.

“Adam King?” Lord Delamere blinked in confusion. “I had no idea you were in Mombasa.”

The taller man halted. “I’m here, D. Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all, sir. Do come in.” Lord Delamere smiled and shook his guest’s hand. He turned back to the musicians. “Carry on, carry on!”

As the violins sounded again, the dancers drew their eyes away from the tall rancher. Lord Delamere rejoined his colleagues at the fireplace. Emma decided it was time to find her sister and retire. But Nicholas gripped her elbow as Adam King made his way through the swirling skirts.

“Good evening, Miss Pickering.” The American’s blue eyes fixed on Emma’s as he acknowledged her companion with a nod. “Bond.”

“Good evening, Mr. King.” Emma extended her hand, and this time he lifted it to his lips. His thick hair, glossy in the lamplight, shone a blue-black.

“What do you want, King?” Nicholas’s tone was hostile. “You can have no good purpose in joining our company.”

“But I do. I came to return these.” Adam reached into the pocket of his black trousers and pulled out Emma’s lavender gloves.

Her cheeks grew warm as she took them. “My goodness—I thought I would never see these again. Thank you so much, Mr. King. How kind of you.”

“Yes, well done, sir,” Nicholas said. “Now if you’ll excuse us—”

“Mr. Bond, would you be so good as to see to my sister’s welfare?” Emma heard herself ask. “Cissy was greatly fatigued this afternoon.”

Nicholas stared at her.

“I believe I owe Mr. King the next dance,” she went on. “In gratitude for returning my gloves.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then obviously thought better of it. “Of course, Miss Pickering,” he consented. “I am happy to oblige.”

As he stepped away, Emma noted Adam’s amused expression. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn, sir,” she said. “Normally I am not so bold.”

“Aren’t you? You were mighty bold this afternoon on the pier.” His mouth curved into a warm smile. “You took control of the situation without stopping to think about consequences. That’s good. A woman needs courage in this country.”

“Thank you. I have been trained as a nurse, you see.”

He searched her eyes. “But your father said—”

“My father disapproves. Nevertheless, I have undertaken rigorous instruction at Miss Nightingale’s school in St. Thomas’s Hospital.”

“I don’t know who Miss Nightingale is, but I’m sure she has a fine school.” He stood before her, making no move to dance. “Miss Pickering, do you—”

The music stopped and Adam’s question with it. Clutching her lavender gloves, Emma peered around his broad shoulder to see Nicholas striding across the room toward them. She looked back at Adam. Now strains of the “Blue Danube” waltz began to swell in the warm air.

“Mr. Bond has completed his mission, I see,” she said. “Thank you once again for returning my gloves, Mr. King.”

Nicholas slipped his arm beneath Emma’s. But as he moved to lead her away, Adam stepped in front of him. “Just a minute, Bond. I believe I was promised a dance with this young lady.”

“Mr. King.” Nicholas spoke the name in a steely voice. “Miss Pickering offered you the last dance. Now I’ve returned. If you will excuse us, please.”

“No, I won’t excuse you.” Adam loomed over the Englishman. “But I will thank you to take your hands off the lady until I’ve had my dance.”

Nicholas’s eyes blazed. “And I’ll thank you to hold your tongue. I am Miss Pickering’s escort this evening. Have you no manners, sir?”

“Don’t talk to me about manners, Bond. I was invited to dance by this young woman and I am accepting.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Emma interjected. She must end this nonsense quickly. “Mr. Bond, I did offer to dance with your friend. And then I must declare my dance card full for the evening. Mr. King?”

She looked up at him, but Adam made no move toward her. His focus had narrowed on the other man, and for a moment Emma feared Nicholas’s disdainful expression would be shattered by a blow from the American’s fist. Instead, Adam set his hat on his head, swept Emma into his arms and spun her out onto the floor.

“Mr. King!” Her eyes flew open as he whirled her around the room, barely avoiding collisions with more genteel dancers who stared at them in alarm.

An unfamiliar thrill coursed through Emma at the realization that the American had come back into her life…had sought her out…was holding her, even now, in his strong arms. Her feet barely touched the floor as the music soared through the room. Releasing Adam’s shoulder, she clutched at the spray of pink roses pinned to her hair for fear of losing it. She might have twirled away entirely, but one of his hands held her waist while the other wove through her fingers.

“I’m not much of a high-toned dancer, to tell you the truth, ma’am,” he said, spinning Emma toward the musicians at such a speed that her dress billowed up around her calves.

“Sir, this is a bit—” She caught her breath as he flung her away from him, then whipped her back against his chest in a crushing hold. “A bit different!”

He threw back his head in a hearty laugh, then looked down at her with shining eyes. “This is the way we dance in Texas. Those musicians just need a few lessons in fiddling, and then they’d do this tune up right.”

Emma spotted Cissy gawking at her in astonishment. “But I do believe this is the way Mr. Strauss intended it played,” she told Adam.

“Dull, don’t you think?” He grinned at the glowering Nicholas as they passed him in a mad whirl.

Emma gave up on her hair and tossed her head, letting the curls pull out and tumble down her back. Catching his shoulder once again, she felt a ripple of shock at the hard muscle beneath his white linen shirt. His black tie fluttered at his neck and his hair bounced loosely, falling over his ears and down his forehead. He was all movement, all liveliness and rhythm—nothing like the stiff gentlemen who held her as though she were made of porcelain.

As she and Adam danced, Emma felt her body loosen and sway against his, melting into his easy whirl. And then the music slowed. Adam guided her toward the wide French doors that opened onto a long verandah.

“Something you said today intrigued me,” he spoke against her ear. “I came here this evening because I wanted to talk to you. Would you like to take a walk, Miss Pickering?”

Her heart warned her not to be foolish. Hadn’t Nicholas said this man was untrustworthy? And he was married, after all. Married. Somewhere his wife waited for him, wanting and missing and loving him.

“Mr. King, I—” Before she could answer, he eased her out onto a dimly lit walkway.



The last strains of the waltz faded. Adam glanced back into the crowd and caught sight of Nicholas Bond searching for them.

“I really should go back in, you know,” Emma protested.

But as she looked into his eyes, Adam knew she would not return. He held out his arm. She hesitated, then slipped her hand around it. “Let’s take a stroll,” he suggested. “I never have liked crowds.”

“What is it you wish to discuss, Mr. King?”

“You, mostly.” He could see the toes of her slippers beneath the hem of skirt as they walked along a gravel path. Away from the stuffy air of the ballroom, he caught the scent of her perfume. Jasmine and roses.

He drew her closer. Somehow—against every shred of sense and determination he possessed—he’d let this strange, willful woman affect him. All he could do was stare down at her and feel things he shouldn’t feel. Her flushed cheeks and shining green eyes mesmerized him. Her full rosy lips, barely parted, were tilted slightly upward. He bent toward her.

Just then, she stopped walking and touched her forehead. “Oh, my.”

“Miss Pickering? Are you all right?”

“Out of breath. Perhaps it was the dancing.”

Or maybe not. He was having a little trouble breathing right himself. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked. “I saw some chairs at the other end of the porch.”

“No, I’m fine. Truly I am.” She took her hand from his arm and wove her fingers together. “You wanted to speak with me?”

“Yes, I do.” He straightened, forcing away the discomfort she’d given him. He couldn’t let himself think about the fact that she was beautiful and brave…and completely a woman.

Emma Pickering could be useful to him, that was all, and he might as well lay the cards on the table. “I want to know more about your nursing skills.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Nursing?”

“How much practical experience have you had?”

“Not enough to satisfy me.” She shook her head. “Miss Nightingale does not permit nurses to learn pure medicine. I’ve always longed to know as much as any doctor, but such a course is not possible. I have looked after patients at St. Thomas’s Hospital, many of them gravely ill, but that is the extent of my training.”

Adam started forward again. “Can you do surgical kinds of things?” he asked as she hurried to match his pace. He took her hand and set it on his arm again. “Can you sew people up and set bones?”

“I’ve watched those procedures being done. But I have neither the tools nor the skills to do them myself. Mr. King, why are you asking me these questions?”

He couldn’t tell her everything, but she was too smart to keep completely in the dark. He would have to lead her around until he had learned what he wanted to know.

“I understand that doctors have ways to make people unconscious,” he said. “Know anything about that?”

“Ether. I’ve seen it used. Why?”

“Do you know much about drugs? Medicines?”

“Morphia, quinine, cocaine, laudanum and others—I’ve dispensed them all.”

“But do you know what they’re used for? Do you know what can help pain—constant pain?”

“Laudanum is best, I believe—although one must be careful. Its use can become a habit. Morphia is similar.”

“Miss Pickering?” Nicholas Bond’s voice rang out down the long verandah and startled Emma into silence. The Englishman stood silhouetted in the light from the ballroom, his long coattails fluttering in the night breeze.

“Yes, Mr. Bond,” she spoke up. “I’m just here on the path.”

“Your father is concerned for your safety, Miss Pickering.”

“The lady’s fine, Bond.” Adam escorted her onto the verandah and into a square of yellow light that fell from the French doors.

“Miss Pickering?”

“Indeed, I’m perfectly well, Mr. Bond. This garden is lovely.”

Adam knew it was time to let Nicholas take the woman back to the ballroom. Good manners demanded it. He had been wrong to lead her outside unaccompanied in the first place. But when he began to remove her hand, she tightened her fingers around his arm.

“Mr. King mentioned his unusual dancing style,” she told Nicholas as they approached. She gave a little laugh. “It’s American, you know. I’m sure you must agree it’s my duty as an Englishwoman to teach him a proper waltz. You won’t mind, will you?”

Nicholas frowned, his lips tightening into a grim line. “Miss Pickering, I—”

“Dear Mr. Bond, it does seem the right thing to do under the circumstances. It would hardly show the English to good advantage if we let this poor man continue in his ignorance.”

Bond flipped back his coattails and set his fists at his hips. He started to speak, paused, then turned abruptly and left. Even though the two men were not friendly, Adam could hardly blame Bond for his displeasure. Emma had rebuffed him.

“Come, Mr. King,” she said. “With one dance you will know all I have to teach. And I shall understand why you asked me such questions just now.”

She crossed to the French doors, and Adam pushed them open. Laying her lavender gloves on a side table, she gave him a little curtsy.

“Shall we dance?” she asked.



Adam made no move. Emma looked into his blue eyes and watched them gazing back at her. They had gone dark now, with black rims that matched the lashes framing them. He set his right hand at her waist and drew her close. Without taking his eyes from hers, he spread her slender fingers with his left hand and squeezed them gently.

The music barely filtered into her ears, even though she knew it was there—for as they drifted out onto the floor, Emma’s sense of the world around her seemed to vanish. All she heard was the heavy throb of her heartbeat and the quiet jingle of Adam’s spurs as his boot heels tapped the wooden floor. She was aware of her skirt, floating behind her on its stiff crinolines—meant to keep the dancers apart, but failing tonight. He held her close, too close for this dance. Yet she could not stop him, could not make herself say the proper words, the polite things, the gracious empty syllables.

“Emma…” The name floated from his lips in his strange, beguiling accent. His breath warmed her ear.

Her mind told her to pull back from him, warned her—he was treacherous, he was foreign. He was married.

Yet he lifted her feet from the floor, and her cheek brushed against his shoulder. The scent of leather and the plains filled her nostrils…and her mind reeled away with all its doubts and warnings.

Her eyes met his again, deep pools in which she thought she might drown. “Mr. King,” she whispered, trying to prevent herself from falling into them.

“Call me Adam,” he said.

They moved into the shadows of an alcove, and he stopped, still holding her close in his arms. The music died and the other dancers separated, sweeping into bows and curtsies and polite applause.

“Emma.” He lifted her chin with a finger. “Thank you.”

Aching to speak, she found it impossible to form words. She glanced toward the crowd as the music started and yet another dance began. Cissy stood in one corner surrounded by a cluster of attentive men. Their father was speaking with Lord Delamere.

And now she saw Nicholas approaching. He made a small bow. “You may leave now, Mr. King,” he said. “I advise you to keep your attentions from Miss Pickering in the future. Her father is not pleased.”

Adam’s eyes flashed with an anger that twisted Emma’s stomach into a knot. “I decide who gets my attention, Bond,” he growled. “If you’ve got a problem with that, let’s step outside and settle this.”

“Do you challenge me, sir? I hope not. I may be forced to speak with Lord Delamere and Commissioner Eliot about the sort of men scratching out a living on the queen’s protectorate. Traitors to the Crown.”

“Talk to anyone you want, Bond. I’m not budging from my ranch—not even for the queen herself. Excuse me, Miss Pickering. I have business to take care of.”

Adam doffed his black hat and strode through the whirling dancers toward the verandah, his heavy footsteps echoing across the floor. Nicholas’s neck was red above his white collar as he faced Emma.

“I must apologize, Miss Pickering. You can see the man has no respect for our queen or her empire. Adam King is a schemer and a liar. Not a word of truth escapes his lips. You must not trust the man for a moment. I beg you to keep yourself under guard if you chance to meet him again. His forward behavior with you this evening was inexcusable.”

“Emma,” Cissy cried, hurrying across the room and taking her sister’s hand. “May I speak with you for a moment in private? Do you mind dreadfully if I take my sister away, Mr. Bond?”

Emma glanced at the young railway man. Even though he tried to maintain his genteel poise, irritation showed on his face. She spoke softly. “I’ll just be a moment, Mr. Bond.”

“Of course, Miss Pickering.”

Cissy slipped her arm around Emma’s and hurried across the room toward the verandah.

“What have you done, sister?” Cissy’s voice was a shrill whisper. “You let that man—that cowboy—take you outside without a chaperone! Father is livid. Honestly, Emma, what were you thinking?”

“Father saw us?” She’d had no idea.

“Of course he did. You’re meant to be dancing with Mr. Bond. He’s your escort.”

“Adam asked about my nursing.”

“Adam? You call him Adam?”

But Emma did not hear her sister’s words. She was gazing at the gloves on the side table beside the door. Lifting her eyes to the window, she looked out into the moonlit night.

A movement caught her attention and she focused on the long gravel drive lined with flowering trees. Down its silvery path galloped a dark shadow of a horse. As the rider urged his mount through the gate and turned onto the street, Emma gingerly lifted her gloves from the table.




Chapter Three


“Emmaline.”

At the deep voice, Emma turned from the ballroom window to face her father. Lips rimmed in white, he stared at her.

“Yes, Father?” She heard the tremble in her voice.

“Come with me, Emmaline.”

Emma glanced at Cissy, whose face had paled to ash. With a quick squeeze of her sister’s hand, Cissy nudged Emma toward their father. Godfrey Pickering turned on his heel and strode across the room toward the hallway.

Hurrying after him, Emma swallowed at the fear of what was to come, a scene father and daughter so often had played out. Knowing what to expect did nothing to calm the thundering of her heart. She ventured a look at Nicholas. He had risen from the sofa, his eyes narrowed in curiosity.

“Father, what is it?” Emma called after the man, though she knew her offense too well.

He opened the door to a study some distance from the ballroom. “Emmaline, sit down.”

She perched on the edge of a long, overstuffed couch and knotted her hands together in her lap. Standing in front of a heavily curtained window, Pickering gazed at his daughter. He placed the tips of his fingers on the back of an armchair.

“Emmaline, did my eyes deceive me just now?”

She studied her fingers. “What did you see, Father?”

“I believe I saw you walking outside with a man. The American.”

“Sir, Mr. King wished to speak to me about a matter of some import. Truly, you saw nothing untoward.”

She stopped speaking, eyes on her father. Was he angry enough to strike her? It would not be the first time.

“Must I defend my actions on every occasion, Father?” she asked him. “You insist that I marry, and the sooner the better. Why should it trouble you where I place my attentions?”

Pickering’s eyes blazed. “Of course I want you to marry. I expect you to marry, and you will—as every woman should. But your husband must be suitable, Emmaline. A man like Nicholas Bond.”

“I have no interest in Mr. Bond.” Emma stood. “Nor do I want Adam King, for that matter. If I have my way, I shall never marry.”

“Emmaline, lower your voice,” Godfrey ordered. “Our words can be heard in the hall.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” she said with a sigh. “Forgive me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Sit down, Emmaline.”

“Father, I am twenty-two years old. Please speak to me as an adult.”

“I might consider it if you would act like one. But you insist on disobedience—as though your own feelings and desires are all that matter to your future.”

“What else can be of any significance to me?”

“The right and proper thing to do! Emmaline, you will one day be a woman of immense wealth.”

She had heard this speech so often she could almost recite her father’s words.

“You must see to it that your inheritance is not squandered,” he continued. “My money can only be entrusted to a man with a good head for business.”

“Do you wish you could take every tuppence with you when you die, Father?” She tried to hold her tongue. “I’m nothing more than a bank to you. If I marry the right man, your wealth will increase—and that’s all you care about. My feelings don’t matter. My future happiness makes no difference. My only purpose is to ensure that your precious holdings continue to grow so that your name may be remembered with admiration.”

“How dare you speak to me in this way?” Pickering’s voice quivered with rage. He walked toward Emma as he spoke. “You are my daughter and you will obey me. You must marry, or you will never have a farthing to your name. And you will marry the man I select.”

“I shall not.” Emma took a step backward. She had never spoken her thoughts so freely, but something inside her had changed. “I don’t care if I never see tuppence from you. I shall do what I’m meant to do, and you cannot stop me.”

“I can stop you and I will stop you.” Her father loomed before her now, his nostrils flaring as one hand gripped his chest over his heart.

Emma trembled as she faced him. “You can do nothing to me, sir. Nothing—ever again.”

As her words registered, his hand shot out and caught her across the cheek in a stinging blow. Her head jerked backward. The ceiling spun and went dark. Then she was on the floor, clutching her burning face.

Her father took a step and set his foot on her skirt, crushing the soft pink roses. “I am telling you now that you will marry the man I select,” he hissed. “You will have nothing more to do with Miss Nightingale or her nursing school or any other harebrained scheme of yours. Never forget your mother’s wickedness. I shall not allow you to disgrace me as she did. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.” Her head felt as if it had burst and she licked at the blood on her lip.

“Your behavior tonight was unfortunate, indeed. You embarrassed me, Emmaline.”

Nodding, she closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

She had always tried to do as he asked. These many years she had taken the place of her mother in restraining Cissy, in managing the household, in acting as hostess to her father’s associates. She had done all in her power to prevent his ire.

Cissy had no idea how often Emma had protected her from their father by blocking the advances of unsuitable would-be beaux. And yet when Cissy fell in love…and she often did…her father lightly reproved her, then hugged and pampered his younger daughter. Emma, who looked and acted so much like her mother, bore the brunt of his rage.

“Priscilla is in your charge,” he reminded Emma. “You must set a worthy example for your sister. I expect you to take care of her and protect her. I cannot be both mother and father to my daughters. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then go to your room, Emmaline. I shall inform our hosts you were feeling tired.”

Struggling to her feet, Emma tugged her hem from beneath her father’s foot. At the door, she picked up the lavender gloves and held them to her lips. Her injuries would not look bad now, but she knew it could not be long until her face was blue and swollen.



As she stepped into her room, Emma shut the door behind her and ran to the window. Pushing back the curtain, she pressed her cheek against the cool glass and let the tears flow.

Her father was right, of course. She could never escape him. She must do as he said. Always.

Was it possible that her father was more powerful even than God? Although such a thought seemed blasphemous, Emma now knew without doubt that she would never be a nurse. The holy calling in her heart could not be answered. One day very soon she must marry the man of her father’s choosing—a proper man, as her mother had done. She would bear children, her father’s longed-for male heirs. She would live in a fine house in London during the season and spend the other months at a country estate.

She would do all the things she had been brought up to do. It would a fine life. A grand life. And somehow her father, a mere mortal, would overpower the will of God Almighty.

“Emma?” The door swung open and Cissy stepped into the darkened room.

“I’m here, Cissy.” She drew away from the window.

“You must come quickly! It’s Father’s heart again. He’s having a spell.”

For an instant Emma hesitated. Her father had forbidden her to practice nursing. By rights she could refuse to go to him, letting him suffer or perhaps even—

“Where is he?” she asked, hurrying toward her sister.

“In the study. Mr. Bond found him collapsed on the floor.”

“Did you use his smelling salts?”

“I forgot.” Cissy clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Emma, you know how useless I am in a panic!”

“It’s all right. Come with me.” Emma lifted her skirts and strode along the hall and down the steps.

The study was crowded with guests as she pushed her way toward the sofa where her father lay. Lady Delamere hovered over him while Nicholas placed a damp cloth on his pallid forehead.

“We must have fresh air,” Emma said as she knelt on the carpet beside the settee. “Please clear the room, Mr. Bond.”

She saw at once that her father’s round stomach rose and fell evenly. His heart, though weak, still pulsed. Flipping back his lapel, she removed the bottle of salts from his pocket and held it under his nose. Instantly his eyes fluttered open and he began coughing.

“There, there,” she murmured softly, as her mother always had. “All is well, sir. You must rest.”

He caught her arm. “Emmaline, is my daughter—?”

“Calm yourself, Father.” Emma anticipated the question that always formed itself upon his lips after an episode. “Priscilla is fine. You’ve given her a bit of a fright, but she’s just outside the door waiting to see you. I shall send her to you in a moment.”

Rising, she spoke with Lady Delamere, then she slipped out of the room. Cissy rushed to her sister’s side. Her blue eyes swam with tears.

“Emma, did something happen in the study?” she whispered. “Did you quarrel?”

“We did have words.”

As she turned away, Cissy gasped. “Oh, Emma! He’s hit you again, hasn’t he? Your cheek!”

“Shh, Cissy,” Emma said. “Say nothing more.”

Arm in arm, they left the others and returned to their suite. Cissy turned up the gas lamp so that the room was bathed in a golden glow. She turned toward her sister.

“Come with me, Emma. I want you to see something.”

Emma allowed herself to be led to the mirror. When she gazed into it, she saw two figures staring back at her. One was just as she had been when they’d left the room earlier that evening. Cissy stood prim and soft in a powder-blue gown, her golden hair coiled around a bright bird, her eyes shining.

Emma hardly recognized herself. Her hair, no longer curled and pinned to the top of her head, hung wild about her shoulders from her dance with Adam. The pink stain of her father’s handprint marred her cheek. Her mouth was swollen and bruised. Shaking her head, she touched the drop of dried blood on her lip.

“What has become of me?” she whispered. “Who am I?”

“You’re my sister and I love you,” Cissy said. “Do as he says, Emma. Please don’t let him hurt you again. Please.”

Emma folded her sister into her arms. “I love you, too, Cissy.”



A loud thumping woke Emma from a tortured dream. Sitting up, she blinked in confusion at her surroundings.

“Oh, do come and look!” Cissy fluttered before the window in a long white nightgown.

Emma slid from her bed and padded across the room. “What is that noise? It can’t be thunder—the sun is too bright.”

“Just look!” Cissy clapped her hands in delight as Emma stepped out onto a small balcony and peered down at the tin roof of the wing below. A quartet of monkeys danced and cavorted across it—thin, wiry monkeys with gray fur and funny black faces.

Emma had to smile, but as she did her lip cracked painfully.

Cissy’s brow furrowed at the sight. “Oh, dear. You look as though you’ve been to battle.”

“I have been to battle.” As she watched the monkeys, Emma dabbed at her lip. “We shall soon have our fill of wild creatures, you know. The train leaves at eight. What time is it now?”

“Six-thirty. The servants brought breakfast earlier, but I chose not to wake you. It’s on the table.”

Emma turned into the room, but her sister’s next words brought her head around quickly.

“Emma, look! It’s your cowboy.”

The black horse she recognized from the previous day was trotting down the long drive. Adam tipped his hat to the window, a smile lighting the features of his handsome face. Emma shrank back, her hand over her bruised cheek.

“He saw you, Emma. He was looking for you.” Cissy peeped out from behind the curtain. “Isn’t he odd—and wonderful at the same time? Just look at that long riding coat. It’s made of leather. Have you ever seen such a thing? And his boots. Aren’t they rough?”

Emma couldn’t resist peering over Cissy’s shoulder. Adam dismounted and looped the reins over the branch of a flowering tree. A gentle breeze ruffled his black hair.

“He’s wearing those blue trousers again, isn’t he?” Emma whispered. “They suit him. I do like that hat, although it certainly isn’t anything one would see in London or Paris.”

“Do you suppose he’s come to call on you?”

“Call on me? Don’t be silly, Cissy.” Her heart fluttering, Emma left the balcony, drew the curtains and started for the breakfast table. “He has business with Lord Delamere, I’m sure. They know one another well.”

“I think he likes you.” Cissy eased herself into the chair across from her sister and picked up a slice of toast.

“Mr. King is married, Cissy.” Emma swallowed a sip of tea. “He has a wife—in America.”

“Oh.” Cissy’s voice was low.

“Do pass the jam.” Emma blinked back the tears that inexplicably had filled her eyes. She took up a knife and buttered the toast. “I’m going to have to get married, Cissy. Father will choose the man.”

Cissy’s eyes clouded. “I’m not going to marry anyone. My heart belongs to Dirk Bauer. I hope he’s safe. He promised to write me every day, but…”

Emma half listened to Cissy, whose conversation—as usual—focused on herself. Sounds in the hallway below were of greater interest at the moment. She wondered if Adam were now inside the house. What had he come for? What was his wife like? Clarissa. How long had they been married, and when would she arrive in the protectorate? Did they have children? He would wish to be near his children, she felt sure as she remembered the sight of him holding the small African boy he had rescued.

“I miss Dirk so much my insides ache with longing,” Cissy was saying. “Every waking moment I think about him, Emma. I mourn him. He’s probably at his post by now, standing guard against the enemy—us.”

Emma took Cissy’s delicate hand in hers. Of late, the German kaiser had been causing Queen Victoria no end of trouble. Safeguarding a claim to inland territory coveted by both the Germans and the British had led her father and his associates to build the railway. The ivory trade was essential to the realm.

“Oh, Emma,” Cissy cried, “do you hate the kaiser because he wants to stop the spread of the empire? I don’t! I can’t make myself care about him at all. Dirk is a German, he’s good and kind and he loves me.”

“I know, Cissy, but you must do your best not to think about him. You and Dirk enjoyed three happy weeks together. Now you have your whole life ahead.”

At a knock on the door, Emma took up her shawl and hurried across the room. In the hall, a servant held out a silver tray bearing a pen, an inkwell, and an envelope. She read the words written on it in a bold black hand:

Miss Emma Pickering

With a glance at Cissy, she took out the note and opened it. Emma, please come down. I need to talk to you about the subject we discussed last night. Adam King

She let out a breath. Of course she could never agree to see the man again. To preserve a fragile peace, she must obey her father.

“What is it, Emma?” Cissy called. “Am I wanted?”

“It’s nothing,” Emma replied. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

She must send her polite regrets at once. It was one thing to disobey her father by following God’s leading to become a nurse. It was quite another to pursue her own willful yearnings into the arms of a married man.

Picking up the pen, she dipped it into the inkwell on the silver tray and wrote on a clean sheet of paper.

Dear Mr. King,

I cannot speak with you again. Please forgive me.

Emmaline Pickering

She blew on the ink to dry it, then she slipped the letter into the envelope and thanked the servant. The man nodded and set off down the hall toward the stairs.

“Was it from him?” Cissy rose from her chair. “Did Mr. King send up his calling card?”

“He asked to speak with me. I wrote that I couldn’t go down.”

Emma moved to the washstand and surveyed her reflection. Her cheek bore a pink bruise and her lips were still swollen. She poured cool water into the basin and splashed it on her face.

Why must she honor her father by complying with his wishes? Look what he had done to her. His mistreatment was insufferable. Yet suffer she would. The opportunity to ask Adam about a mission hospital had been lost. She would have to pry the information from Mr. Bond, even though he probably knew little beyond railroads and waltzing.

Praying for peace, Emma stepped to her trunk and took out a beige traveling skirt and a white blouse. Cissy helped Emma into her corset and began to lace it up the back.

“You ought to go down to him. Father has no right to tell us what we may and may not do.”

“He is our father, Cissy.”

“Yes, but we’re grown women now. We must be allowed to make up our own minds.”

Cissy tightened the laces, then Emma slipped on her chemise and pulled her tangled waves of hair through it. She fastened her petticoat and skirt at her waist, while Cissy began to dress. Emma was buttoning her blouse when a sharp ping sounded at the window.

“Whatever can that be? A monkey?” Cissy stepped to the window and gasped. “Upon my word, Emma! It’s your cowboy. He’s…he’s…”

Emma hurried to her sister’s side. As they crowded onto the balcony, they saw Adam on the grass below, spinning a looped rope over his head. His face was lit with the golden light of early morning, and Emma caught her breath at the glow in his blue eyes. Suddenly he released the rope, and both girls drew back as it sailed through the air, landed on the tin roof and slipped around a projecting drainpipe.

“Emma—oh, dear—he’s climbing up here!” Cissy squealed, clutching her sister’s arm.

Watching the rope pull taut against Adam’s weight, Emma gripped the curtain as if the thin lace might somehow hide her. She could not let him see what her father had done.

“Cissy, what can we do?” she cried. “If Father sees Adam climbing up to our balcony, he’ll have the poor man tossed in jail.”

“I can’t bear it. I’m going into the sitting room!”

“Wait, Cissy. Stay with me!” But it was too late. Her sister fled and Adam was halfway up the wall.



Adam hoisted himself onto the balcony, swinging one leg at a time over the rail. Not an easy task for a man with spurs on his boots and a six-shooter at his side. One thing he knew for sure—he hadn’t been spotted by a compound guard.

The sight of Emma Pickering peering out from behind the curtain confirmed his decision to see her again. Her green eyes shone with a mixture of apprehension and joy. Her thick wavy hair gleamed like a field of wheat rippling in the wind. He had done the right thing.

“Good morning, Miss Pickering.” He took off his hat and leaned against the white window frame.

“Mr. King, did you not receive my message?” She was almost breathless. “I cannot speak with you.”

“I got your note, but I need to talk. Mind if I come inside?”

“Indeed, sir, you may not take another step!”

“Can we just talk for a minute or two?” he asked.

“Mr. King, I have already told you I’m unavailable. Now please let yourself down by that…that rope thing, and—”

“My lasso?” He began coiling his lariat.

“Sir, this is unseemly.”

Adam studied the intriguing eyes peering at him around the curtain. Emma was edgy this morning. Almost frightened. Different from the bold young woman he had met yesterday.

He couldn’t let that concern him, he decided as he tucked away the end of the rope. Last night after he left the consulate, he had made up his mind to keep things strictly business with Emma Pickering.

“I’ll leave after I’ve had my say,” he told her. “This is important.”

“Speak quickly, sir. My father must not find you here.”

“With all due respect, Emma, do you think I’m concerned about what your father thinks?”

“You may not care, but I do. What do you want from me?”

“I need a nurse.”

Her face suffused with surprise. “A nurse? Are you ill?”

“Not for me. I have a friend—at my ranch.”

“Your wife is surely tending to this friend in your absence.” She paused a moment. “You are married, are you not?”

“Not the last time I looked.”

“Really? Well, then…” Her eyes deepened in concern as she let the curtain drop a little. “What sort of illness does your friend have? Can you describe it?”

Adam looked away, his attention skirting across the tops of the palm trees. How could he explain the situation without scaring her off?

“It’s not an illness. It’s more like…” Searching for the right words, he turned back to Emma. But at the first full sight of her face, he reached through the open window and pulled the curtain out of her hands.

“Emma, what happened to you?” He caught her arm and drew her toward him. “Who did this?”

She raised her hand in a vain effort to cover her cheek and eye. “It’s nothing,” she protested, trying to back away. “Please, Mr. King, you must not…not…”

Even as she tried to speak, he stepped through the balcony door and gathered her into his arms. Brushing back the hair from her cheek, he noted the swelling and the darkening stain around it.

“Emma,” he growled. “Who did this to you?”

She fell motionless, silent in his embrace as he stroked her tender skin with his fingertips. No wonder she had shied like a scared colt. She hadn’t wanted him to know. The sight of a drop of dried blood on her lip stopped him cold.

“Bond,” he snarled, his voice hardening in anger. “He did this to you, didn’t he? I swear, if I see that lousy—”

“No!” Emma’s eyes flew open as she backed out of his embrace. “No, it wasn’t Mr. Bond. He never touched me. Please…please, Adam, just go away now.”

“Emma, you have to tell me…” Realization flooded through him. The pompous, nattily dressed English railroad tycoon had struck his own daughter.

Without stopping to weigh consequences, Adam drew his six-shooter from the holster and pressed it into her hands.

“Take this, Emma,” he told her. He squeezed her hands around the pistol. “This country is wild. It’s filled with animals and people who prey on others.”

“No.” Emma held the gun awkwardly, as if it were a dead thing. “Take this weapon and leave me, I beg you. Our train leaves at eight, and you have no place here.” She set the weapon on a table. “Please, sir. You must go.”

“I want you to come with me,” he told her. “I need your help. Emma, I’ll take care of you.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” she shot back. “I have my own plans, and God is watching over me.”

“Emma!” Both turned toward the open door where Emma’s sister stood, eyes wide.

“What is it, Cissy?”

“Emma, go with him!” Cissy crossed the room toward them. “Run away with him, Emma. It’s your chance to escape—to become a nurse, as you’ve always wanted. You’ll be safe at last and you can have your dream.”

Cissy stopped halfway across the floor, her arms held wide in a pleading gesture. Emma turned back to Adam.

“Come on,” he urged her. “Let’s get moving.”

“Do it, Emma!” Cissy insisted. “I shan’t tell Father where you’ve gone. I’ll say I woke to find you missing.”

A loud banging rattled the door. Adam reached for his gun and found it missing.

“Emmaline!”

Cissy gasped. “It’s Father! Emma, you must leave at once. Go with Mr. King.”

Emma glanced at him and shook her head. “No. I can’t go with you, Adam.”

“Emmaline, Priscilla—open this door at once.”

“Adam, get out of here!” Emma flew at him, pushing toward the window. “Don’t you see? I must stay with Cissy—and it will only be worse for us if he finds you here.”

Adam hesitated for an instant, an attempt to decipher the expression on Emma’s face. Her green eyes were filled with fear, but he saw determination there as well. He had to leave her alone to face her tormenter. Before he could change his mind, Adam stepped out onto the balcony and swung over the side.



“Emmaline?” Godfrey Pickering strode into the suite, barking an order to the man behind him. “Wait in the hall, Bond. I may need your assistance.”

As the door swung shut, Emma spotted the younger man brandishing a revolver. She faced her father as he advanced.

“Where is he?” Godfrey demanded, his voice hard. “Where’s King?”

“Adam King?” Emma struggled to feign surprise. She stepped back toward the curtains and her fingertips grazed the gun on the table behind her. “Whatever would make you think we know where Mr. King is?”

“Honestly, Father.” Cissy put on her best pout. “We’ve just been eating our breakfast and dressing for the train.”

“Priscilla, do not lie to me.” Pickering strode across the room and flung open the wardrobe doors. “Adam King was here—at the consulate. We know that.”

“He did send a note,” Cissy ran on. “He wanted to speak with Emma, but she refused him.”

Pickering glowered at Emma. She brushed a hand over her swollen cheek. “Cissy is telling the truth, Father.”

“Emmaline, if I learn you have lied to me, you will never know the end of my anger.” Her father pulled a derringer from his coat pocket before calling out again. “If you’re in here, King, I shall see you dead before I rest.”

As their father stormed out of the room, both girls turned to the window. The gravel road was empty, only a faint cloud of dust in a thin trail above it.

“You should have gone with him, Emma.” Cissy’s arm stole around her sister’s shoulder. “He swore to protect you and he has an ill friend in great need of your help.”

Remembering the letter she had read the day before, Emma wondered who this friend could be. A woman? A mistress? Surely not. Or could that be the sort of evil Nicholas Bond had been referring to?

Adam had told her he was not married. But Nicholas had branded him a liar. Which man had spoken the truth?

Emma closed her eyes and breathed out a sigh. As she inhaled, she drank in the morning—the fresh air and the lingering scent of leather.




Chapter Four


Emma leaned her head against the railcar window and gazed out at the placid blue ocean. The train had pulled out of the station not long ago, and now it chugged across the three-quarter-mile Salisbury Bridge. Cissy sat on the seat across from Emma, a French novel lying unattended in her lap as she stared down at her hands. No doubt her sister was dwelling on Dirk, Emma supposed.

As the train rolled onto the mainland from Mombasa island, Emma drew her focus from her sister. At last—the protectorate in all its raw majesty. The train’s twelve-mile-an-hour pace provided a constantly changing panorama. It pulled away from the palm trees and mango and banana groves. Into view came huge gray baobabs, lush green acacias and verdant underbrush.

Emma scanned the terrain for signs of wild game. Although her gaze was fixed on the landscape, she could not help overhearing an urgent conversation in the berth behind her.

“Patterson had been at Tsavo only two or three days when the first coolie was dragged off.” Nicholas Bond was making an effort to whisper, but he was forced to speak loudly enough to be heard above the rattle of the car.

“How long ago was this?” Emma’s father asked, his voice tense.

“Two months, sir. Since that time the killings have escalated. Patterson’s been after the lions nearly every night, but so far they’ve eluded him.”

“And how many lions are there?”

“Two. That’s for certain—only two. One would think we could bag them, but they are clever. And of course the workers’ camps are spread so far along the rail line that the lions have quite a feeding ground, so to speak.”

“Has Patterson tried poison?”

Nicholas hesitated a moment. “The lions have acquired a taste for human flesh, sir. They much prefer a live coolie to a poisoned dead donkey.”

At this Godfrey Pickering gave a loud snort. “This is unconscionable, man. Can the workers not build fences?”

“They’ve erected large hedges of dry thorn brush around the tents, but the lions are able to jump over or go through every barrier. These two beasts are incredibly large and crafty, sir. The coolies call them shaitani—devils.”

A knot of fear twisted in the pit of Emma’s stomach. She shifted the heavy white pith helmet in her lap. Adam’s gun lay hidden in the cloth chatelaine bag beside her. It comforted her…not so much for the protection it offered, but for memories it stirred of the man who had held her with such tenderness.

Thankful her path would never cross Adam King’s again on this vast continent, Emma repented her thoughts about him. Married or not, the American was certainly not part of God’s plan for her life. She had heard His voice and seen her path of service stretch out before her. Nowhere had she glimpsed a handsome cowboy on a black horse.

Forcing her thoughts away from Adam, she wondered where she and Cissy would sleep. Would they be safe from the marauding lions? Emma had never fired a weapon in her life and she could not imagine defending herself against a hungry beast.

Eager to stretch her legs, she stood and lifted the glass window. A gust of clean, cool breeze blew into the stuffy car and tugged a lock of hair from her chignon. Golden in the late morning sunlight, the wisp danced about her chin as she propped her hands on the sill and leaned out the window.

There! Beneath an enormous baobab tree in the far distance stood a great red-gray elephant. With tiny eyes it squinted at the train, then lifted a long wrinkled trunk to test the air. Emma drew in a deep breath, but as she took in the scenery, an unexpected sight startled her into a loud gasp. Could it be?

Leaning farther out, she saw spurred boots, one crossed casually over the other, protruding from a window several cars forward. Her fingers tightened on the sill and she let out a small cry as she drew in her head.

“What is it?” Cissy rose. “Do you see a lion? Let me have a look.” She pushed her sister to one side and peered out. In an instant she was back in the railcar and pulling Emma onto the berth beside her.

“It’s your cowboy!” she whispered. Her eyes were wide with excitement. “He followed you onto the train, Emma. You must go and speak with him.”

“I can’t talk to Adam King. Think what would happen if I were discovered.”

Cissy’s eyes darted to her sister’s bruised cheek and puffy lip. Then she shook her head. “He needs you. He told you that. And he promised to protect you, Emma. I’m certain he will. He’s that sort of man. Like Dirk.”

Emma looked out the window at the tangle of shrubbery brushing past. Adam King did seem that sort of man. But why should she trust someone she knew so little about? Nicholas had vilified him. His behavior had hardly proven him a gentleman. Yet there was something about him…

Her thoughts slipped back to her first view of the man. He had been no more than a dark form on a black horse, yet he had cradled a child so gently.

“If opportunity presents itself, I shall speak to him,” Emma said with quiet determination. “Yet I’m certain he is not on this train because of me. He didn’t even know I’d be here.”

“But he did! I heard you tell him we were leaving on the eight o’clock train. Emma, he’s following you, protecting you even without your permission. He saw what Father did.”

Cissy glanced over the back of the berth to where her father and Nicholas Bond were still deep in conversation. Then she tucked her arm through her sister’s.

“I know men,” Cissy whispered, “and I can see that the cowboy has taken a fancy to you.”

“You know far less than you claim, believe me.” Annoyed, Emma shoved the wisp of hair back into her chignon. Even though he had denied it, he must be married. Emma had seen the letter. She felt sure that somewhere in America his wife was preparing for a governor’s inauguration—and waiting for the husband who would accompany her. If Adam wanted to talk with Emma, it was only because she was a nurse. His ill friend must need one badly.

Her cheeks hot, Emma leaned back on the leather seat and shut her eyes. To imagine that there could be any hope for true love with such a man was impossible. Yet without success, she tried to resist the unbidden memory of his arms holding her close as they danced around the ballroom.

Rising suddenly, she grabbed the iron handles and slammed the window shut.



Lunch arrived and went away again—steaming cream soup with lobster soufflé, hardly in keeping with the sweltering heat inside the railcar and the increasing herds of game outside. Afterward, Nicholas chose to settle himself beside Emma and expound on his dreams for the railway. She made an effort to listen, but her attention slipped away to the changing landscape outside the window.





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