The Maverick's Bride

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…”