The Maverick's Bride

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.