The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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