The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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