The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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