The Maverick's Bride (5 page)

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.

“E
mmaline.”

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 eyes blazed. “Of course I want you to marry. I expect you to marry, and you will—as every woman should. But your husband must be suitable, Emmaline. A man like Nicholas Bond.”

“I have no interest in Mr. Bond.” Emma stood. “Nor do I want Adam King, for that matter. If I have my way, I shall never marry.”

“Emmaline, lower your voice,” Godfrey ordered. “Our words can be heard in the hall.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” she said with a sigh. “Forgive me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Sit down, Emmaline.”

“Father, I am twenty-two years old. Please speak to me as an adult.”

“I might consider it if you would act like one. But you insist on disobedience—as though your own feelings and desires are all that matter to your future.”

“What else can be of any significance to me?”

“The right and proper thing to do! Emmaline, you will one day be a woman of immense wealth.”

She had heard this speech so often she could almost recite her father’s words.

“You must see to it that your inheritance is not squandered,” he continued. “My money can only be entrusted to a man with a good head for business.”

“Do you wish you could take every tuppence with you when you die, Father?” She tried to hold her tongue. “I’m nothing more than a bank to you. If I marry the right man, your wealth will increase—and that’s all you care about. My feelings don’t matter. My future happiness makes no difference. My only purpose is to ensure that your precious holdings continue to grow so that your name may be remembered with admiration.”

“How dare you speak to me in this way?” Pickering’s voice quivered with rage. He walked toward Emma as he spoke. “You are my daughter and you will obey me. You must marry, or you will never have a farthing to your name. And you will marry the man I select.”

“I shall not.” Emma took a step backward. She had never spoken her thoughts so freely, but something inside her had changed. “I don’t care if I never see tuppence from you. I shall do what I’m meant to do, and you cannot stop me.”

“I can stop you and I will stop you.” Her father loomed before her now, his nostrils flaring as one hand gripped his chest over his heart.

Emma trembled as she faced him. “You can do nothing to me, sir. Nothing—ever again.”

As her words registered, his hand shot out and caught her across the cheek in a stinging blow. Her head jerked backward. The ceiling spun and went dark. Then she was on the floor, clutching her burning face.

Her father took a step and set his foot on her skirt, crushing the soft pink roses. “I am telling you now that you will marry
the man I select,” he hissed. “You will have nothing more to do with Miss Nightingale or her nursing school or any other harebrained scheme of yours. Never forget your mother’s wickedness. I shall not allow you to disgrace me as she did. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.” Her head felt as if it had burst and she licked at the blood on her lip.

“Your behavior tonight was unfortunate, indeed. You embarrassed me, Emmaline.”

Nodding, she closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

She had always tried to do as he asked. These many years she had taken the place of her mother in restraining Cissy, in managing the household, in acting as hostess to her father’s associates. She had done all in her power to prevent his ire.

Cissy had no idea how often Emma had protected her from their father by blocking the advances of unsuitable would-be beaux. And yet when Cissy fell in love…and she often did…her father lightly reproved her, then hugged and pampered his younger daughter. Emma, who looked and acted so much like her mother, bore the brunt of his rage.

“Priscilla is in your charge,” he reminded Emma. “You must set a worthy example for your sister. I expect you to take care of her and protect her. I cannot be both mother and father to my daughters. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then go to your room, Emmaline. I shall inform our hosts you were feeling tired.”

Struggling to her feet, Emma tugged her hem from beneath her father’s foot. At the door, she picked up the lavender gloves and held them to her lips. Her injuries would not look bad now, but she knew it could not be long until her face was blue and swollen.

As she stepped into her room, Emma shut the door behind her and ran to the window. Pushing back the curtain, she pressed her cheek against the cool glass and let the tears flow.

Her father was right, of course. She could never escape him. She must do as he said. Always.

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…”