The Maverick's Bride

by Catherine Palmer

  “Boy, howdy, Miss Pickering,” he said. “You got all gussied up. You look mighty fine.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Potts.” Emma smiled at the kind man staring at her with wide gray eyes. “This is my normal attire, actually. Cowboy hats and dusty stockings leave something to be desired.”

  “I like you in my hat.” Adam stuck his fork into a piece of white fish, then punctuated the air with it as he talked. “I’ll tell you what, Soapy. Despite those green ostrich feathers, I reckon we’ll turn Emma into a bush woman yet.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Soapy chuckled. “But you got a lot of layers to get through first.”

  “I’ll manage.” Adam took a bite before looking up at Emma with a grin and a wink.

  Mortified by their frank discussion of her attire, she turned her attention to lunch. Refraining from joining the casual banter of the two men, she ate her fish, which she found delicious.

  How had she ever let Adam King matter so much to her? Emma wondered. She studied a wedge of white coconut on her plate. Why hadn’t she listened to Nicholas Bond? It appeared she had made a grave mistake in hiring Adam to lead her search for Cissy. She would have to be near him constantly, and unless she barricaded her heart against the man, he could send it reeling with a glance.

  She permitted herself a fleeting look. Just at that moment, he leaned back in his chair and laughed at something Soapy had said.

  “Hey, Emma!” He leaned toward her. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like Soapy’s stories?”

  “I beg your pardon.” She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “I was not listening.”

  “What do you say, Soap? Shall we tell her about the early days and the trouble I had trying to find my ranch? I was used to scorpions and rattlers and I could handle a herd of stampeding cattle. But when that rhino came after me—”

  Both men burst into guffaws. Emma struggled to keep from joining their merriment. At this moment she wanted nothing more than to hear every detail of Adam’s past. How would she ever manage to harden herself against the man?

  Spotting Miriam standing near the doorway, Emma knew what she must do. She had to find out every horrible truth about Adam—the slavery, the gun smuggling, the treachery with the Germans and most of all, the truth about Clarissa. Everything. Not for Nicholas Bond. Not even for Queen and country. She must do this for herself. Once she knew everything about the man, her mind would never let her heart take control. She would be safe.

  “Ah, Texas,” Soapy was saying. “I sure miss her, boss.”

  “Texas longhorns are what I miss,” Adam stated. “I wish I could put some longhorn breeding stock on my ranch.”

  “I wonder, Mr. King,” Emma spoke up. “Did you have slaves in Texas?”

  The room fell silent as both men turned to her. Soapy coughed and looked at Adam.

  “Slaves?” Adam frowned. “Slavery was abolished a long time ago, Emma. During the War between the States. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I have heard,” Emma said, folding her napkin, “that some places in the world still trade in human flesh. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I’ve heard the rumors, but I don’t see how anyone could get away with it these days.”

  “I suppose slave trading would be a lucrative business,” Emma went on. “A way to make a great deal of money in a short time. Of course one would need protection. Weapons, I imagine, and connections within the government.”

  “If I didn’t know better, ma’am,” Soapy said, “I’d think you was plannin’ to start tradin’ slaves yourself.”

  “Me? Of course not!”

  Adam laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m full. Thank you, Miriam. That was delicious.”

  The black-shrouded figure hurried out of the shadows and swept up Adam’s plate. “Asante sana, Bwana King,” she said, her eyes soft. Then she pronounced the translation in careful English. “Thank you very much.”

  Emma was not ready to abandon her line of questioning so soon. “Mr. King, Miriam tells me she has not earned wages while in your employ. I wonder how that can be.”

  While speaking, Emma observed the reactions of the other three in the room. Miriam stopped still, her hands frozen on the plates. Soapy’s brow furrowed. Adam stood, his chair scuffing across the wooden floor.

  “Emma, come with me.” He stepped the two paces to her chair and took her hand.

  “Release me, sir,” she said as he guided her toward the door. “I am perfectly capable of walking—”

  “Be quiet, Emma. Just settle down.” Adam ushered her onto the verandah. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know all I need to know.”

  “Really? You need to get your particulars straight before you say things people could take wrong.”

  “Can you deny the talk about you, sir?” When he gave no answer, she halted and pulled away. “I thought not. What are these particulars I need to get straight? Miriam works for you with no wages. How can you defend that?”

  He gazed at the sea without speaking. His eyes reflected the cobalt ocean and sapphire sky. If he could not deny it, Emma reasoned, it must be true. The reality of his desperate wickedness brought unexpected tears.

  “If you are a slaver,” she went on, “then you had better tell me the truth. Confess your duplicity at once. For I shall not go off in search of my sister with a man whose actions are so far astray of all that is moral and right.”

  “Emma.” Adam’s voice was low, soft, as he turned to her. “Emma, listen to me.”

  “You listen to me for once,” she ordered. “I am a respectable woman. Even though my errors have been many where you are concerned, now such blunders must cease.”

  Unwilling to speak further to such a man, she hurried down the verandah in the opposite direction. She rounded the corner of the house, grasped a blue-painted post and leaned her forehead on it. The wash of waves did little to soothe her heart.

  “Miss Pickering?” The low voice startled her. Soapy stood nearby, hat in hand. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “I am put off by Mr. King’s ill manners—not to mention his illicit activities.”

  Soapy scratched his head. “I’m not sure what that means exactly, but the boss ain’t done nothin’ wrong to my way of thinkin’.”

  “To your way of thinking, perhaps not. But to most of civilization, trading in human flesh is both illegal and immoral.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout. The boss wouldn’t do nothin’ like that.”

  Emma wrapped her arm around the verandah post and looked out at the sea. The tide had come in and waves were crashing just beyond the line of palm trees at the garden’s edge. A movement caught her eye and she noticed Miriam wandering toward the beach with two children, one holding each of her hands.

  “Why doesn’t Adam pay Miriam?” Emma asked.

  “She don’t want him to.” Soapy’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Her dead husband was meaner than a rattlesnake on a hot skillet. His family tree ain’t much better. The boss had him workin’ on the coconuts when some enemy came along and pulled his picket pin. Miriam found the boss right after she buried her husband and asked him if she and her young ’uns could stay here and work. But she didn’t want no pay. Said if she had money, her dead husband’s kin would come after her tryin’ to get it. All she wanted was to stay right here and cook and clean for the boss. He said okay and took in all them folks like they was family. Been here for nigh on two years, and—”

  “Soapy, what yarns are you spinning now?” rumbled a familiar voice behind them. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Emma. He’s always airing his lungs.”

  “I was tellin’ her about Miriam, boss.”

  Adam shrugged. “Pack of lies, no doubt. The cook here always tries to make me out a hero.”

  “Aw, boss.” Soapy hung his head for a moment. “You’re gonna get Miss Pickering all mixed up.”

  Adam turned to Emma as a servant drove a carri
age up to the front of the verandah. He extended his arm to her. “Shall we visit the bank, Mrs. King?”

  Chapter Ten

  Emma clutched the green velvet chatelaine bag in her lap and focused on the long rows of palm trees as Adam set the horses in motion. Despite the carriage top, the afternoon sun beat down on them, and humidity curled the tendrils of hair around her neck.

  Velvet and silk, Adam thought to himself, were not a practical choice for this outing. Khaki and cotton would have served her better. And a different hat.

  “What have you got stuck on that hat, anyway?” he asked.

  Emma kept her eyes averted and spoke in a clipped voice. “Two ostrich feathers, a rosette of purple taffeta and a rhinestone buckle.”

  “Fetching,” he remarked.

  Arching one eyebrow, she glanced at him. “Too bad if you don’t like it. I purchased it at the finest milliner’s in London. Cissy adored it, although our aunt thought it dreadful.”

  “Maybe you should have listened to your aunt.”

  Seated close beside Emma on the buggy bench, he felt her stiffen. He tried not to grin. Something about watching Emma get mad tickled him. Maybe it was that pretty shade of pink in her cheeks.

  “Aunt Prue would go in search of Cissy without a second thought,” Emma spoke up. “Nothing would stop her.”

  “She enjoyed a good adventure, then? Like her niece.”

  “My aunt had few opportunities for daring. She was married at seventeen to Uncle Theodore. Forced into the role society had predestined for her. She was beautiful and the daughter of a wealthy industrialist, you see.”

  “So she had no choice?”

  “None whatsoever. But she slaked her thirst for intrigue by reading novels and attending lectures of the African Association. Aunt Prue would approve of my decisions.”

  Relief eased the tightness in Adam’s chest as she spoke. Staying on safe subjects, he realized, would keep him out of trouble—the kind of trouble that made him want to take Emma into his arms.

  “So, how do you like my buggy?” he asked. “I got her three months ago.”

  “Very nice,” Emma replied, giving the carriage a perfunctory examination.

  “It’s a Stanhope. Made in Ohio.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s got wrought-iron sill plates and full-length body loops.” He was warming to the subject now, glad to fill the awkward silence between them. “I ordered the Sarven’s patent wheels, although the shell band hub wheels would have been just as good. One of the things I like best about this particular carriage is the elliptic end springs.”

  “Elliptic end springs, did you say? Fancy that.”

  “I chose the Brewster-green color. Thought it might look better in the bush. And I knew the full-spring cushion and back would help out on these rough roads.”

  “How lovely.”

  “I considered a surrey, but you know, they can be tricky to handle in rough terrain. Probably should have gotten a mountain wagon. Costs about the same. I thought about it long and hard, but then—”

  “We have a Stanhope in London.” Emma was studying the narrow whitewashed buildings along streets that led to the Arab market in Mombasa. “I adore a Stanhope for calling. One hasn’t the energy to climb in and out of a surrey all afternoon. So tiring.”

  “Dreadfully tiring.” He awarded her a smirk and to his surprise, she giggled.

  It felt good to be casual with Emma. Friendly. They had shared so many intense moments that he hardly knew what she was like in normal life. If they sat down to dinner, would she talk of bonnets and gloves and the latest fashions? He half hoped he would find her boring. That would make it so much easier to let go.

  As he looked out toward the street again, his pleasure died. “Bond.” He spat out the name. “That figures.”

  Nicholas Bond leaned against a pillar of the bank. He must have ridden a horse all night to catch up to them. Motivated, Adam thought.

  “Miss Pickering!” Bond swept off his black top hat and descended three whitewashed steps to the dusty street. “How lovely to see you. May I say you look ravishing.”

  “Why, Mr. Bond, such a surprise to find you here.” Emma extended her hand so he could help her down. “I imagined you still at Tsavo. Have you news of my sister?”

  “None at all, I’m afraid.” His expression solemn, Nicholas reached for her. “We’ve had another lion attack. An Indian railway worker.”

  “Step aside, Bond.” Adam had left the carriage and come around it. He brushed the other man aside and lifted Emma to the ground. “The lady’s with me.”

  “Emmaline?” Nicholas queried.

  “It’s quite all right,” she said. “Mr. King did drive me to town. Have you an assignment at the bank, sir? Perhaps you might join us for a cup of tea after our business is complete.”

  “My business is to tend to your welfare, madam,” Nicholas said. “I told you I would find you and I have. Under no circumstance can I stand by and allow you to be cheated out of your money by this man.”

  Before Adam could react, he saw Emma bristle. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bond,” she told the Englishman, “but what I choose to do with my money is my own affair. Lest you forget, Mr. King is now in my employ, while you are but the briefest of acquaintances.”

  Lifting her skirts, Emma slipped between the two men and hurried up the steps.

  Gliding into the cool shadows of the bank, Emma let the heavy wooden door swing shut behind her. Despite its presumptuous name, the Bank of England at Mombasa contained nothing more than three old oak desks, behind which sat three weary-looking men. Each was engrossed in a ledger lit only by the green glow of a small lamp. No one looked up as Emma’s heels clicked down the stone floor toward the first desk.

  “Excuse me.”

  She tapped her finger on the ledger before the first man. His pale blue eyes focused on her.

  “Yes, madam?” The man’s Adam’s apple rose and fell as he spoke. “Have we had the pleasure of meeting?”

  “My name is Emmaline Pickering.” She hesitated a moment. “Mrs. King is my married name. I should like to speak with your manager, please. I have urgent business.”

  “But of course. Do follow me.” The clerk led her to the last desk. A portly man stood as she approached.

  “Mr. Richards, sir, may I present…” The young man stammered for a moment, then forged ahead. “Mrs. King.”

  “Emmaline Pickering King,” she clarified, grasping the clammy hand. “I see you are busy, Mr. Richards, and my time is limited as well. Allow me to set forward my request in the simplest terms.”

  “But of course, Mrs. King. How may I be of service?”

  “I am in need of funds,” Emma began. “I arrived in the protectorate not a fortnight ago and I have, in the meantime, lost my father and married a local landowner.”

  “Do accept both my condolences and my congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” Emma hoped Adam would stay outside with Nicholas. The two men would complicate her request should they enter and begin arguing.

  “My father’s death and my recent marriage have made me the rightful heir to a considerable estate,” she said. “Thus, I wish for you to please telegraph the Bank of England in London and request a transfer of money.”

  “I see.” Mr. Richards shifted in his chair. “And how much do you wish to transfer?”

  “Five thousand pounds.”

  Mr. Richards rocked back in his chair, his pale eyes widening. “Five…five thousand pounds? You mean to transfer five thousand pounds into this bank?”

  “As I said. The transaction will benefit you, of course. You will act as my agent and keep the funds in your vault. You do have a vault?”

  “Well, yes…but it is quite small.” He ran a finger around his collar. “I should not like for anyone to know the sum involved.”

  “No one will know. Not even my husband.”

  “You will have difficulty spending so much money here in the protectorate. But
of course, I should be delighted to handle the transaction.”

  “Howdy, John!” Adam’s voice echoed the length of the stone room. “What’s the holdup here? My wife giving you fits?”

  “Your wife?”

  Mr. Richards gaped as Adam strolled toward his desk. Nicholas entered the bank behind him, dusting off his top hat and hurrying forward.

  “Emma King,” Adam said. “Didn’t she tell you we’re married?”

  “I see you already know my husband.” Emma awarded Adam a sweet smile as she addressed the banker. “How nice to meet another of his good friends.”

  “Mr. Richards.” Nicholas took the banker’s arm and started to draw him to one side. “May I speak with you in private? Emmaline, come with us at once.”

  Adam’s hand shot out and stopped him. “Let’s talk this out right here, why don’t we? The woman married me of her own free will. You have no choice but to get the money for her, John.”

  “But they are not legally married,” Nicholas barked. “Not to mention that Adam King already has a—”

  “Here’s the affidavit that proves the marriage is legitimate.” Adam took the document Sendeyo had signed from his pocket and shoved it into the man’s hands. “Telegraph London right now, John. Get my wife her money.”

  By this time the other two men in the room had risen to their feet and were hovering by their desks with anxious faces.

  Emma nodded. “Do as he says, please.”

  She studied Nicholas’s flushed face as he watched the banker scribbling a quick note. Was the railway man right? Was she being duped by the American? She glanced at Adam, who towered over John Richards and watched every word the man wrote. He meant to see that she got the money. Fine. She had hired him to direct the search, and the search required money. But how much more of her inheritance did he intend to get his hands on?

  And what could Nicholas Bond’s motives be? She examined the tall Englishman with a critical eye. He certainly was not anxious to get his hands on her money. He didn’t even want her to have it sent from England. Perhaps he truly did care for her, as he had professed.