The Maverick's Bride (15 page)

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 carriage up to the front of the verandah. He extended his arm to her. “Shall we visit the bank, Mrs. King?”

E
mma 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.

Mr. Richards finished writing, removed his spectacles and held the slip of paper at arm’s length to read it. “I believe that should do it,” he said.

“Good.” Adam pronounced the word as God might have when He first observed His creation. “Now send it.”

Emma glared at him. Stepping over to Mr. Richards, she plucked the message from his fingers and read the words.

“This will do nicely,” she said. “I shall expect to receive approval for transfer by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“But, Mrs. King,” the banker replied, “that is a most unreasonable hope.”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Mr. Fitz-Lloyd is a close friend of my family. I hope to be able to report to him on the fine service this bank provided me.”

“Mr. Fitz-Lloyd?” Mr. Richards paled. “Do you mean Mr. Fitz-Lloyd who is chairman of the board of directors of the Bank of England?”

“The very man.” Emma tipped her head. “Good day, Mr. Richards.”

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and strode out of the bank. The warmth felt wonderful after the chill inside the bank. Surprised the hour had grown so late, Emma unpinned her hat, lifted it off and marched down the steps. She tossed it onto the carriage seat and climbed in.

“Find your own way home, Adam King,” she muttered to herself. “Thus far you’ve managed to take care of all my affairs as well as your own.”

Taking the reins, she flicked them across the horse’s back as she had seen Adam do earlier. The mare shied, then jerked the carriage forward. Before Emma knew what was happening, the horse had started down a narrow alley and was thundering across an old wooden bridge.

Her heart hammering, Emma realized she had no idea how to control the animal. She let go of the reins and grabbed onto the carriage-top bows. As she did, the vehicle swayed into a wall, knocked off a chunk of plaster, then careened around a corner on two wheels.

At the sight of the skittish horse, ragged urchins shrieked and scampered into the shelter of arched doorways. Dogs barked from rooftops. Someone threw a stone. The horse whinnied in fear and reared as the pebble struck its flank.

“Stop!” Emma cried. She let go of the bows and grasped for the reins just as an axle began to crack. The rocking carriage rattled past a long row of houses and out onto the beach, its gyrations growing more pronounced by the second. Every time the carriage swung to one side, the horse bucked, and it was all Emma could do to stay seated.

Her bone-white fingers grasped the leather reins so tightly that they cut into her palms until she felt a strong hand close over hers.

“Whoa there, Poker!” Adam leaned from the saddle of
Nicholas’s galloping horse to grab the harness and pull the runaway carriage to a creaking halt.

The vehicle collapsed as the axle snapped, and Emma slid to the beach in a heap. Unable to catch her breath, she lay sprawled across the sand. Aware only of the purple-and-pink sky overhead and the quiet lapping of waves nearby, she wondered if she had died. Then Adam’s face appeared above her, his eyes dark and his hair whipping in the wind.

“Emma!” The word choked from his lips. “Dear God, don’t let this happen.”

She coughed as air rushed into her chest.

“Emma?” Adam lifted her shoulders onto his lap. “Don’t move. Here, let me help you.”