The Maverick's Bride (17 page)

Despite her concerns, their teamwork lifted her spirits. She laughed along with him and joked at their small victories as they walked the narrow streets between rows of shops with craftsmen calling to them.

A heady aroma of spices—cinnamon, cloves, sandalwood incense, curry powder, red chilies—wafted around them along one street. As they turned a corner, the smell of drying fish, roasting maize and boiling Arab coffee rose up. This olfactory feast, mingled with the scent of seaweed, sand and salt, was served on the sea air.

“It’s so different here,” Emma remarked. “I am utterly astonished.”

“I could say the same myself.” One dark eyebrow lifted as he gave her an appreciative glance. “You amaze me, Emma.”

“I do?”

“You were smart to dress in all that finery. It got us the attention and respect we needed. You have a good head for business, too.”

“But I was speaking about Mombasa. Africa astounds me.”

“It’s a strong land. The smells are strong, the people are strong, the animals are strong, the earth is strong. A man can do things here.”

Emma glanced at him. She had seen that look of vision in Adam’s eyes before. It drew her. “A woman can do things here, too,” she said. “I intend to make my mark.”

He nodded. “A woman could do a lot here…if she—”

“Oh, my goodness!” Emma’s exclamation cut off his words. She knelt in the street. “Look at this poor child.”

The boy’s leg was wrapped in dirty rags that failed to hide a festering sore. Emma peeled off her turquoise gloves, tossed them to the dusty street and gently examined the wound with her fingers.

Adam crouched at her side and spoke to the boy, who answered haltingly. “He says he burned his leg on his father’s coffeepot fire. His father sells coffee from one of those big brass urns we’ve seen on the street corners.”

“It’s a serious burn. He’s in pain.” Emma looked into the deep black eyes of the frightened child. He had edged back against the wall as far as he could go. “The injury occurred some time ago, I think. Perhaps a week?”

Adam spoke to the boy again. “He can’t remember when it happened. He wants us to go away.”

“Please tell him to have no fear. I want to help him.”

Adam relayed the message as Emma began to remove layers of bandage. She had no qualms about her action. Miss Nightingale taught that true nursing ignores infection—except to prevent it. Indeed, the evils of filth and poor ventilation
were proved anew as Emma saw that the burn was crusted with dried pus and fiery red around the edges.

“Poor dear,” she murmured. “Does it hurt dreadfully? I’m sure it must.”

Emma talked quietly while she worked, and Adam translated her words into the soothing rhythm of Swahili. Unaware of the growing crowd of curious onlookers, she could see only the boy, his large, tear-filled eyes gazing into hers. She could hear only the words of Miss Nightingale and the instructors at St. Thomas’s school of nursing.

“One of the commonest observations made at a sick bed,” she recited, “is the relief and comfort experienced by the sick after the skin has been carefully washed and dried. Adam, I must have water. And I need clean cloths and soap, if you can find them. Please see to it.”

He laid a hand on her arm. “Emma, I don’t want to leave you here. These people aren’t sure about what you’re doing. The boy’s father is right behind you.”

Emma looked up in surprise at the crowd about her. For an instant her determination wavered. But it was obvious the boy was in pain and needed care.

She gave an impatient sigh. “If you cannot go, please send someone to fetch the water and cloths. Surely they see his suffering.”

Adam touched the leather pouch that hung from the child’s neck. “This is his medicine. It’s an amulet, Emma. Inside are herbs, powders, maybe some hair and grass. The parents believe this will heal their child. Even if you clean him up and send him to a doctor, his family won’t do what they’re told.”

“But why not?”

“The people don’t understand. They haven’t learned about diseases. Nobody has taught them.”

“Then they must start to learn now.”

He shook his head. “They believe evil spirits cause illness. This amulet is supposed to fight the spirit that’s making him sick.”

“Are you telling me to leave him here? Am I simply to walk away and let this wound fester?” She looked away, fighting emotion born of frustration. “This child is just like the one in the village, isn’t he? He’s just like all the other ill children in this land. No one is doing anything for them.”

“You.” Adam caught her hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You, Emma. You can do something for the sick children here. You can teach the families about dirt and infection and all the things your Miss Nightingale taught you. You can help change this country, but it’s going to be slow. You need to find your sister first.”

Dear God,
Emma prayed.
How am I to make any difference? I’m torn into pieces. What can I do?
As she begged God’s assistance, Adam spoke to the boy’s father, who nodded and loped away.

“He’s going to get cloth and water,” Adam explained. “I told him you bring healing powers from England that will drive his son’s evil spirits away.”

“Healing powers? But I can’t promise anything.”

“I expected to find you in the midst of trouble, Mr. King.” Nicholas Bond’s voice cut through the babble around them. Adam and Emma broke off their conversation as the Englishman descended from a trolley. “I’ve been out to your house this morning. Potts told me you’d taken Miss Pickering into town to spend her money.”

Emma’s spine prickled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bond.”

The crowd parted for Nicholas, who removed his top hat and made a smart bow. “Emmaline, what are you doing here?”

“This child is badly burned, as you see. I am tending him.” Emma instinctively addressed him just as she had her father. Her heart beat with a familiar irregular rhythm as she braced her shoulders.

“My dear, you are too refined and mannered a woman for this sort of nonsense.” Nicholas took her hand to help her rise. “Kneeling in the dust is no place for a lady.”

“But it is
my
place.” Emma withdrew her hand. “Nursing is my passion and profession. Do not presume to dismiss my calling, Mr. Bond. I shall never be denied.”

“King, I have no doubt you’re behind this.” Nicholas’s eyes narrowed at the man beside Emma. “You’re up to no good, and I warn you to watch your step in my country.”

“Your
country? Funny you should warn me about anything, buckaroo. I’ve got enough dirt on you to—”

As Adam bit off his sentence, Emma saw the Englishman’s face drain of color.

“Just back off,” Adam continued. “This woman and I have been taking care of business. Her business.”

“Emmaline, may I speak with you please?” Nicholas’s face suffused with red as he took her hand. “Come with me.”

Before she could object, he pulled her through the crowd to the other side of the street. “Release me at once!” she cried, struggling to free herself from his grip. “I shall not be treated in this manner.”

Nicholas halted and swung around, his brown eyes blazing. “You’ve allowed Adam King to control you and you’re making mistakes. Start to think for yourself, I beg you. Listen to me if you wish to find your sister.”

“I’m listening,” Emma said. “What have you learned?”

“No more than you. But I am far more likely to find her
than that American. My men are combing the bush even now, yet you place your life in a renegade’s hands.”

Emma glanced across the street to see Adam kneeling beside the boy. His father had returned with a bowl of water and a white cloth. “I have listened to you,” she told Nicholas. “But to this point, I am unable to verify a single accusation against Adam King.”

“No? We’ve had word that your friend has received another shipment.”

Emma caught her breath.

“A shipment of guns,” Nicholas went on. “Ammunition. Supplies for the native rebellion he’s helping to foster. Five crates arrived yesterday morning. Through bribery or stealth, he managed to get them past the customs officials unopened—as usual. We know he has a warehouse, a headquarters, if you will, where he stores the crates until they can be transported for distribution.”

Five crates…yesterday.
Emma tried to recall what Soapy had told Adam.
Everything made it safely past customs…nothing opened. They’re all sealed up tight and stored at the warehouse.

She could see Adam leaning over the child. He had soaked the cloth and was dabbing the wound. With eyes full of trust, the boy regarded the tall man in his big black hat. Emma turned away, uncertainty tearing at her heart.

“You are right about the crates, Nicholas,” she whispered. “Mr. King received five crates yesterday morning. He told me they contained farm tools.”

“Tools?” Nicholas gave a dry laugh. “If you can call rifles and bullets tools, then I suppose he’s telling the truth. Dearest Emmaline, you don’t believe him, do you?”

“I shall not believe anything until I’ve seen for myself. I hired Mr. King to find my sister. That has nothing to do with
other occupations in which he may—or may not—be engaged. I need his assistance.”

“You need
my
assistance. Allow me to take you to the border of the protectorate, Emmaline.” His brown eyes deepened with warmth. “The Germans who guard the boundary line will not divulge information to the daughter of Godfrey Pickering. Your late father’s role in the construction of the railway made him the kaiser’s enemy.”

“But Mr. King is a neutral party.”

“Hardly. Adam King is in the Germans’ employ. His loyalties lie with them.”

“I cannot believe him capable of such duplicity. Surely you’re mistaken.”

“I tell you, the man is deluding you, Emmaline.” He touched her cheek. “Listen to reason. As representative of British interests in the region, I can ask to speak to the German soldier who courted your sister. A refusal would mean he is missing and likely to be in her company. Either way, I am far more likely to find the girl than an American with dubious motives and connections. Once the truth is out, you and I may announce our attachment and prepare a happy future together.”

“Stop. Stop speaking, Nicholas.” Emma stepped away from him, rubbing her temples to ease her sudden headache.

All her life she had been ordered to obey her father and ignore the voice of God in her heart. But she had listened anyway. Her faith had given her hope to go on living after her mother’s death. Her faith had led her to become a nurse. Her faith had told her to come to Africa and make a life here. Even though she had suffered for heeding God’s call, He had never led her astray.

“Emma?” Adam’s deep voice echoed into her troubled thoughts. “I’ve cleaned up the boy. Come take a look.”

Emma turned to the Englishman. “Thank you for your
concern, Mr. Bond. I shall inform you if I learn any pertinent information. Good day, sir.”

“Emmaline?” Nicholas tried to catch Emma’s wrist as she pushed past him, but she edged away in time. “Emmaline, listen to reason. Where do you go now?”

Electing to ignore him, Emma started across the street.

But Adam called out. “We’re going to the bank to get her money.” With a broad wink, he tipped his hat to Nicholas.

“A
pproval to disburse your funds has arrived from the Bank of England in London, madam.” Mr. Richards looked up from the telegram he held. “Of course we cannot make the entire amount you requested…er, five thousand pounds…available to you at this time. It would deplete the bank’s resources. I’m certain you understand.”

“I require only one thing from you now, sir. Your bank must cover my accounts immediately.” She took a list of that morning’s expenditures from her chatelaine bag. “Here is the record of my purchases.”

He read the catalog of supplies. “The local merchants will not expect you to pay them today, madam. You could wait until the balance of your funds arrives from England.”

“I prefer to establish myself as a reputable businesswoman in the protectorate. When my funds do arrive, you are to release them to no one but me. At the moment, however, I wish for you to draft a check for one thousand pounds, payable to Adam King.”

“Of course, madam.” The banker pursed his lips, wrote out the check and handed it to Emma. “And if you should need other funds?”

“I shall be traveling in search of my sister, but I’ll send…” Emma glanced down at her bare hands. She had left her turquoise gloves in the street. She slipped the brass ring from her finger. “I shall send this token as proof the request is mine. Do not entrust the money to anyone—not even my husband—unless that person has this ring in his possession.”

“Of course, Mrs. King.” Mr. Richards took the ring in his round fingertips and held it to the light. “But this is not gold. It’s brass.”

“As you see.”

“Very well, I shall look for a brass ring, slightly bent. I’ll release nothing without it.”

Emma returned the ring to her finger. “I intend to depart Mombasa at dawn and I shall not return until I have found my sister.”

With a polite farewell to Mr. Richards, she stepped out of the bank to find Adam slouching on the carriage seat, his black hat tipped low on his forehead so that she could barely see his eyes.

“Did you get your business worked out, Mrs. King?” he asked.

“Nicely, thank you, Mr. King.” She handed him the check.

He didn’t bother to read the slip of paper, but folded it loosely and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Emma waited a moment, wondering if he would assist her into the carriage. He made no move, so she gripped the sides of the Stanhope and climbed up beside him.

“You needn’t be miffed that I conduct my financial affairs in private,” she told him. “Secrecy is the hallmark of good business.”

Adam straightened and took the reins. “Who taught you that one—your father?”

“You taught me that one, dear husband.”

With that, she leaned back and closed her eyes. They rode in silence. The sun was setting, and she felt so grateful for a reprieve from the heat.

“Emma?” The deep voice dragged her from the depths. “Emma, we’re almost home.”

She opened her eyes but saw only darkness. “Where am I? What time is it?”

“You’re here, with me.” Adam brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Then he bent and kissed the spot where it had been. “You fell asleep in the buggy.”

At his touch, she sat up straight, her heart beating wildly. “You must not kiss me, Adam. It’s improper. We established the terms of our agreement.”

“We established a marriage.” He guided the horse toward the house. “We did do that, didn’t we?”

“It was a business contract, nothing more. I should think we’ve been over that enough times.”

“And I should think we’ve been over this enough times.” He kissed her lips. The blue in his eyes mixed with the golden light of the lamps along his verandah, and they shone a catlike glow. “Emma, we’ve been dancing around each other for days now. All I can think about is you.”

He dropped the reins and let the horse amble where it pleased as he took her in his arms. Dismayed, she stiffened. But only for a moment. Then melting against him, she nuzzled her lips against his neck. His kiss found her ear, his warm breath sending shivers through her…and she drew up sharply again.

“Oh, Adam,” she exclaimed in a breathless whisper. “You must stop at once.”

Instead, he took her trembling hand and covered it with kisses.

Every shred of righteous indignation evaporating, Emma
wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. “I want you. I want you so desperately…but I can’t bear this fear, this confusion, this storm of remorse you stir up inside me.” She gasped out the words. “You’re going to destroy me.”

“Destroy you?” He drew back. “Is that what you think?”

“You’ll try.”

He was a man, wasn’t he? And hadn’t she learned by now the true nature of men?

She covered her face with her hands. All she could see before her was the woman in the locket. The curls, the unsmiling mouth, the staring eyes. Clarissa.

The horse had come to a stop near the verandah. Emma grabbed her chatelaine bag and stepped down from the carriage. Unwilling to speak even a word of farewell to the man who had turned her life topsy-turvy, she threw open the door and hurried to her room.

“Howdy, howdy!” Carrying a lantern in one hand and a steaming platter in the other, Soapy barged into the dining room Emma had just entered. “I’ve got your eggs just how you like ’em!”

Miriam followed him like a wispy black ghost in the dim light of early morning. Emma watched them scurry around lighting lamps, setting plates and silver on the long table, filling glasses with fresh milk.

“The fellers you hired for the trek are here, ma’am,” Soapy was saying. “They’re out by the stables puttin’ everything in order. Looks like a good crew.”

Soapy was even livelier than usual. “This is the first wagon train I been on since seventy-eight, when my pa took us young ’uns out west to new territory. Ma had died of the fever right after I was borned. Then Pa up and died right after we had
barely got settled. If the King family hadn’t took us in, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. Soapy was a wealth of information about Adam. “You lived with the King family?” she asked.

“With their ranch hands. All nine of us kids.” Soapy looked out the window with a faraway expression. “Adam was like a second father to me. He ain’t that much older, but he acted kinda fatherly in his way of takin’ care of me. ’Course he always kept himself apart. Never lets nobody know what he’s really thinking, Adam don’t. He’s a loner. He won’t let on that he cares, but he does. That I know.”

She wondered at this. His intentions toward her had seemed clear the night before. Adam was loyal to his friend and drawn to Emma. But what of Clarissa?

Emma crossed to the window. The sun was rising out of the sea, a great ball of flame dripping with golds, oranges and pinks that spread out across the sky and onto the water. Soapy had gone back out with Miriam, and Emma closed her eyes in the silence of the room. There was only the smell of eggs and bacon and hot coffee, only the sound of the waves lapping on the beach.

“Emma…”

She turned to see Adam walking toward her, his hat in his hands. “Emma, there’s something I need to tell you,” he said. “I’m sorry about last night. You made it clear how you felt, and then I just did what I wanted to anyway. I’m sorry.”

Emma held her breath as she gazed into the deep blue eyes. She shook her head and sighed. “Oh, Adam. I don’t know what to do about you any more than you know what to do about me.”

“Hot sausage! Fresh mango juice! Whoa, there. Excuse me, folks.” Soapy stopped in his tracks, his eyes darting between Adam and Emma.

“Looks like a great breakfast, Soapy.” Adam broke from his stance and walked across the room. He pulled out a chair for Emma, then took his own place at the table.

“This is our last decent meal till we find that sister of yours,” he told Emma. “Miriam’s had a hand in this breakfast. You ought to taste what our camp cook thinks are eggs.”

Soapy gave a snort and hitched up his pants. “Now just a minute there, boss. Them’s fightin’ words!”

The wagon train set off down the road between the rows of palm trees just as the sun climbed into the pale blue sky. Adam had greeted the six Africans Emma had hired. He helped them hitch the teams of oxen that pulled the wagons laden with supplies. A string of horses followed.

One wagon held the shipment Adam had received in Mombasa. The five crates were strapped with steel bands and padlocked. Red dust rose as the caravan made its way onto the open plains. Before long they had left the sea behind to follow a narrow, rutted trail leading toward the German-British territorial border.

As days of travel stretched to a week, Emma rode Soapy’s horse. She became skillful at guiding the surefooted filly around antbear holes, beneath thorn trees, over narrow gullies, up and down steep ravines.

They slept under the starlight, each rolled in thick blankets to ward off the night chill. Emma slept between Adam and Soapy, with her head toward the fire. Adam kept a rifle beside him.

They ate Soapy’s cooking, which was better than advertised. Usually he created a stew from the gazelles or impalas Adam shot each day to feed the men. They drank water from canteens.

Emma marveled at the vast stretches of open land as they
traveled toward the towering purple Kilimanjaro with its snow-capped peak. Herds of giraffes, gazelles, elephants and Cape buffaloes observed the caravan. A pride of lions sprawled in the shade of acacia trees. There were soaring vultures and marabou storks. But Adam knew the land was void of humans save the occasional wandering Maasai warrior or the rare village the wagon train happened to pass.

They asked the few people they met about Cissy, but no one had seen her. With each disappointment Emma grew more despondent over the fate of her sister. If they didn’t hear even a rumor of the young woman, Adam knew prospects of finding her were dim.

Adam spent the days riding at Emma’s side. He took it upon himself to educate her about the habits of each animal species they encountered. Then he taught her about the different tribes living in the protectorate—the Maasai, the Samburu, the Kikuyu, the Luo, the Wakamba—each with its own unique customs and language. She drank in the information and begged him to teach her Swahili, the tongue understood by nearly every group. As they rode, he pointed out objects and told her their names. Hour after hour, day after day, they conversed. Emma’s skin was burnished by the sun, even though she never took Adam’s hat from her head. She left her long hair hanging down her back, where it bleached a light silver gold.

“We’ve been riding forever, it seems,” Emma said one afternoon. “By this map, the border station should be a short distance to the west.”

Adam studied the peaks of Kilimanjaro—one smaller and jagged, the other rounded and snow-capped. “Just ahead,” he told her. “In those foothills.”

Emma slipped her compass into the saddlebag. “I wonder
if they will have a bathtub. I long for clean water and soap. I’m sure I’ve never been in such disarray. My hair is a tangle and my skirt is six inches deep in dust.”

Adam knew she was speaking meaningless words to keep her thoughts from the reality facing them. She had to make decisions now, real decisions. “Emma, how are you going to feel if the soldier boy is still in the ranks? If he hasn’t deserted?”

“I never know how I shall feel about anything until it happens. I only pray they will tell me the truth.” She pushed her hat back on her head. “Adam, do you know any of these Germans?”

“Not many,” he said. “As a rule, they don’t come through Mombasa or travel the interior. Relations between the kaiser and your queen are unfriendly.”

“Look, there it is!” Emma’s excited voice ended the discussion.

Adam focused on a compound of whitewashed buildings at the foot of Kilimanjaro. The structures were bordered by a fence. Guard dogs set up a raucous barking at the approach of the wagon train.

“Time to find out what they know about a missing English girl,” Adam said. But Emma had already spurred her horse toward the gate.

As she neared the compound, Emma’s heart sped up to a frantic pace. Could Cissy be here, hidden away until the English government protested and turned the incident into a political scandal? Did Adam know where she was, as Nicholas had intimated?

She looked at the man beside her. His narrowed eyes were focused on a group of approaching guards. Nicholas’s
warnings rose to the forefront of her mind, and all she could think of was his condemnation of Adam. Her fears contradicted the man who had sung ballads by the campfire, the man who had taught her so much of what he had learned in his years in this land, the man who had protected her on the long trek. Was he instead the rogue Nicholas had painted—a slave trader who supplied ammunition and guns to native rebels, a traitor who worked with enemy Germans while living in English territory?

“Good afternoon,” Adam said as four mounted men reined their horses before the wagon train.

“Good afternoon to you, Herr Koenig.” The blond German in the foreground greeted him with a smile. “You are far from your home.”

At the surname he used for the American, Emma’s doubts surged higher. “We wish to speak to your commander, sir,” she told the German.