The Maverick's Bride Page 15

  Emma had to smile. “Don’t worry, Soapy. I shall not let Mr. King know you did anything but wake me up. But I should like to know more about Tolito. Is this the ill person I’m to attend?”

  “Yep, but I can’t say nothin’ else. If you knew what happened and how things come to be the way they is, you might not want to help Tolito.” Soapy began backing toward the door. “And you just got to help Tolito.”

  Emma rose to her knees. “I have never refused to assist anyone for any reason. And I never shall.”

  “That’s what I done told the boss. I said I thought you was a real good woman and real kind, too.” Soapy grabbed the door handle. “But he said you was as hard to pin down as smoke in a bottle.”

  Soapy stepped into the hall and shut the door behind him. Emma stared at the blue-painted wood for a moment. So Adam thought her hard to pin down? Good. Very good. God must have forgiven her missteps and clouded Adam’s memory of her reckless kiss. Best of all, Adam had told Soapy she was in charge. And with God’s help, she would be.

  She had confessed her failings. Forgiven and filled with a newfound peace, she felt a surge of assurance. She had made a mistake in letting Adam into her heart, but God was permitting her to rise above error and misjudgment. His plans for her were far more important and would cause far less pain than any beguiling emotional entanglement.

  Therefore she would simply label Adam King as the man he was—her employee. She would speak to him as such and treat him as such.

  Without pondering further, she devoured the breakfast Miriam had brought and set about to dress herself. Adam did not want her to wear fancy fluff? From her trunk, Emma pulled a brilliant turquoise gown with black-and-silver bows at the shoulders, intricate whorls of black velvet across the skirt and an artfully curved neckline. After dressing, she stepped into a pair of matching high-heeled shoes.

  A visit to the mirror over the washbasin saw her hair swiftly pinned and a sweeping, wide-brimmed hat with three blue ostrich feathers fastened atop the curls. She pinched her cheeks, pulled on turquoise kidskin gloves and stepped out of the room.

  “Good morning!” she sang out the words as she paraded into the parlor. “I do hope the carriage is waiting.”

  Adam turned from his position by the door where he had been engaged in conversation with Soapy. His eyes widened, taking in the tossing feathers and swishing skirt as Emma strode across the room. Both men stepped aside to let her walk between them onto the front verandah.

  “Do come along, gentlemen.” Emma lifted her skirts and glided down the steps. “We don’t have all day.”

  Determined never to need a man’s help again, she climbed into the carriage by herself. It was the Stanhope, its axle replaced and its seat newly polished.

  “Are you driving this morning?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  The man’s disarming grin put her on the defensive. “Of course I’m not driving. I have a letter to write.”

  Adam climbed up beside her. “You’ll have a rough time of letter writing on this road.”

  “I mean to compose my message to my aunt and then pen the letter as soon as may be. It must go out on the next ship.” She ventured a glance at Adam’s blue eyes. “Start the carriage, sir. We have a full day of work ahead.”

  “So tell me about this aunt of yours,” Adam said as he released the brake.

  “Prudence Pickering is married to my father’s brother.”

  “You have other relatives in England?” He pushed his hat back on his head. “Do you have somebody to live with? Is there a house waiting for you?”

  The morning humidity had begun to intensify, and Emma regretted her long gloves. It was hard enough to be sitting this close to Adam without the very air heating up around her.

  “My father owned two homes,” she told him. “One house is in London and the other is in the country. We lived in town after my mother died. I requested the country home as part of my inheritance. It’s beautiful—near Wales and the sea, but I knew I would never have it because of my father’s stipulation.”

  “That you get married before you could inherit.”

  Emma nodded. She didn’t know if this arrangement with Adam would hold up in England. So quickly begun…so quickly over. Probably not.

  “How did your mother die, Emma?”

  “Aunt Prue said it was a broken heart. She had suffered a great loss.”

  Adam stopped the carriage on a street lined with buildings. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he said. “Sorry for your loss.”

  She clutched her bag and sat forward, fighting the tenderness for Adam that was creeping into her heart again.

  “Is the bank nearby?” she asked.

  “It’s just down that street.”

  “Very well.” She drank down a deep breath. “I’ll accompany you in purchasing the best equipment we can find. We shall not stop until I know who is holding Cissy.”

  “Holding her?” A note of skepticism crept into his voice.

  “You said if she’s still alive, then she’s with someone.” Emma heard herself reaching out to him for reassurance. “You said she would be in someone’s care.”

  “That’s my guess. But, Emma—”

  “I know what you think. I know what you and Nicholas and everyone thinks.” Her voice quavered and she fought to control it. “But I shall not rest until I know what has become of Cissy.”

  “Okay, okay.” Adam stretched out his hand and almost took hers. Catching himself in time, he took the reins. “I think your sister is alive, too. I do. We’ll find her.”

  “Yes, we shall. I hope it won’t take long to outfit us for the journey. I feel as if we’ve been at it for days.”

  “We have been.” Adam jumped down from the carriage and hurried around to help Emma down.

  She was pleased, indeed, that when he got to her side, she had already stepped to the ground and was beckoning him from the nearest merchant.

  “I feel like a child in the sweetshop,” Emma said in a hushed voice. They had just stepped from the large whitewashed labor office after hiring six African porters to accompany them on their trek.

  That morning they had traveled from one shop to another. Adam spoke fluent and rapid Swahili to the local shopkeepers, some of whom were African and some Arab. Emma provided the stamp of authenticity, wealth and immediacy as she stood beside him in all her finery. Not a soul refused to deliver the enormous number of goods they ordered—solely on credit. Adam rattled off items while Emma nodded, looked imperious and wealthy, and it was done.

  In the process, Emma saw that Adam could have managed very well without her. In his years in the protectorate, Adam had established quite a reputation for himself, and everyone was eager to do business with him. If she hadn’t thought the cordial treatment might stem from his involvement in illegal activities, she would have had to admire his acumen.

  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 glance
d 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 hi
m, 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?”