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“Not at all, sir. Do come in.” Lord Delamere smiled and shook his guest’s hand. He turned back to the musicians. “Carry on, carry on!”
As the violins sounded again, the dancers drew their eyes away from the tall rancher. Lord Delamere rejoined his colleagues at the fireplace. Emma decided it was time to find her sister and retire. But Nicholas gripped her elbow as Adam King made his way through the swirling skirts.
“Good evening, Miss Pickering.” The American’s blue eyes fixed on Emma’s as he acknowledged her companion with a nod. “Bond.”
“Good evening, Mr. King.” Emma extended her hand, and this time he lifted it to his lips. His thick hair, glossy in the lamplight, shone a blue-black.
“What do you want, King?” Nicholas’s tone was hostile. “You can have no good purpose in joining our company.”
“But I do. I came to return these.” Adam reached into the pocket of his black trousers and pulled out Emma’s lavender gloves.
Her cheeks grew warm as she took them. “My goodness—I thought I would never see these again. Thank you so much, Mr. King. How kind of you.”
“Yes, well done, sir,” Nicholas said. “Now if you’ll excuse us—”
“Mr. Bond, would you be so good as to see to my sister’s welfare?” Emma heard herself ask. “Cissy was greatly fatigued this afternoon.”
Nicholas stared at her.
“I believe I owe Mr. King the next dance,” she went on. “In gratitude for returning my gloves.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then obviously thought better of it. “Of course, Miss Pickering,” he consented. “I am happy to oblige.”
As he stepped away, Emma noted Adam’s amused expression. “Perhaps I spoke out of turn, sir,” she said. “Normally I am not so bold.”
“Aren’t you? You were mighty bold this afternoon on the pier.” His mouth curved into a warm smile. “You took control of the situation without stopping to think about consequences. That’s good. A woman needs courage in this country.”
“Thank you. I have been trained as a nurse, you see.”
He searched her eyes. “But your father said—”
“My father disapproves. Nevertheless, I have undertaken rigorous instruction at Miss Nightingale’s school in St. Thomas’s Hospital.”
“I don’t know who Miss Nightingale is, but I’m sure she has a fine school.” He stood before her, making no move to dance. “Miss Pickering, do you—”
The music stopped and Adam’s question with it. Clutching her lavender gloves, Emma peered around his broad shoulder to see Nicholas striding across the room toward them. She looked back at Adam. Now strains of the “Blue Danube” waltz began to swell in the warm air.
“Mr. Bond has completed his mission, I see,” she said. “Thank you once again for returning my gloves, Mr. King.”
Nicholas slipped his arm beneath Emma’s. But as he moved to lead her away, Adam stepped in front of him. “Just a minute, Bond. I believe I was promised a dance with this young lady.”
“Mr. King.” Nicholas spoke the name in a steely voice. “Miss Pickering offered you the last dance. Now I’ve returned. If you will excuse us, please.”
“No, I won’t excuse you.” Adam loomed over the Englishman. “But I will thank you to take your hands off the lady until I’ve had my dance.”
Nicholas’s eyes blazed. “And I’ll thank you to hold your tongue. I am Miss Pickering’s escort this evening. Have you no manners, sir?”
“Don’t talk to me about manners, Bond. I was invited to dance by this young woman and I am accepting.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Emma interjected. She must end this nonsense quickly. “Mr. Bond, I did offer to dance with your friend. And then I must declare my dance card full for the evening. Mr. King?”
She looked up at him, but Adam made no move toward her. His focus had narrowed on the other man, and for a moment Emma feared Nicholas’s disdainful expression would be shattered by a blow from the American’s fist. Instead, Adam set his hat on his head, swept Emma into his arms and spun her out onto the floor.
“Mr. King!” Her eyes flew open as he whirled her around the room, barely avoiding collisions with more genteel dancers who stared at them in alarm.
An unfamiliar thrill coursed through Emma at the realization that the American had come back into her life…had sought her out…was holding her, even now, in his strong arms. Her feet barely touched the floor as the music soared through the room. Releasing Adam’s shoulder, she clutched at the spray of pink roses pinned to her hair for fear of losing it. She might have twirled away entirely, but one of his hands held her waist while the other wove through her fingers.
“I’m not much of a high-toned dancer, to tell you the truth, ma’am,” he said, spinning Emma toward the musicians at such a speed that her dress billowed up around her calves.
“Sir, this is a bit—” She caught her breath as he flung her away from him, then whipped her back against his chest in a crushing hold. “A bit different!”
He threw back his head in a hearty laugh, then looked down at her with shining eyes. “This is the way we dance in Texas. Those musicians just need a few lessons in fiddling, and then they’d do this tune up right.”
Emma spotted Cissy gawking at her in astonishment. “But I do believe this is the way Mr. Strauss intended it played,” she told Adam.
“Dull, don’t you think?” He grinned at the glowering Nicholas as they passed him in a mad whirl.
Emma gave up on her hair and tossed her head, letting the curls pull out and tumble down her back. Catching his shoulder once again, she felt a ripple of shock at the hard muscle beneath his white linen shirt. His black tie fluttered at his neck and his hair bounced loosely, falling over his ears and down his forehead. He was all movement, all liveliness and rhythm—nothing like the stiff gentlemen who held her as though she were made of porcelain.
As she and Adam danced, Emma felt her body loosen and sway against his, melting into his easy whirl. And then the music slowed. Adam guided her toward the wide French doors that opened onto a long verandah.
“Something you said today intrigued me,” he spoke against her ear. “I came here this evening because I wanted to talk to you. Would you like to take a walk, Miss Pickering?”
Her heart warned her not to be foolish. Hadn’t Nicholas said this man was untrustworthy? And he was married, after all. Married. Somewhere his wife waited for him, wanting and missing and loving him.
“Mr. King, I—” Before she could answer, he eased her out onto a dimly lit walkway.
The last strains of the waltz faded. Adam glanced back into the crowd and caught sight of Nicholas Bond searching for them.
“I really should go back in, you know,” Emma protested.
But as she looked into his eyes, Adam knew she would not return. He held out his arm. She hesitated, then slipped her hand around it. “Let’s take a stroll,” he suggested. “I never have liked crowds.”
“What is it you wish to discuss, Mr. King?”
“You, mostly.” He could see the toes of her slippers beneath the hem of skirt as they walked along a gravel path. Away from the stuffy air of the ballroom, he caught the scent of her perfume. Jasmine and roses.
He drew her closer. Somehow—against every shred of sense and determination he possessed—he’d let this strange, willful woman affect him. All he could do was stare down at her and feel things he shouldn’t feel. Her flushed cheeks and shining green eyes mesmerized him. Her full rosy lips, barely parted, were tilted slightly upward. He bent toward her.
Just then, she stopped walking and touched her forehead. “Oh, my.”
“Miss Pickering? Are you all right?”
“Out of breath. Perhaps it was the dancing.”
Or maybe not. He was having a little trouble breathing right himself. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked. “I saw some chairs at the other end of the porch.”
“No, I’m fine. Truly I am.” She took her hand from his arm and wove her fingers together. “You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes, I do.” He straightened, forcing away the discomfort she’d given him. He couldn’t let himself think about the fact that she was beautiful and brave…and completely a woman.
Emma Pickering could be useful to him, that was all, and he might as well lay the cards on the table. “I want to know more about your nursing skills.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Nursing?”
“How much practical experience have you had?”
“Not enough to satisfy me.” She shook her head. “Miss Nightingale does not permit nurses to learn pure medicine. I’ve always longed to know as much as any doctor, but such a course is not possible. I have looked after patients at St. Thomas’s Hospital, many of them gravely ill, but that is the extent of my training.”
Adam started forward again. “Can you do surgical kinds of things?” he asked as she hurried to match his pace. He took her hand and set it on his arm again. “Can you sew people up and set bones?”
“I’ve watched those procedures being done. But I have neither the tools nor the skills to do them myself. Mr. King, why are you asking me these questions?”
He couldn’t tell her everything, but she was too smart to keep completely in the dark. He would have to lead her around until he had learned what he wanted to know.
“I understand that doctors have ways to make people unconscious,” he said. “Know anything about that?”
“Ether. I’ve seen it used. Why?”
“Do you know much about drugs? Medicines?”
“Morphia, quinine, cocaine, laudanum and others—I’ve dispensed them all.”
“But do you know what they’re used for? Do you know what can help pain—constant pain?”
“Laudanum is best, I believe—although one must be careful. Its use can become a habit. Morphia is similar.”
“Miss Pickering?” Nicholas Bond’s voice rang out down the long verandah and startled Emma into silence. The Englishman stood silhouetted in the light from the ballroom, his long coattails fluttering in the night breeze.
“Yes, Mr. Bond,” she spoke up. “I’m just here on the path.”
“Your father is concerned for your safety, Miss Pickering.”
“The lady’s fine, Bond.” Adam escorted her onto the verandah and into a square of yellow light that fell from the French doors.
“Miss Pickering?”
“Indeed, I’m perfectly well, Mr. Bond. This garden is lovely.”
Adam knew it was time to let Nicholas take the woman back to the ballroom. Good manners demanded it. He had been wrong to lead her outside unaccompanied in the first place. But when he began to remove her hand, she tightened her fingers around his arm.
“Mr. King mentioned his unusual dancing style,” she told Nicholas as they approached. She gave a little laugh. “It’s American, you know. I’m sure you must agree it’s my duty as an Englishwoman to teach him a proper waltz. You won’t mind, will you?”
Nicholas frowned, his lips tightening into a grim line. “Miss Pickering, I—”
“Dear Mr. Bond, it does seem the right thing to do under the circumstances. It would hardly show the English to good advantage if we let this poor man continue in his ignorance.”
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.
