The Maverick's Bride

With a polished clip in his step, he escorted the sisters down the gangway behind their father.

“Your trunks are safely stowed,” Bond announced, clapping his hands to summon a trolley. As a pair of young African men pulled the wheeled vehicle to a halt, he turned to the women.

“Miss Priscilla,” he said, holding out a hand. “Take care, please. This is no English carriage.”

Cissy dipped her head in polite acknowledgment. As Nicholas and her father helped Cissy up the squeaky stair into the covered trolley, a flutter of white caught Emma’s eye. Half of Adam King’s letter tumbled toward her in the gentle breeze. After a moment’s hesitation, she snatched it up.

Roses the color of blood and wine bloomed in a tangle of green vines across the top of the paper. Watercolor florals, done in an elegant hand. The scent of perfume, heady and evocative, clung to the letter as Emma began to read.

My darling. The words swam out in flowing blue ink. How I’ve longed to be in your arms! How I’ve missed you—

The torn page stopped the words. Emma glanced up to see the men busily tucking Cissy’s skirts into the trolley. She read on.

As you know, I had planned to arrive in January, but unfortunately—

Another stop. Emma rushed to the next line.

—the governor’s inauguration on the twenty-fifth, and I do wish you could—

—such a long trip, but I know it will be worth it to see you—

—I understand how lonely you’ve been and how much you want someone to—

—and so after a great deal of careful deliberation as well as many conversations with—

“Emmaline?”

Her father’s tone froze Emma’s eyes on the final words: I remain forever, your faithful wife—

—Clarissa

The torn paper cut through her like a razor’s edge.

Dropping the letter, Emma saw the breeze catch it and whip it across the pier, whisk it high into the air and send it fluttering into the turquoise sea.

“Emmaline!”

Her father’s voice left no room for longing.

Chapter Two

Emma adjusted her crinolines on the narrow trolley seat as Nicholas Bond sat down beside her. She would have preferred to sit by Cissy, but the layers of petticoats lining their skirts prevented that possibility. As a result, she was forced to ride back-to-back with her sister. The space was cramped, and Emma found herself pressed awkwardly against Nicholas as the trolley jerked to life.

The air smelled of the sea. Emma lifted her face to the sunshine. The turquoise ocean mirrored the sky. Long rippling clouds paralleled an endless white-sand beach. Between shore and sky, seagulls fluttered, calling raucously above the crash of waves and the shouts of dockworkers.

“Mombasa town is on an island,” Nicholas explained over the rattle of the trolley. “Actually the coastal strip belongs to the sultan of Zanzibar, while we English control the inland region all the way to Lake Victoria. As you’re well aware, Mr. Pickering, we’re in dispute with the Germans over control of the Uganda territory to the west.”

“Why do you think I’ve come, young man?” Godfrey Pickering retorted. “It is imperative that our railway reach the lake before theirs does. I don’t mean to leave until I’m certain we shall win that race.”

The younger man nodded. “I am glad to hear it, sir. My own dream is to see the protectorate become a full-fledged colony of the Crown.”

Aware the conversation was little more than bluster, Emma gazed out across the landscape. Huts with thatched roofs graced the shade of stately palm trees. Chickens wandered across the road, oblivious to the trolley. In this populated area, the air was thick with the smells of salted fish and smoke.

Emma had longed for this moment, dreaming of the day she would see Africa. Lying awake at night on board the steamship, she had pictured a land, animals and people known only from sketches in books. Here at last, she could hardly keep her focus. Rather than the white-rimmed waters and the fishing boats, her eyes saw a dark man rising into the sky on a black stallion. Her ears heard not the sounds of clattering trolley wheels, but a deep voice with a strange, lazy accent like a long, slow river winding to the sea. Her ungloved hands felt the touch of a man’s fingers—worn and callused yet gentle, too. Even the strong sea scent faded beneath a memory of leather and dusty denim.

Emma wondered what her Aunt Prudence would have thought of Adam King. She smiled, knowing that her beloved mentor would find the man intriguing. Her thoughts slipped back in time to Aunt Prue’s large house in London where she and Cissy had spent the years after their mother’s death. Before Mrs. Pickering’s calamitous visit to the continent, the family had enjoyed happier seasons at their country estate. But after she died, their father’s business and his failing health had forced Emma and Cissy to the city.

Emma redirected her thoughts from her father to the memory of her clandestine ventures to the Nightingale Training School for nurses at St. Thomas’s Hospital. In a year’s time, she had attended all the required lectures and worked with patients under the supervision of the ward sister. Like the other new nurses, she enjoyed the culminating event of her training—an invitation to take tea with Florence Nightingale herself.

Miss Nightingale had told Emma that at age seventeen, while in the gardens of her home in Embley, she had experienced a call from God. Emma felt a similar divine urging. She intended to imitate Miss Nightingale who had never married, preferring to spend her time writing books and overseeing the nursing school.

When Godfrey Pickering’s daughters learned his business was to take him to Africa, they had pleaded to go along. Cissy was eager for the adventure. Emma viewed the journey as God’s open door to escape her father and find a mission hospital.

“And how is the railway progressing, Mr. Bond?” Pickering’s voice broke into Emma’s thoughts.

“Quite well, despite a few setbacks.” Nicholas hesitated a moment. “Did you receive the letter about the lions?”

“Lions? No, what about them?”

“We’ve had a bit of trouble, sir. Farther north, in the Tsavo area…” Nicholas glanced at Cissy. “Perhaps we should discuss it later.”

Emma sat up straight. What was this about lions? The Englishman’s classic profile, pale against the black trolley hood, revealed a subtle tension.

“Do speak frankly, Mr. Bond,” Emma told him. “My sister and I are familiar with railway business.”

Nicholas cleared his throat. “It appears…it is quite clear, that lions have taken to…to raiding the workers’ camps.”

“Raiding?” Cissy spoke up. Her eyes darted from Emma to Nicholas. “Whatever can you mean, Mr. Bond?”

His cheeks suffused an awkward pink color. “The lions…two of them…have become man-eaters.”

Cissy gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Emma touched the foreman’s arm. “Mr. Bond, are you telling us that lions have been killing…and eating rail workers?”

“Do let us discuss this later, sir,” Pickering cut in. “Your first instinct was correct. Such conversation has no place in the company of ladies.”

“I quite agree, sir.” A thin line of perspiration trickled from Nicholas Bond’s sideburn. “The situation is righting itself even as we speak. Lieutenant Colonel Patterson has tackled the problem head on. Your daughters have nothing to fear, I assure you.”

“Have you need for additional personnel or munitions? I can telegraph for the funds from England if need be.”

“No, no.” Nicholas shook his head. “It is under control.”

Emma heard her father give a brief harrumph. This lion business was no small thing. With laborers huddling in fear of their lives, work should be stopped. But her father would never halt the race against the Germans toward Lake Victoria. Surrender was not an option.

Looking out again, she saw that the trolley had taken them into the narrow, cobblestone streets of Mombasa town. Flat-roofed two-story houses sagged upon one another as if weary of standing in the blazing heat. Corroded iron balconies thrust out over the street. Wooden doors, carved in geometric shapes and studded with brass, stood open to let in air.

“This is the business sector,” Nicholas said, his voice stronger now. “Luxurious wares arrive from the Far East on dhows—the small trading ships you saw in the harbor. They sail the monsoon winds up and down the coast. Ah, here we are…”

The trolley rolled up to an iron gate, and the four passengers descended. The grounds of the compound were a sea of lush grass dotted with islands of orange and blue birds of paradise, deep purple bougainvilleas and green philodendrons.