glad to hear it.” She made a desperate attempt to calm her fluttering stomach. “Please tell this man he must find a doctor as soon as he can. A surgeon if at all possible.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, ma’am. He won’t be able to afford the treatment.”
“He should have stitches.” Dismayed, she shook her head. “Please tell him to wash the wound in fresh water. And keep it wrapped in cloths—clean ones, mind you.”
The stranger listened intently, then turned his focus from her and addressed the wide-eyed patient in a string of incomprehensible syllables.
“What did you tell him?” Emma asked.
“What you said, but he won’t do it. He’ll visit the mganga—the local medicine man—and get some homemade remedies. He’ll be all right.”
“Medicine man? You mean a witch doctor? But that’s dreadful—”
“Emmaline Ann Pickering, what do you think you’re doing?” A familiar voice growled overhead. Hard fingers clamped around Emma’s shoulders.
She cried out as she was jerked to her feet. The wounded man’s head slid from her lap to the ground as Emma confronted a pair of hard gray eyes.
“Father.”
Godfrey Pickering scanned his daughter from head to toe. “Explain yourself, girl.”
“I was helping…” Suddenly faint, she realized her serious lapse in judgment. Any effort to justify her actions would fall on deaf ears, but she must try. “This poor man was badly hurt and—”
“Emmaline, look at yourself,” Pickering ordered.
She glanced down at her silk skirt, now dusty and spotted with blood. Her puffed sleeves had collapsed, all the air gone out of them like a pair of burst bubbles. A wisp of hair had slipped from beneath her velvet hat to curl down her arm. Attempting to find a pin and tuck up the stray tress, Emma focused on her father’s red face.
“How do you do, sir?” she murmured, dipping a slight curtsy. She had no choice but to play the demure daughter. “I hope I find you well.”
Her father’s portly chest rose in an annoyed sigh. “Emmaline, do attempt to conduct yourself in the manner to which you were raised. I should like you to meet the assistant director of the East Africa Railway, Mr. Nicholas Bond. Mr. Bond, my elder daughter, Miss Pickering.”
A gentleman with brown hair, hazel eyes and a pleasant face stepped forward to extend a gloved hand. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Pickering.”
Emma knitted her bare fingers for a moment, then held out her hand. “Mr. Bond, my pleasure. Do forgive me—I seem to have misplaced my gloves.”
“Not at all.” His lips brushed the back of her hand. “I’m dreadfully sorry you’ve had such a rude introduction to the protectorate.”
“A rude introduction?” Emma turned her eyes to the injured man again. He was sitting up, picking at the cotton bandage. “Such a mishap could hardly have been predicted, sir.”
The American gentleman who had assisted Emma earlier now stood and removed his black hat. He glanced at Mr. Bond as if expecting an introduction. When he received no response, he shrugged and thrust out his hand.
“I’m Adam King, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”
Emma placed her hand in the large warm grasp. She studied his blue eyes, assessing and finding them sincere. “Emmaline Pickering. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Any time.” He continued to hold her hand. “You’re a nurse.”
“No, she is not a nurse,” Emma’s father broke in, taking her hand and setting it on his arm. “She is my daughter.”
“Mr. Pickering, may I speak plainly?” Nicholas Bond asked. “This man is unworthy of your acquaintance. Adam King is a troublemaker. He has been most unwelcome in Queen Victoria’s protectorate.”
“As bad as that, are you?” Mr. Pickering surveyed the American. “Perhaps I should know more about such an adversary.”
“Adam King. Rancher.” He held out his bare hand to the heavy-jowled man.
“Godfrey Pickering, director of the British Railway.” After a moment’s hesitation, he shook the extended hand. “Your name is familiar, Mr. King. Is your family occupied in a transportation industry, sir? Railway, perhaps, or shipping?”
Nicholas’s eyes darkened as he inserted his own answer. “I assure you, sir, this man is involved in no enterprise so honorable. His closest associates are uneducated farmers. He consorts with the native population—with savages of the lowest form.”
A flicker of anger briefly transformed the taller man’s features, but he made no reply. As the two men stared at each other in silence, Emma feared the confrontation would come to blows.
But Mr. Bond turned away with a nod. “If you will accompany me, Mr. Pickering, we shall make our way back to the ship and see that your baggage is sent directly to government quarters. Miss Pickering will be eager to prepare for tonight’s reception in honor of her father. Indeed, I should be honored to escort you myself. May I have the pleasure?”
Taken aback by Nicholas’s cutting remarks about the American who had been of such help to her, Emma nonetheless put on a smile. “How kind, Mr. Bond. I had no idea there was to be a reception.”
“It’s not every day the protectorate is graced with a dignitary of your father’s rank. We rarely have such charming company as you and your sister.”
With that he crooked his elbow for her to take. Reluctant to leave Adam King so abruptly, Emma nevertheless slipped her hand around the railway director’s arm. But as she lifted her skirt, she turned back to the Texan. Nicholas had no choice but to pause.
“Mr. King,” she said quietly. “Again, I thank you for your assistance.”
The rancher nodded.
“Will the two men be all right, Mr. King?”
Adam’s eyes met hers. “They will, Miss Pickering. I’ll make sure of it.”
“And the child—the one you lifted onto your horse?” For some reason, she wanted him to know she had seen him save the boy.
He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “He’s with his mother.”
“Your actions belie your reputation, sir,” she said. “I’m glad. Good day, Mr. King.”
Without meeting his disturbing gaze again, Emma allowed herself to be led up the gangway and back onto the ship. Spotting Cissy at the rail, she disengaged herself from Mr. Bond, who was eager to accompany her father toward the myriad trunks and hatboxes emerging from below deck.
Joining Cissy, Emma noted her sister’s damp cheeks. “What is it, dearest? Are you ill again?”
Clutching her hankie tightly in one fist, the younger woman gripped the railing
