nurse?” The flicker of a frown crossed his face. “Nursing is an unusual pastime for a woman of your standing, is it not, Miss Pickering?”
“Pastime? Nursing is my vocation, Mr. Bond.”
“Strong words for a strong belief. I like conviction in a woman.”
Emma glanced up at him in surprise. Although Nicholas seemed sincere, she wondered whether he spoke the truth. If so, he was a rare man, indeed.
A disturbance in the hall drew his attention, and he paused in the dance. Emma took the opportunity to study this railway officer who so admired her father.
Nicholas Bond wore a finely tailored black suit with a tailcoat and white gloves, and his stiff white collar stood fashionably high. Not a bad looking fellow at all. Just the sort to turn Cissy’s thoughts from her German soldier.
As for her own feelings about the man, Emma had only one mission in mind. “Mr. Bond,” she ventured. “Can you tell me where I might find a hospital in the protectorate? I’m hoping to—”
“Excuse me, Miss Pickering.” He released her and took a step toward the door, his eyes on something at a distance.
Emma followed his gaze across the room. As the dancers ceased moving and all attention turned to the hallway, the musicians broke off in awkward discord. Voices, arguing and growing louder, carried into the ballroom. A group of agitated men surrounded a figure who rose head and shoulders above them.
Emma caught her breath as she recognized Adam King. The American. The cowboy. His blue eyes surveyed the crowd until they met hers. His focus unwavering, he took off his black hat and started across the room in her direction. Instantly the commotion began again.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Delamere’s voice rose over the hubbub.
“Sir, this man insists on entering the consulate without invitation,” a servant explained apologetically.
“Adam King?” Lord Delamere blinked in confusion. “I had no idea you were in Mombasa.”
The taller man halted. “I’m here, D. Mind if I join you?”
“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
