The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer

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,