The Maverick's Bride by Catherine Palmer

Author:Catherine Palmer
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Steeple Hill
Published: 1988-10-27T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Emma clutched the green velvet chatelaine bag in her lap and focused on the long rows of palm trees as Adam set the horses in motion. Despite the carriage top, the afternoon sun beat down on them, and humidity curled the tendrils of hair around her neck.

Velvet and silk, Adam thought to himself, were not a practical choice for this outing. Khaki and cotton would have served her better. And a different hat.

“What have you got stuck on that hat, anyway?” he asked.

Emma kept her eyes averted and spoke in a clipped voice. “Two ostrich feathers, a rosette of purple taffeta and a rhinestone buckle.”

“Fetching,” he remarked.

Arching one eyebrow, she glanced at him. “Too bad if you don’t like it. I purchased it at the finest milliner’s in London. Cissy adored it, although our aunt thought it dreadful.”

“Maybe you should have listened to your aunt.”

Seated close beside Emma on the buggy bench, he felt her stiffen. He tried not to grin. Something about watching Emma get mad tickled him. Maybe it was that pretty shade of pink in her cheeks.

“Aunt Prue would go in search of Cissy without a second thought,” Emma spoke up. “Nothing would stop her.”

“She enjoyed a good adventure, then? Like her niece.”

“My aunt had few opportunities for daring. She was married at seventeen to Uncle Theodore. Forced into the role society had predestined for her. She was beautiful and the daughter of a wealthy industrialist, you see.”

“So she had no choice?”

“None whatsoever. But she slaked her thirst for intrigue by reading novels and attending lectures of the African Association. Aunt Prue would approve of my decisions.”

Relief eased the tightness in Adam’s chest as she spoke. Staying on safe subjects, he realized, would keep him out of trouble—the kind of trouble that made him want to take Emma into his arms.

“So, how do you like my buggy?” he asked. “I got her three months ago.”

“Very nice,” Emma replied, giving the carriage a perfunctory examination.

“It’s a Stanhope. Made in Ohio.”

“I see.”

“It’s got wrought-iron sill plates and full-length body loops.” He was warming to the subject now, glad to fill the awkward silence between them. “I ordered the Sarven’s patent wheels, although the shell band hub wheels would have been just as good. One of the things I like best about this particular carriage is the elliptic end springs.”

“Elliptic end springs, did you say? Fancy that.”

“I chose the Brewster-green color. Thought it might look better in the bush. And I knew the full-spring cushion and back would help out on these rough roads.”

“How lovely.”

“I considered a surrey, but you know, they can be tricky to handle in rough terrain. Probably should have gotten a mountain wagon. Costs about the same. I thought about it long and hard, but then—”

“We have a Stanhope in London.” Emma was studying the narrow whitewashed buildings along streets that led to the Arab market in Mombasa. “I adore a Stanhope for calling. One hasn’t the energy to climb in and out of a surrey all afternoon.

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