The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer

a revolver. She faced her father as he advanced.

      “Where is he?” Godfrey demanded, his voice hard. “Where’s King?”

      “Adam King?” Emma struggled to feign surprise. She stepped back toward the curtains and her fingertips grazed the gun on the table behind her. “Whatever would make you think we know where Mr. King is?”

      “Honestly, Father.” Cissy put on her best pout. “We’ve just been eating our breakfast and dressing for the train.”

      “Priscilla, do not lie to me.” Pickering strode across the room and flung open the wardrobe doors. “Adam King was here—at the consulate. We know that.”

      “He did send a note,” Cissy ran on. “He wanted to speak with Emma, but she refused him.”

      Pickering glowered at Emma. She brushed a hand over her swollen cheek. “Cissy is telling the truth, Father.”

      “Emmaline, if I learn you have lied to me, you will never know the end of my anger.” Her father pulled a derringer from his coat pocket before calling out again. “If you’re in here, King, I shall see you dead before I rest.”

      As their father stormed out of the room, both girls turned to the window. The gravel road was empty, only a faint cloud of dust in a thin trail above it.

      “You should have gone with him, Emma.” Cissy’s arm stole around her sister’s shoulder. “He swore to protect you and he has an ill friend in great need of your help.”

      Remembering the letter she had read the day before, Emma wondered who this friend could be. A woman? A mistress? Surely not. Or could that be the sort of evil Nicholas Bond had been referring to?

      Adam had told her he was not married. But Nicholas had branded him a liar. Which man had spoken the truth?

      Emma closed her eyes and breathed out a sigh. As she inhaled, she drank in the morning—the fresh air and the lingering scent of leather.