Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “You might care to marry someday, though,” George Bonham said. “And for that you need society.”

  “And how would a fox-hunting gentleman fit into our travel schedule? You know their entire existence revolves around the hunt seasons, race seasons, Cowes, Mayfair, Scotland in the fall …” Her voice trailed off. “I like the freedom of our life,” Flora added with firm conviction.

  “If your mother had lived … perhaps she could have better explained about the necessity—”

  “For what Papa?” Flora interposed. “Propriety? Fashionable custom? You told me yourself Mama ran off with you the day after she met you.” Flora smiled. “She’d approve of my life, as you well know. Didn’t she always accompany you abroad? Wasn’t I born on a freighter off the China coast? My disregard for rules can probably be traced to Mama’s emancipated inclinations.”

  “She was a darling,” the earl fondly recalled.

  “And you never found another quite like her in all the ladies who have so ardently pursued you over the years.” At fifty-six the earl was still a handsome man. Tall, lean, tanned from years out of doors, his sun-streaked sandy hair only lightly touched with gray at the temples, he’d always attracted female interest.

  “No,” he quietly replied. “Your mother was very special.”

  They’d had this conversation, or a variation of it, often over the years, her father’s concern for her happiness a constant. And each time she’d reassured him, genuinely content with her peripatetic life.

  “If I ever find someone I care about in that unique way, Papa, I’ll marry him, but since I can’t have children, there’s no pressing reason to marry someone simply to be married.”

  “Perhaps the doctors are wrong.”

  “A dozen of them in countries as far afield as Greece and Turkey? I doubt it. The virulent fever in Alexandria that summer nearly killed me. I’m fortunate to be alive.”

  “Amen to that.” The earl still shuddered at how close he’d come to losing his sixteen-year-old daughter that steamy July. She’d hovered near death for almost a week, and only the skill of the Greek and Arab doctors had saved her.

  “And consider, Papa, the cast of suitors in my life. They’re all well-bred and charming but hardly impassioned or interesting enough to touch my heart.”

  “Not even the Comte de Chastellux?” her father queried with a faint smile. “Your walk in the garden at Judge Parkman’s caused some comment.”

  She found herself blushing. “I’m old enough to do as I please, Papa,” she softly remonstrated, “regardless of strangers’ comments.”

  “I’ve no argument, darling,” he quietly reassured her. “Your independence is as important to me as it is to you. And if your mama were alive, she’d have you quoting all her favorite female authors on gender equality. I was just wondering if Adam Serre might have touched your heart a bit more than the London blades.”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, trying to understand herself precisely why he attracted her so. The obvious physical reasons didn’t account for the intense degree of his allure. “I think he may have touched some emotion …,” she slowly declared, “although I’m not sure what or why.” Her smile shone for a moment in the lavender twilight. “He’s unutterably handsome, you have to agree.”

  “All your suitors are handsome,” her father said.

  “He’s not a suitor.”

  “Perhaps that’s the attraction,” the earl suggested, his tone cautionary. “His reputation is thoroughly wild.”

  “Papa, surely not that tone from you, when Auntie Sarah says your rakish ways were what attracted Mama.”

  Lord Haldane grinned. “Ummm,” he teasingly murmured. “Is it too late to caution you to prudence?”

  “Years too late, I’m afraid,” Flora answered with a wide smile. “And you know as well as I do that my fortune protects me.”

  “As it did your mother. Which is precisely why she saw that you had control of it.”

  “Dear Mama knew the merits of the title ‘heiress.’ So any or all of Virginia City may gossip till doomsday while I do as I wish.”

  “As long as you’re happy, darling, I’m content.”

  “Then rest easy, Papa. My life is perfection.”

  They spoke then of more mundane matters, discussing the number of horses they planned to purchase from Adam, debating whether to send some back to England for the hunt season.

  “Adam’s jumper bloodstock reminds me of the German hunters out of Schleswig-Holstein,” George Bonham remarked. “Their quality is superb.”

  “I like that huge bay best. Lucie tells me she can go over a six-foot jump without breathing hard.” Flora smiled. “For a three-year-old, Lucie’s amazingly knowledgeable about horses.”

  “Not so amazing considering her father’s primary interest. He’s been seriously breeding horses for almost ten years, I’m told.” Lifting his glass, the earl pointed at a rising dust cloud on the horizon. Shimmering in the remnants of the sunset, the filmy haze expanded, drifting westward. “Someone’s riding fast in this direction,” George Bonham said, emptying his glass before setting it aside. He rose to gain a better view.

  “A large party, from the amount of dust they’re kicking up.” Flora’s gaze was trained on the approaching riders.

  As they watched, the moving pale vapor slowly drew near until mounted men could be distinguished from riderless horses against the yellow sky, and as they advanced closer, it became possible to distinguish their Indian regalia. Twenty-some riders were galloping toward the ranch, leading several strings of horses in their wake, the staccato rhythm of hoofs audible now.

  The party didn’t slow as it rode up the long hill to the gate, its progress a steady, pounding flow over the last rise, like an inexorable pulsing stream. Flora stood up in a reflexive startle reaction at the excessive speed of the advancing horsemen, gauging the diminishing distance between herself and the thundering mounts.

  Their leader rode full out toward the green lawn bordering the terrace as if he’d misjudged the distance and the position of the small group of servants assembling where the lawn met the gravel drive.

  “He’s going to ride over those servants!” Flora exclaimed in a suppressed whisper.

  But the lead warrior painted fearsomely in black and green hauled his horse to a plunging stop with breathless precision just short of the motionless group of servants, his men following him in perfect drill. And when the dust settled, with a small shock of recognition, Flora distinguished Adam beneath the dark, spectral war paint. Laughing in the midst of his men, he was exchanging genial congratulations with them and jovially greeting his servants as though war parties were no more than a casual country ride.

  His fierce image of war precluded such a prosaic activity, however, Flora thought, gazing at his forbidding appearance. His powerful body was nude above his leggings and fully painted, his face and form vivid with alternate areas of black and green, accented by red stripes across his forehead and nose, by red hash marks descending symmetrically down his chest and arms. His long hair swirled loose on his shoulders as he turned to talk to one man and then another, his smile starkly white against the black paint on his face. A rifle and bandoliers slung over his bare chest and back gave evidence of the seriousness of the raiding party. This wasn’t the charming Comte de Chastellux she’d met in Virginia City.

  In the animated flurry of the celebrating troop one warrior first noticed Flora standing on the shadowed veranda—her pale gown and fair skin luminous in the darkening gloom. His arrested glance drew attention, and as others in turn regarded the ethereal sight, a gradual silence descended over the bantering camaraderie, like ripples moving across the surface of a pond.

  Engrossed in conversation, Adam didn’t notice the growing quiet until a companion called his attention to the visitors. When he saw her, his smile instantly vanished. What was she doing here? He was expecting the earl, not Flora. As he gazed at her across the deepening twilight, despite the shock of her
appearance, lurid possibilities immediately raced through his mind—graphic, carnal images—all as swiftly discarded; he was a practical man. But he struggled against the adrenaline of combat still pumping through his veins, the high-strung excitement of a successful raid impelling an incautious energy that pressed the bounds of reason.

  And she was here.

  After nights of erotic dreams and suppressed desire, she stood in virginal white on his veranda—so close he could touch her. Taking a restraining breath, he handed his reins to the man beside him, slid from his horse, and moved toward his guests.

  “Forgive the raucous entry,” he said as he neared the terrace, his moccasined feet silent on the grass, “but it’s always good to be home. And forgive me for not being here when you arrived, but we had to ride halfway to the Canadian border before we found our horses.” He looked at George Bonham as he spoke, his impulses too uncertain, his return to the niceties of etiquette still too recent to risk a sustained appraisal of Flora at close range. Absarokee culture would allow him to take her away without constraints. He found the sudden adjustment difficult.

  “Those are prime horses,” the earl said. “I would have gone after them too. No need to apologize. We’ve received every hospitality.” In his wide travels he’d seen men in war regalia before. Adam’s appearance gave him no pause. “Your daughter served as a very gracious hostess,” he finished.

  “You’ve met Lucie, then.” Adam’s smile was that of a fond father.

  “She’s a darling child,” Flora said, her voice oddly hushed. The sight of Adam’s powerful body covered with war paint and the accoutrements of combat overwhelmed her despite her cosmopolitan background, despite her familiarity with native cultures. Perhaps the sight of bloodstains on his leggings or the fact that the bandoliers crossed on his chest were almost empty of shells struck her with the grim reality of his mission.

  He gazed at her briefly, his dark eyes shrouded by black paint, shuttered against his audacious feelings as well. “Thank you,” he quietly said. “She’s the joy of my life.” Then, glancing around at the melee of men and mounts on the gravel drive, he added, “If you’ll excuse me for a brief time, I’ll see to my friends and let Lucie know I’ve returned. Then I’ll meet you in the drawing room in … say half an hour. You’ll be more comfortable inside with the sun down.”

  He hadn’t intended the last comment to sound so personal, but somehow it did, as if he were intimately concerned with the cool air on Flora’s skin.

  “Don’t worry about entertaining us,” the earl interjected. “Flora and I are perfectly capable of seeing to ourselves. If you’d prefer waiting till morning … please do.”

  “No,” Adam countered. “I’ll be down shortly.” He shouldn’t, of course; he should never come within a mile of Flora Bonham. But she looked particularly beautiful in white silk and pearls—and he was more familiar with doing what he pleased than with what he should. “Depending on Lucie’s plans,” he added with a grin, and bowing faintly, he took his leave.

  He wore pink shell earrings, Flora noticed as his hair swung away when he straightened from his bow, the delicate shells a striking contrast to his intense masculinity, to the war paint and weapons.

  She felt an overpowering urge to touch them.

  But the earrings were gone when Adam arrived in the drawing room some time later, though faint traces of black paint subtly shadowed his eyes. He wore an open-neck shirt of carmine wool, leather trousers, and moccasins; his hair was damp from his bath, pulled back, and tied at the nape of his neck, giving him the clean, scrubbed look of a schoolboy. But when he sank into one of Isolde’s pastel chairs, his harsh masculinity the antithesis of the delicate rococo design, any impression of schoolboy innocence vanished. “Lucie’s enjoyed your company immensely,” he said, smiling. “Thank you for giving her so much attention.”

  “Our pleasure,” the earl graciously replied. “She reminds me of Flora at that age. We were in Venice once when—”

  “Don’t begin one of those embarrassing stories now, Papa …,” Flora warned lightly. “I’m sure no one’s interested.”

  “I expect you were a handful,” Adam said, more interested than he wished to be in the beautiful Lady Flora.

  “I was simply curious as a child. Like Lucie. In fact, we spent some time today in your library perusing the Montana maps, checking possible directions you may have taken. She’s been waiting for your return since morning.”

  “It shouldn’t have taken us so long.” Adam rubbed his forehead briefly with his palm and then reached out for the liquor decanter on the table beside his chair.

  “You look tired,” Flora said, surprised to hear herself sound like a wife.

  Adam looked up swiftly as he poured his drink, the tenor of her voice not sounding wifely to him but bewitchingly intimate. “There’s not much time to sleep on the trail,” he replied, schooling his voice to a mild neutrality, forcing his thoughts away from contemplation of intimacy with Flora Bonham. “And we’ve been traveling for three days,” he added. Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drank a long draught of bourbon, feeling suddenly as if he needed fortification.

  “Did the Blackfeet take your horses?” George Bonham inquired.

  Adam nodded. “They’re consistent marauders of our herds, but they decided to abandon the horses when we overtook them.” He made it sound casual and benign, unlike the running skirmish contested over thirty miles of rough terrain. “Have you had a chance to look at our stud?” he inquired, not wishing to discuss the raid; white women invariably asked questions he didn’t care to answer.

  “I think we’ve seen it all,” the earl answered. “You’ve built an impressive operation here. The question is,” he went on, “which of your beauties we can come to an agreement on. Flora particularly likes the big bay jumper.”

  She hunts, then, Adam thought, adding another fragment to his picture of the intriguing Miss Bonham.

  “And Papa thinks he might be able to give the Earl of Huntley a run for his money at Ascot with that sleek black racer you have. Harry won last year and Papa is out for revenge.”

  “We’ve clocked that black at one forty-six for a mile,” Adam said. “He’s damned fast.”

  “Lucie told us,” Flora’s father said. “She knows most of the racers’ times.”

  “That’s because she handles the stopwatch at the trials,” Adam explained, as if it were normal for three-year-olds to understand stopwatches. “You’re not thinking of Ascot this year, are you? Arrangements for shipping the horse would be tight.”

  “No. We’ll be here in the Yellowstone valley most of the summer. Provided the clans don’t become annoyed with my constant inquiries and scrutiny.”

  Adam shrugged. “I think you’ll find the majority of Absarokee cooperative. Our culture has a long tradition of contact with whites.”

  “With your own history a case in point,” the earl remarked with a smile.

  “Exactly. My father was here with Prince Maximilian in the early 1830’s.2 But he wasn’t the first by any means. The smaller population of the Absarokee in relation to the large tribes surrounding them has always made it prudent for them to attempt an amiable relationship with the whites and government.3 A matter of necessity, though neither can be trusted when it comes to land. Against the possibility of future treaty negotiations, my father saw that he had title to this area by act of Congress. Not that I don’t have to convince intruders on occasion that this entire valley is mine,” he added.

  “The new cattlemen, no doubt,” George Bonham noted.

  “The new cattlemen,” Adam agreed with a minute sigh. “They see this Indian land as free range, regardless that the treaty last year to bring roads up the Yellowstone was never ratified, and this country is all within the limits of Absarokee tribal lands.”4

  “Do they see you as an Indian as well?” Flora asked. “Forgive me if it’s inappropriate to ask, but you seem very comfortable with your heritage.”

  “It always h
elps to have money in this world,” Adam replied without any evidence of discomfort at her query. “And a title’s not to be discounted for its value in fashionable society, which,” he noted with a grin, “we have in Montana, too, as you witnessed in the elite assemblage of notable people at Judge Parkman’s.” He was smiling broadly now. “So the color of my skin and the length of my hair count for much less than my wealth and the quarterings on my family crest.”

  “How unusual,” Flora sardonically noted. Having a broad cultural understanding, she viewed the pretensions of society with well-founded cynicism and privately considered that Adam’s reputation with a gun may have been added reason for the tolerant viewpoint of Virginia City’s fashionable that night at Judge Parkman’s.

  “Are you an advocate of the simple life, then?” he insolently inquired, taking in her couturier gown and jewels, her languid pose, the glass of champagne in her hand.

  “Often I am,” she softly replied, responding to his tone and his jaundiced gaze. “I expect you knew how to use a fish fork from a young age and didn’t refuse your inheritance, either. It doesn’t make me like all the rest.”

  “Are we going to have a discussion on democracy?” the earl inquired, amusement in his eyes. “At least you both had American mothers, which should better qualify you to argue the topic.”

  “Really, Papa,” Flora remonstrated cordially. “No one’s arguing. It’s too fine a night to disagree. Would you like another cognac?”

  “No, I still have my journal entries to write.” The earl set his empty glass down. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll find my way upstairs. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said to Adam. “And don’t stay up too late, Flora,” he reminded her, his admonition a fatherly platitude of long standing.

  “I won’t, Papa.”

  As her father walked from the room, Adam said, “Do you tend to stay up late?”