Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  How simple he made it all sound, how uncomplicated by the tumult of emotions jostling in her mind. “I’m not used to this, Adam,” Flora murmured, her hostility muted by his sincerity, her resentment draining away. “I’m not familiar with loving someone, with this insane jealousy.” She sighed. “I hate myself for acting like one of the spoiled ladies I always found so childish. I apologize.” Her smile gleamed in the moonlight. “At least I didn’t make a scene during dinner.”

  “I appreciate your restraint. You saved me from relentless teasing. A man is supposed to be able to control his woman.”

  “Heaven forbid I should embarrass you.” A small snap had reentered her voice.

  “Truce, darling,” Adam quickly replied. “That’s just a male viewpoint. The women have their own perspective. Although we both know who’s in charge,” he softly went on, “don’t we?”

  “I think so,” Flora sweetly replied.

  “The strongest one,” Adam whispered, swiftly rolling over and pinning her body to the ground.

  “The smartest one,” Flora breathed, reaching up to brush his mouth with her lips.

  “The strongest and smartest,” Adam murmured, shifting so his weight rested on his elbow, lifting her skirt slowly so the cool night air bathed her legs. “Ummm, you feel luscious.…” His hand drifted higher, sliding between her legs, his fingertips touching her pouty softness.

  She raised her hips the slightest small distance, so his fingertip slid in a fractional degree, so he felt her damp heat, her readiness. “I was wondering,” she breathed, her voice a sultry contralto, “if I worded this properly, if I appealed to your masculine strength with just the right degree of deference, whether you might … make love to me.” Caressing the long, hard length of his arousal, her fingers slid over the sleek leather of his leggings until she reached the distended crest of his erection and she squeezed.

  His groan trembled deep in his throat, and she watched his eyes drift shut. “It’s just a thought,” she murmured, maintaining the pressure of her fingers. After a very long interval, while he shuddered under her hand, he reached down to release her hold, his eyes slowly opened, and, gazing down at her with a tilted smile, he murmured, “I’m convinced.”

  “You see.” Her smile was demure, like an innocent young maid.

  He laughed. “Your point, darling,” he graciously said, “but I have a feeling the tables may be reversed later”—his amused glance deliberately surveyed her—“when you’re, shall we say, intensely interested in … orgasm.”

  “You’re ungallant.”

  “But currently available.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “Why don’t we see …” He slid his fingers deep inside her and gently stroked, her response instant, as he knew it would be.

  “Ummm …” Her breathing had altered. “Maybe we … could reach some … agreement.”

  “I’m listening.” It was a delicious game under a moonlit summer sky. “What are you willing to give up?”

  Everything, she thought, to feel you inside me. “I’ll think of something tomorrow,” she evasively said instead. “Take these off.” And she began tugging at the tie to his leggings.

  Withdrawing his fingers, he covered her hand with his, staying her effort. “I don’t think so,” he gently said. “You’re not cooperating.”

  A small silence ensued, and then she said so softly he barely heard her, “I won’t be difficult about Spring Lily.”

  He smiled. It was an enormous concession. “And I’ll let you give orders,” he said with a reciprocatory charm.

  “How nice.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are we going to move on to other things now?”

  “I was thinking we would.”

  “What if people see us?” The grassy knoll overlooking the river was exposed if anyone were to stroll down the bank.

  “Would you rather not?” He already knew the answer. “You’re too damned casual.”

  He’d had much practice, he thought, but in lieu of that controversial note, he said instead, “I’ll cover you.”

  “I’d like that,” she whispered, wanting to feel him over her and on her and inside her, wanting to be overwhelmed, wanting to feel his strong back under her hands, wanting the power of his violent, unrestrained desire to make her weak with longing.

  “Hurry,” she said.

  “We’ve all night. I don’t have to hurry.”

  “You do for me.” A small heated tempest underscored her words.

  “Ummm …,” he murmured with a smile. “This sounds familiar. Are you going to be sexually demanding?”

  “Always.”

  His lashes drifted down so his eyes were narrowed shadows. “I like the sound of that.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “That must be why I love you.” And then his expression changed, the moonlight exposing a gentle tenderness. “For that and for a thousand other reasons too,” he said in a velvety whisper.

  “Or ten thousand,” Flora softly murmured. “I’m defenseless,” she breathed as his lips brushed hers. “Helpless in love.”

  “And I’m here to help you,” he whispered, his voice husky, seductive. Reaching for the tie on his leggings, he pulled the leather knot open.

  Impatient, driven by strange impulses coursing through her blood, Flora stripped her skirt off in economical, swift gestures, slipped her blouse and chemise over her head in one frantic tug that ripped the delicate dimity undergarment.

  “Is this a race?” Adam teased, taking the torn chemise and blouse from her hand, dropping them onto the grass.

  She took a deep breath to steady the reckless heat flooding her body. “I think it might be,” she said, her voice softly tremulous. “Do you mind?”

  He smiled. “Darling, it’s every man’s dream.”

  “Well, then,” she said with the barest touch of impertinence.

  He laughed. “Apparently the lady isn’t interested in foreplay.”

  “Adam—!” The sound was somewhere between an order and a wail.

  She was orgasmic the moment Adam entered her.

  The absolute frantic first second.

  As though her senses were aflame, as if love overwhelmed all rational thought, as if the trigger to orgasmic delight that moonlit night was Adam’s simple presence. Briefly shaken by her instant, staggering climax, she wondered how defenseless she’d become because of love. But Adam was still hard inside her, filling her, stretching her, and within seconds—cerebral debate was obscured by more intense, immediate pleasure.

  She minutely shifted her hips, absorbed the unabashedly luxurious tremor, and then languidly stirred again, searching for reaffirmation of the delirious sensation.

  Accomplished at recognizing female appeal no matter how voiceless, Adam deftly responded, moving gently inside her, exploring the silken perimeters of her heated interior, carefully at first in deference to her recent orgasm, and then less gently.

  She came again, almost at once, and he took note after her third swift climax how impetuous her response, how fevered. And gallantly, he brought her to orgasm twice more before he sought his own release. Rendered almost insensible by the explosive assault on her senses, by the agonizing pleasure, Flora lay adrift from the reality of the summer night, transported to a delectable, sensual world, her mind absorbed by the pulsing rapture strumming through her body. When she finally opened her eyes, blinking against the brilliant moonlight, she gazed at Adam lying beside her and whispered, “I love you too much. I’m dizzy with longing. I crave your touch, your kisses, your sex.” Her dark eyes looked up at him with awestruck trepidation, as aware as he of her frenzied response. “It’s terrifying.”

  “It’s love, darling,” Adam softly said, as if she’d wakened frightened from a dream, touching her cheek with a gentle brushing finger, understanding the frantic need, the ungovernable feelings, the intoxication that made one forget even the deep-seated fear of marriage.

  “Tell me
you’ll always love me.” She’d never felt such disquietude; she’d never felt as though she were complete only in his arms. “I must be tired,” she uneasily added, wanting an intelligible reason for her vulnerability.

  “I’ll always love you,” he simply said, sympathetic to her emotional struggle; he’d engaged in a similar one in Saratoga. “I’ll love you beyond the slippery log,” he softly added, his voice hushed like the summer night. “Beyond the mountaintops … now, this minute—tomorrow … and through eternity.”

  “Good,” she said with a small sigh. “Are you sure? Oh, Lord,” she restlessly murmured, “I feel so strange.…”

  “Love is like a living force,” Adam softly said. “It stimulates and agitates, it colors every aspect of the world. It makes the flowers sweeter, the sky bluer, alters the meaning of happiness—”

  “—precipitously ends a life of restless journeying,” Flora quietly interjected.

  “Or gives immeasurable joy to a life,” Adam said. “We’ve found each other; we’ll share a future together. It needn’t be terrifying.” He added with a smile, “I’m looking forward to your taste in furniture.”

  “Anything that folds, can be packed, or Henry can buy in transit.” Her mouth pursed slightly. “Which means some adjustments are in order if I’m experiencing this radical compulsion to put down roots.”

  “Anyone who can shoot their way through Chinese bandits will manage competently, I’m sure,” Adam assured her.

  “This bewilderment is temporary, then.”

  “You’re probably still fatigued from our long journey west,” he politely said, respectful of her uncertainties. “Would you like to sleep? Here or in the lodge?”

  “Actually, no.” Her voice was touched with a familiar heated allure, one undeniable certainty pulsing through her blood.

  “Really …,” he playfully drawled.

  “Are you tired?” Reaching over, she ran her palm over his broad shoulder, down his muscled torso, his ribs marginally evident since his illness. “Would you mind, then … I mean—if you’re really not too tired … although I realize maybe it’s too soon—”

  “Look,” he said, interrupting her tactful rush of words, glancing downward.

  “Oh—” A small sound of astonishment.

  “Anytime, darling.”

  She smiled in the moonlight, an innocent smile of artless joy. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Toward morning, after a night of memorable sensation, Adam rolled over on the crushed grass, rummaged through his clothing, and handed Flora a small beaded pouch. “I meant to give you this after our guests left.”

  “But I interrupted your plans.”

  He grinned. “No complaints, bia.”

  When she pulled the drawstring top open and tipped the leather bag upside down, a sparkling brooch fell into her hand.

  Bliss was written in diamonds on her palm. A delicate, simple design executed in very large gems. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, remembering the sweetness of their first night on the train.

  “You’re my bliss,” Adam quietly said. “I wanted you to know that.”

  “I’m going to cry,” Flora breathed, swallowing the rising lump in her throat. “I never cry.”

  “I don’t mind if you cry.” It always astonished him—the extent of her self-denial and strength. Sitting up and taking her in his arms, he cradled her the way he did Lucie when she was sad.

  “My emotions are in shambles,” she apologized, hic-cuping against his chest, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” She rubbed the tears from her cheeks. “I just love you so much.”

  “We’re even, then. Because I love you with the same ungovernable feeling. Tell me, do you like it?” He touched the twinkling diamonds lying in her hand, wanting to distract her from her sadness.

  “I adore it,” she murmured, licking away a tear that had funneled into the corner of her mouth. “I adore you madly for your sweetness, but how in the world … how did you—”

  “James did,” he interposed, wiping her cheeks with the back of his hand, kissing her gently on the forehead. “He had the pin made in Cheyenne while he was waiting for us. I telegraphed him instructions.”

  “Do you think we’re too lucky?” she asked, her voice shaky, oversensitive to every nuance of emotion, giddy with love, plagued by uncommon dread. Wondering in her strange new susceptibility if life was too perfect and recompense would be demanded.

  “No, we’re just truly lucky. Period,” Adam firmly said, his arms tightening around her. And he had every intention of seeing that their luck continued.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When Flora woke in the morning, she felt queasy, as if she’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her. But she resisted her mild nausea during breakfast, concentrating instead on Lucie’s questions, not wishing to alarm Adam. He’d immediately think cholera, and she was certain her unsettled stomach was less severe than the symptoms she’d seen on the train.

  When Adam left after breakfast to survey the horses they’d be racing later in the day, she and Lucie stayed in the coolness of the shaded lodge and practiced some of the new Absarokee phrases; the earl had taken notes on the previous night.

  A short time later their lessons were interrupted by Spring Lily and her children. “They couldn’t wait to play with Lucie,” Spring Lily explained, standing in the doorway. “Would you mind if we came in?”

  “Please do,” Flora politely said, her jealous fears put to rest last night. And she’d promised to be pleasant to her.

  When the children immediately ran off, Spring Lily entered the lodge, handing Flora a small willow bowl of sweetmeats made from berries, nuts, and syrup. “A peace offering,” she said with a smile.

  “Was I that obvious?” Flora replied with a slight blush, taking the bowl. “Forgive me. Adam told me how much you and your family mean to him.” Picking out a sweet, she put it in her mouth.

  “He has love only for you,” the slender, dark-haired woman said. “Everyone can see that. I’m pleased he’s found someone to make him happy. His wife ruined his life for too long, and now that she’s back, who knows what trouble she’s planning for him?”

  Flora choked on the sweet, shocked by the sudden disclosure. Isolde in Montana? Anarchy convulsed her brain. Her stomach seemed to lurch in reaction, and suddenly she felt her breakfast coming up. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she mumbled, “Excuse me,” and bolted from the lodge.

  Spring Lily found her a few moments later kneeling under a plum bush, her skin pale, a fine sweat on her face, her breakfast emptied on the ground.

  Handing Flora a wet cloth, Spring Lily helped her up and guided her back to the lodge. There, over only minor protest, she insisted Flora lie down.

  “I’m fine now,” Flora weakly said, resting on a bed of buffalo robes. Or as fine as she could be considering that trouble in the form of Adam’s wife was back in Montana. “Hearing of Isolde’s return was a—” She swallowed hard to repress the bile rising in her throat. “It was a surprise,” she whispered, nausea threatening to overtake her again.

  “Was your stomach unsettled this morning?” Spring Lily asked, ignoring her comment on Isolde, having long ago dismissed Adam’s wife as useless. She was more interested in the state of Flora’s health.

  “Just a little.”

  “Have you been sleeping more? Feeling tired?”

  “I have been tired, but our trip from Saratoga was draining, with both Lucie and Adam ill.” Flora took a tentative inhalation of fresh air. “As soon as we all have a few days of rest, I’m sure I’ll be less fatigued.”

  “Are your breasts tender?”

  The conversation had suddenly altered, Spring Lily’s last question decidedly personal. Or at least her stomach took it personally. When she’d repressed the sudden lurching amazement, she carefully said, “What are you asking?”

  “Forgive me if I’m interfering,” Spring Lily courteously replied, “but you have
that pale-greenish look of baby sickness, and I was curious. Adam would be pleased, I know. He adores children.”

  “It’s impossible.” But even as Flora said the word, another wave of nausea overwhelmed her, and she struggled up on her elbow, trying to tamp the sensation.

  “Let me make you a cup of tea. It helps.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong,” Flora whispered, trying to breathe slowly, as if the measured rhythm would mitigate the waves sloshing around in her stomach.

  “Just try some. With all my pregnancies I could never hold down anything in the morning the first three months unless I drank a cup of tea first.”

  “I mean you’re wrong about my being pregnant,” Flora murmured, leaning back on her elbows and shutting her eyes. “I hope I’m not getting cholera.” She felt miserable.

  “I haven’t seen cholera,” Spring Lily noted, “but I have seen your ailment. And if you’re worried about Isolde, Adam will see that she leaves. I heard him tell James he’d have her out of the territory within the month.”

  The name Isolde jolted her stomach again, and Flora stifled a moan.

  “Don’t move,” Spring Lily quickly said. “I won’t say another word until I’ve made the tea, and then you’ll see how much better you feel.” She understood how hearing about Adam’s wife could be traumatic.

  So while Flora lay utterly still, trying to repress her nausea, Spring Lily quickly went to fetch a small pouch of herbs from her lodge. When she returned, she heated some water and made them both a cup of tea, comfortably familiar with everything in Adam’s lodge.