In the following days Flora found Adam Serre much on her mind. Despite the bustle and activity of packing for their journey to the Absarokee1 villages, evocative memories of the night at Judge Parkman’s keenly affected her concentration. Normally so efficient that her father had long ago relinquished the organization of their expeditions to her, she found herself duplicating lists, forgetting simple tasks, conducting interviews for needed staff with a curious disregard for replies. All because she would suddenly see Adam’s smile in her mind, or remember the feel of his hard body or the sensation of his warm mouth on hers, and any continuity of thought would abruptly cease.
On more than one occasion her father remarked on her unusual abstraction.
“There’s just so much to do, Papa,” she would evasively reply, forcing her mind back from heated memory, aware of the true reason for her preoccupation. Equally aware that such ardent infatuation was a novelty in her life. She’d never been so intensely attracted to a man. As a beautiful woman familiar with male adulation, she’d long ago acquired the habit of casually dealing with lovesick suitors, earning herself the sobriquet Serene Venus within London’s elite society. Her affairs of the heart were conducted with playful nonchalance, detached from excessive feeling—unlike her current tempestuous emotions apropos the hot-blooded Comte de Chastellux. With him an overwhelming, irrepressible lust impelled her. She smiled, thinking how appropriate the word in conjunction with a man so skilled, so spectacular in stamina, so reckless that he made love in dangerous proximity to a houseful of guests. Her smile widened as she sat at the small bonheur-du-jour in her sitting room, the lists before her forgotten.
She was looking forward to summer on the Yellowstone.
In the days since Adam had returned to his ranch, he took unalloyed pleasure in the tranquillity of life without Isolde. Always a devoted father, he and his daughter Lucie became inseparable. She rode with him when he surveyed the horses in the summer pastures or observed the training runs of the thoroughbreds. Perched on his lap or shoulders, she kept him company at the daily meetings with his men and household staff. With the carte blanche of a favored child, she added her voice to the scheduling discussions, her interruptions politely accepted by her father, his replies always calculated to bring forth a happy three-year-old smile.
From Adam’s first day back from Virginia City, Cook’s menu had been adjusted to cater to a child’s palate, and dinner was served again unfashionably early so Lucie could join her father. After dinner, in lieu of the former de rigueur period of the last few weeks in the drawing room, when a sulky or querulous Isolde had presided over the tea table, Adam and Lucie went directly to the nursery and played together until Lucie’s bedtime.
No one had seen Adam so happy in ages.
Like the old days before his marriage, everyone close to him observed.
But beneath the surface a private distraction compromised this life of unruffled well-being, for persistent visions of Flora Bonham continued to tantalize him. He found himself dreaming of her at night, the scenes invariably those of unrestrained passion, and he’d taken to riding out after Lucie fell asleep, avoiding his bed and the searing images. The cold night air helped, and the wide, quiet expanse of moonlit countryside. He felt free from all impediments in the untrammeled, limitless land, one with nature under the star-studded sky, absolved from intemperate desire. And later in the foothills on the northern boundary of his holdings where he always rested his horse, he’d gaze down on the darkened plain with a satisfying sense of accomplishment. He could see for miles, all the rolling country lush with green grass, enough for his herds, for those of his clan, enough to see the horses through the winter. After years of hard work, his ranch was thriving, becoming profitable, his racehorses were acquiring a reputation on the racetracks here and in Europe, and if the persistent greed of the cattlemen pressing the borders of his property didn’t develop into an all-out war, he could build a contented, peaceful life here for Lucie and himself.
Always more cool-headed after the hard ride, his restlessness and hunger for the earl’s daughter having dissipated, he was able to dismiss the intoxicating dreams as impractical illusions. Flora Bonham was just a hotter-than-hell female, lush, voluptuous, sensual—but best forgotten. He didn’t need any complications in his life.
With travel uncertain due to flooding spring rivers, George Bonham had allowed ample time for the trip north to Adam’s ranch. But the weather had cooperated—so much so, that not only did the earl’s party arrive without mishap or delay—they arrived one day early at the ranch on the Musselshell.
Only to find their host absent.
He was out tracking some horses stolen from his eastern herd, they were told by his housekeeper as a full retinue of staff came out to greet them. But Adam was scheduled to return for his meeting with the earl, Mrs. O’Brien explained in a lilting Irish brogue, and in the meantime, she finished with a beaming smile and a bobbing curtsy, they were entirely welcome.
Adam’s home was handsomely situated against low foothills covered with dark pines. One of the many streams flowing into the Musselshell ran through the grassy meadow in front of the house. Orchards had been planted to the west, the chartreuse tracery of new leaves like feathery down from a distance. The mansion, built of native stone, was vast in dimension; the exterior sprawling with terraces and verandas; the roof, moss-covered slate, verdant green in the cool shadow of the pines; the whole framed by two spiral-staired turrets reminiscent of Blois. A solid French château in the wilds of Montana.
They met Lucie soon after their arrival, when she pulled her reluctant nursemaid into the drawing room where Flora and her father were having tea. “I’m Lucie,” she informed them with a smile, standing just inside the doorway, her large dark eyes surveying them with childish candor. “This is Baby DeeDee,” she added, lifting up the porcelain-faced doll she held by its golden hair. She spoke English with a faint French accent. “Papa’s gone,” she declared with an emphatic shake of her shiny black ringlets.
The young maid, obviously embarrassed by her charge’s intrusion, tried to pull her from the room, but Lucie shook her hand free. Breaking away, she ran across the broad expanse of pastel carpet in a flurry of yellow muslin, came to a skidding stop before the tea table, pointed at a strawberry crème cake with a chubby hand, and said, “I’d like that, please.”
Flora handed her the cake without hesitation, instantly sealing their friendship, and when she went on to ask the young girl to join them for tea, Lucie’s sudden smile reminded her of a similar quirked grin.
Lucie had her father’s eyes too, very dark, heavily lashed, riveting in their beauty, and his same directness of speech. Sitting very straight on a Louis Quinze chair upholstered in coral satin, her short legs barely reaching the perimeter of the cushioned seat, beaded moccasins incongruously peeking out from under her dainty muslin skirt, she proceeded to entertain them with a child’s-eye view of ranch life in Montana Territory while she systematically demolished the tray of sweets. Her vocabulary was precocious for her age, though Flora quickly realized a surfeit of personal staff no doubt accounted for her language skills. The drawing-room doorway had quickly filled with hovering nursemaids.
“I’m almost four,” she said when asked her age, holding up the proper number of fingers. “How old are you?” she inquired pointing a whipped-cream-covered finger at Flora and her father. When she heard their ages, she thought for a moment before declaring, “I think Bellemere and Maman are like that. But Maman went to France to live with Bellemere. She hates the dirt, Papa said. And we don’t have pav-ed streets,” she went on, pronouncing the word with two syllables. “I like my pony Birdie, and I’ve never seen a pav-ed street. Have you?”
“The city I live in has many paved streets, but I like the country too,” Flora replied. “What color is your pony?”
“She’s a paint. My cousin Raven taughted me to ride. Do you want to see her? Birdie likes cookies.” Grabbing a handful of cookies, she’d already begun sliding off her chair.
George Bonham politely declined the invitation, preferring a peaceful brandy and a cigar after their long ride, so Flora went alone with her small guide. Lucie brought Flora up to the nursery first—because she needed her riding boots, she said with the seriousness of a well-learned injunction—and after exchanging her moccasins for boots, she proceeded to introduce Flora to all her nursemaids—who were hovering now in a different locale; her favorite toys merited introductions as well. She was enchanting like her father, Flora thought, charming with ease as she took Flora in tow, and, beginning with Birdie, gave her a grand tour of the ranch, the countryside, and the spacious house.
The progression of the tour was informal, dictated by Lucie’s schedule and fancy, and in the process of looking for Lucie’s misplaced riding quirt the next day, Flora found herself standing in the doorway of Adam’s bedroom.
A sudden heat raced through her senses, uncontrollable, heedless of circumstance, and she wondered at her loss of restraint. It was only an empty room, she told herself, an austere chamber with hardly any indication of the man who inhabited it. But she felt the hot sensation regardless of the monkish atmosphere, as if Adam were standing before her, reaching out to touch her.
Lucie was chattering at her side, tugging at her hand to guide her within. And as Flora stepped over the threshold into the room, she was struck by his fragrance. It pervaded the large chamber, subtle, seductive; his skin and hair smelled like this—of pine and mountain sage, with undertones of bergamot.
“See,” Lucie was saying, and Flora shook away the overpowering weight of fragrant memory. “That’s me.”
A small pastel portrait on a gold easel held a place of honor on a bedside table, and an exquisite rendition of Adam’s daughter smiled up at her. The polished wood surface was otherwise bare, as was the matching table on the opposite side of the oversize mahogany bed. Her gaze dwelled for a moment on the plain white seersucker coverlet crisply tucked under the pillows and around the mattress, the corners almost military in their preciseness, and she found herself jealously wondering how Isolde looked against such pristine purity. She’d seen Isolde’s room yesterday when Lucie had brought her in to show off the shiny green eyes on the gilded swans decorating her mother’s bed; Flora had taken note of the fashionable Winterhalter portrait over the mantel of a delicate woman with flaxen hair and a sultan’s ransom in diamonds adorning her bosom. Adam had married a very beautiful woman.
Isolde’s rooms were ornamented lavishly in swathed silk and gold tassels, gilded stucco work shimmering on the woodwork, the walls richly covered in rose damask. The suite was filled with pillow-strewn furniture upholstered in pale silks, expensive porcelains and bric-a-brac in lavish array adorned every tabletop, small gold-framed paintings of bucolic landscapes covered the walls. The scene was reminiscent of a stage set, a rococo palace. Or an expensive bordello.
In sharp contrast to such drama, Adam’s room held only a glass-fronted bureau, a small desk, a leather sofa before the fireplace, a Feraghan carpet in subdued shades of navy and wine, the massive bed. A utilitarian room stripped of personality—or perhaps devoutly personal.
If compatibility was measured in decorating tastes, Flora thought, she wondered that Adam and his wife had survived marriage for so long.
“Come see Papa’s knives,” Lucie coaxed, interrupting Flora’s jaundiced speculation, already moving toward the dressing-room door. And moments later, when Lucie threw open the doors of one of the built-in armoires lining two walls of the narrow room, Adam Serre stood revealed. Arranged on shelves or hanging from brass hooks inside the double doors, a colorful array of decorated sheaths held dozens of knives. Bone-handled, bronze-handled, large, small, plain, and embellished—a lethal collection of exquisite Indian craftsmanship.
“How spectacular,” Flora declared, struck powerfully by the latent force, each weapon potently functional. This wasn’t a glass-cased museum display.
“These are pretty too,” Lucie went on, moving to the next cabinet. “Maman says they’re barbaric, but Papa and I like them.” Two more doors opened as she released the latch, and before Flora’s fascinated gaze appeared a stunning display of fringed, beaded, fur-draped leather clothing. Lavishly decorated moccasins lined the floor of the armoire. The hanging garments were constructed of pale, almost white leather or buttery yellow skins soft as heavy silk, ornamented with ermine tails, wolf tails, liquid leather fringe, embellished with elaborate beaded designs on shirtsleeves, shoulders, sweeping down the length of fringed leggings. Obviously Adam Serre was proud of his Absarokee heritage.
“They’re very lovely,” Flora said, her voice subdued before such magnificence. She understood the lengthy, skilled process necessary to produce clothing of this quality.
“This is Papa’s special spirit sign,” Lucie declared, pointing at the stylized portrayal of a wolf repeated within a fretwork border decorating a shirtfront. “And here too,” she added, pulling out a sleeve with a beaded medallion of a wolf head in black on red. “His people call him Tsé-ditsirá-tsi.” She spoke the words with the quiet sibilance of the Absarokee language. “It means ‘Dangerous Wolf.’ Although Papa is ever so nice, even if Maman doesn’t think so.” She sighed a curiously grown-up sigh for a child so young. “Maman always screamed at Papa. Even though she told me it was unladylike to raise your voice, she screamed a lot. Papa said she was un-sym-pa-the-tic”—Lucie struggled slightly with the long word, an obvious new addition to her three-year-old vocabulary—“to the outdoors. And I’m glad she didn’t ask me to go with her to Paris, because I like Montana the best.”
The artless disclosures left Flora feeling like a voyeur in a very personal relationship, and for a moment she wasn’t sure how to respond. Although shamefully, she felt an ungracious elation at being reminded that Adam and his wife weren’t deeply in love. “I’m so glad you enjoy Montana,” she said, opting for a neutral reply. “My father and I think the country is beautiful. And now we should see if we can find your quirt,” Flora suggested, deliberately changing the topic, “so we can take Birdie out for a ride. She’s going to wonder what happened to us.”
“I’ll use one of Papa’s,” Lucie said with the kind of decisiveness Flora was recognizing as a Serre trait. “And I’ll show you the lodges where Papa’s cousins live when they’re at the ranch.”
As evening approached, Mrs. O’Brien entered the drawing room where Flora and her father were playing a simple card game with Lucie. “I’m afraid Adam’s not returned yet,” she said, apologizing for Adam’s continued absence, “and dinner won’t wait. He’ll be here tonight, though,” she firmly added, opening the doors into the dining room. “If he said Tuesday, he means Tuesday. Now, there’s huckleberry pie for dessert, Lucie,” she went on, gazing at the little girl swinging her feet over the edge of an embroidered chair, “but you have to eat some vegetables first. You like new peas, and Cook made a small Cornish pasty for you.”
“I always eat my vegetables, Mrs. O,” Lucie cheerfully said, looking angelic in pink organza.
“Humpf … or that dog at your feet does,” the housekeeper muttered, glancing at the large otter hound sprawled at the foot of Lucie’s chair.
“Caesar only likes meat.”
“He likes anything eatable, raw or cooked, but eat the peas at least before your dessert,” Mrs. O’Brien said with a small sigh, giving up the struggle.
“I’ll remind Lucie to eat her vegetables, Mrs. O,” Flora interjected, on a familiar footing with the housekeeper after visiting in the kitchen with Lucie several times in the last two days. “And I’ll see that Caesar stays under the table during the meal.”
“Thank you, Miss Flora,” the housekeeper said with a grateful smile. “It’s a pleasure to have a real lady in the house. Now, Lucie, you mind Miss Flora. And we have a fine claret for you, my lord,” she added, turning her smile on George Bonham. “From Adam’s special stock. Come, now, dinner is informal now that she—well … on the count’s orders,” she quickly altered, “so please eat while the food is still warm.” And bustling like a mother hen, she saw them into the dining room.
Dinner was an extravagant affair, decidedly not informal in terms of variety and elegance but casually served, with Lucie and the servants gossiping throughout the meal. The young girl was obviously everyone’s pet, though treated in a curiously adult way. Without playmates her own age, Flora thought, it was natural the staff should take the place of friends for Lucie. And during dinner Flora heard a number of anecdotes in which Adam figured prominently, so by meal’s end she knew several more revealing fragments of a decidedly remarkable man.
He cooked, Flora heard. He made a perfect Lady Baltimore cake—an American recipe, apparently—no one surpassed his wild grape jam, and his biscuits were of unequaled lightness—for which skilled hands were a requisite, everyone agreed. That didn’t surprise her, she decided, recalling the sensitive touch of his hands. And he played the piano. Which accounted for the well-used look of the Bosendorfer in the drawing room and the disorganized stack of music on its top. He had an unrivaled reputation for training horses in the Absarokee style, where horse and rider were friends rather than adversaries. He played a vicious game of croquet, dressed a baby doll with finesse, and could shoot the eye out of a fly at fifty yards. Before long Flora realized that nor only was Lucie adored by the staff, but her father was as well. She wasn’t surprised. He had an extraordinary appeal.
After Lucie was seen off to the nursery to prepare for bedtime, Flora and her father relaxed on the veranda. Rocking gently in deep-seated wicker rocking chairs cushioned and sculpted to offer maximum comfort, they enjoyed Adam’s best cognac and a spectacular twilight sky. Although the sun had set, a warm golden haze still lightened the horizon, bathing the plains to the east in a tawny glow. A palpable peace as unclouded as the gilded landscape enveloped the shadowed veranda.
“Are you happy?” the earl softly asked.
“Very much,” Flora replied, her head resting against the chair back, her eyes half-shut.
“I worry, you know.”
Flora’s eyes opened, and she turned her head slightly so that her gaze rested on her father seated on the other side of the table separating them. “You needn’t worry, Papa. I’m vastly content.”
“You probably should be in London with your friends, not out in the wilds again with me.”
“You’re my dearest friend and I like the wilds. Don’t bring up those old conventional arguments again. I find society so much less interesting than our studies. You’ve spent your life researching Blumenbach’s theory of the biological equality of all peoples and given me the opportunity to observe and document cultures all over the world. It’s exciting, Papa, and enlightening, and so much more fascinating than devoting my life to finding a husband, as every society miss is programmed to do.”
“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 helps 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?”
“Occasionally.”
“And sleep late too, no doubt.” Like his wife, he thought, and every other aristocratic lady.
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
“No. There’s too much to do each day, and Lucie gets up early.”
“I noticed. We went riding this morning. She’s an accomplished rider.”
“Her cousin’s a good teacher.”
“She said that.”
“We’re fortunate to have so many of my relatives near.”
“Lucie took me to the lodges down by the river.”
“Yes, she told me.”
An awkward silence fell as both struggled to converse casually when both were remembering their last passionate encounter.
“I—”
“I’m—”
“You first,” Adam said, his voice very quiet.
Flora swallowed before speaking, thinking she’d not felt so awkward since adolescence. “I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable.”
“I didn’t expect you.”
“Obviously.”
“Forgive me.”
“Is there someone else? I don’t wish to intrude.”
“Someone else?”
“A woman you’re involved with.”
He debated for a moment—a facile lie would solve his dilemma. “No,” he said.
“It’s just I, then, who makes you uncomfortable.”
“No,” he softly murmured, “it’s not that simple, and you know it.”
Flora gazed briefly at the golden liquid in her glass before her eyes met his again. “You’re tired,” she sympathetically noted, “and I’m being bothersome.”
“No I’m not and”—he sighed—“you’re not.”
“You’re very candid.”
“I don’t think so.”
She leaned back against the cushions and looked at him for a contemplative moment. “Wary, then.”
His brows raised fractionally. “Probably.”
“Should I wait for you to ask? I don’t know if I can.”
“Lord, Flora …” He shut his eyes for a moment. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m sorry, I should be more circumspect.”
He grinned suddenly as flagrant impulse flashed into his mind. “Circumspect sex?” His gaze was roguishly appraising. “That should be interesting.”
She grinned back. “We could try, though I’m not sure you’re capable of it.”
“Nor you. Lord, I need some help here.”
“Perhaps—”
“No. Don’t move. I’m trying to deal with this rationally. Do you know I’ve dreamed of you every night since Virginia City? And it’s bothering the hell out of me.”
“How romantic.”
He glared at her teasing smile.
“It doesn’t have to alter your life,” she said.
“Sex with me. Is that clear enough? I’m not looking for a husband.”
“I think I’ve heard that before.”
“Too many times?”
“One time too many, for certain.”
“But I’m not like her.”
“I know. And that’s the dilemma.”
“It doesn’t have to be a dilemma.”
He sighed and slid lower in his chair, his leather-clad legs stretched out before him, the glass of bourbon in his hands resting just under his chin. “How long are you staying?” he quietly asked.
“Here? Not long. In the Yellowstone—all summer. After that I’m sailing for the Yucatán.”
“For?”
“I’m meeting friends for an expedition to Tikal. I’m not inclined to impose on your life, Adam.”
“I’m not certain I’m interested in a woman who fills my dreams. Lucie and I have just regained a modicum of peace in the last weeks. Forgive me for my bluntness.”
“It’s just sex, Adam. Don’t be so alarmed.”
He gazed at her, beautiful as a Titian Venus on his gilded settee, all voluptuous womanhood and soft skin and gleaming auburn hair. “You could be offering me tea,” he softly murmured.
“I could be but I’m not,” she answered as softly, rising from the small sofa and placing her glass of champagne on a lacquered end table.
He didn’t shift from his lounging posture as she walked toward him, until she stood inches from his beaded moccasins. Then his dark gaze leisurely traveled up her body, and when it reached her eyes, he said, hushed and low, “I think I’m losing this battle.”
“It looks like it to me,” she whispered, her glance drifting downward until it rested on the obvious bulge in his doeskin leggings.
“Shut the door.” His voice was no more than a murmur.
Her eyes lifted to his. “And if I don’t?” The product of privilege, she took orders poorly—no matter how softly put.
“Suit yourself,” he quietly said. Setting his glass aside, he pulled himself upright, leaned forward, took her skirt in his hands, and began lifting the heavy silk.
She twitched her skirt away, pique added to the warm heat of her arousal, umbrage in her voice. “This is too public.”
“Are you saying no?” he insolently inquired, looking up at her from under the dark fringe of his lashes for a moment before he sprawled back in his chair.
“Are you?” she countered, her own insolence matching his, her gaze flickering briefly to his erection, the length blatant beneath the soft stretched leather.
His smile appeared, full of grace and charm. “We could both shut the door.”
She smiled back, mollified by his concession. “Or use your bedroom or mine.”
He seemed to consider. “Or neutral territory.”
She moved so swiftly, he almost didn’t catch her when she fell into his lap. Gazing up into his startled eyes, she whispered, her mouth only inches from his, her arms twined around his neck, “Would a bed be possible in this neutral territory?”
She felt like heaven in his arms, silky warm and scented, her soft bottom settled in his lap adding inches to his arousal. With distance he could resist Flora Bonham, but in proximity she was irresistible. “Any of dozens,” he murmured, bending his head to kiss her. “Or all of dozens,” he added in a heated whisper. “If you prefer a marathon.”
“Ummmm …” Her hands slid up to pull his head down, and just before their lips touched, she whispered, “Show me.…”