Pure Sin (5 page)

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 not 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 Jury. 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 mis 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 rega-lia. 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.