Pure Sin

  Lavish praise for bestselling author

  SUSAN JOHNSON

  “Johnson uses her fertile imagination to blend a strong heroine, unbridled sex, and … history into unadulterated fun.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Her romances have strong, intelligent heroines, hard, iron-willed men, plenty of sexual tension and sensuality and lots of accurate history. Anyone who can put all that in a book is one of the best!”

  —Romantic Times

  “The author’s style is a pleasure to read and the love scenes many and lusty!”

  —Los Angeles Herald Examiner

  “She writes an extremely gripping story … with her knowledge of the period and her exquisite sensual scenes, she is an exceptional writer!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  PURE SIN

  A Bantam Book / December 1994

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1994 by Susan Johnson.

  Spine art copyright © 1994 by Pino Dangelico.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-57504-3

  Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Epilogue

  Notes

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Virginia City, Montana

  April 1867

  She met Adam Serre on the night his wife left him.

  He walked into Judge Parkman’s foyer as she was handing her wrap to a servant, and they nodded and smiled at each other.

  “Pleasant weather for April,” he said as they approached the bunting-draped entrance to the ballroom together. He smiled again, a casual, transient smile.

  “Is the temperature unusual?” Flora glanced up only briefly, intent on adjusting the length of her white kid glove on her upper arm.

  Adam shrugged, his broad shoulders barely moving beneath his elegantly cut evening coat. His gaze was on the crowded ballroom visible through the decorated portal, which was patriotically swathed in red, white, and blue in honor of their host’s recent appointment to the federal bench. “It’s been an early spring,” he said, searching for his host in the glittering assemblage. “But, then, the Chinook winds are unpredictable.”

  Both were curiously unaware of each other. Adam, for whom the previous few hours had been volatile, was still distracted. Flora Bonham, only recently arrived in Virginia City after a long journey from London, was looking forward to seeing her father.

  They were both late for the judge’s celebration party.

  But the sudden hush that descended on the ballroom as they appeared in the doorway had nothing to do with their tardy arrival.

  “He actually came!”

  “Good God, he’s with a woman!”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  An impassioned buzz of astonishment and conjecture exploded after the first shocked silence, and Lady Flora Bonham, only child of the noted archaeologist Lord Haldane, wondered for a moment if she’d left her dress undone and some immodest portion of her anatomy was exposed before the expectant throng.

  But after a moment of panic she realized all the guests’ gazes were focused not on herself but rather on her companion, and she looked up to discern the cause of such avid fascination.

  The man was incredibly handsome, she noted, with a splendid classic bone structure and dark, sensual eyes that held a tempting touch of wildness. But before any further appraisal flashed through her mind, he bowed to her, a graceful, fleeting movement, said, “Excuse me,” and walked away.

  Almost immediately she caught sight of her father advancing toward her, a warm smile on his face, his arms out in welcome. Her mouth curved into an answering smile, and she moved into her father’s embrace.

  Two minutes had passed.

  Perhaps less.

  It was the first time she ever saw Adam.

  “You look wonderful,” George Bonham said as he held his daughter at arm’s length, the brilliant blue of his eyes taking in Flora’s radiant beauty. “Apparently the rough ride from Fort Benton caused you no harm.”

  “Really, Papa,” she admonished. “After all the outback country we’ve lived in, Montana Territory is very civilized. We had to walk only a dozen times to lighten the stage through the deepest mud, the river crossings were uneventful, and the driver was moderately sober. After a hot bath at the hotel, I felt perfectly rested.”

  He grinned at her. “It’s good to have you back. Let me introduce you; I’ve met most everyone in the last months. Our host, the judge, is over there,” he went on, gesturing. “Come, now, let me show you off.”

  But Flora noticed as they joined a group nearby and greetings were exchanged that the man who’d entered the ballroom with her continued to elicit extraordinary interest. Every guest seemed alert to his movements as he crossed the polished expanse of Italian parquet flooring.

  No one had expected Adam to appear that night.

  And as he strode toward his host, greeting those he passed with a casual word, a smile, a sketchy bow for old Mrs. Alworth, whose mouth was half-open in astonishment, a flurry of excited comment swirled through the room.

  “His wife left him today.”

  “Probably with good reason.”

  “Rumor has it she ran off with Baron Lacretelle.”

  “A mutual parting, then. Adam has dozens of lovers.”

  “He’s a cool one to show up tonight as though nothing untoward has happened in his life,” an older man remarked.

  “It’s his Indian blood,” a young lady standing beside Flora whispered, her gaze traveling down Adam’s lean, muscled form, her voice touched with a piquant excitement. “They never show their feelings.”

  He looked as though he was showing his feelings now, Flora reflected, watching the animated conversation between their host and the man who was attracting so much attention. The bronze-skinned man smiled often as he conversed, and then he suddenly laughed. She felt an odd, immediate reaction to his pleasure, as though his cheer was beguiling even from a distance.

  “Who is he?” Flora asked, struck by his presence.

  The young lady answered without taking her eyes from the handsome long-haired man. “Adam Serre, Comte de Chastellux. A ha
lf-breed,” she softly added, his exotic bloodlines clearly of interest to her. “He’s even more available, now that his wife has left him.”

  “Available?” Did she mean marriage? Never sure of female insinuation, since her own conversation tended to be direct, she made a polite inquiry.

  “You know …,” the pretty blond declared, turning to wink at Flora. “Just look at him.” And her sigh was one of many—surreptitious and overt—that followed in the wake of Adam’s progress that evening.

  Flora was introduced to him much later, after dinner, after a string quartet had begun playing for those who wished to dance. When Judge Parkman said, “Adam, I’d like you to meet George Bonham’s daughter. Flora Bonham, Adam Serre,” she found herself uncharacteristically discomposed by the stark immediacy of his presence. And her voice when she spoke was briefly touched with a small tremor.

  “How do you do, Mr. Serre?” Her gaze rose to meet his, and her breath caught in her throat for a moment. His beauty at close range struck her powerfully, as if she were imperiled by such flagrant handsomeness.

  “I’m doing well, thank you,” he said, his smile open and natural, the buzz of gossip that evening concerning his marriage apparently not affecting him. “Is this your first visit to Montana?”

  “Yes,” she replied, her composure restored. He seemed unaware of his good looks. “Montana’s very much like the grasslands of Manchuria. Beautiful, filled with sky, rimmed with distant mountains.”

  The earl’s daughter was quite spectacular, Adam thought with a connoisseur’s eye, her mass of auburn hair so lush and rich and heavy, it almost seemed alive, her face dominated by enormous dark eyes, her skin golden, sun kissed, from so much time out of doors. He knew of her travels with her father; George Bonham had visited several of the Absarokee camps in the past months. “And good horse country too,” he replied, “like the steppes of Asia. Did you see Lake Baikal?”

  “Have you been there?” Animation instantly infused her voice.

  “Many years ago.”

  “When?”

  He thought for a moment. “I’d just finished university, so it must have been 1859.”

  “No!”

  “When were you there?” He found the excitement in her eyes intriguing.

  “June.”

  “We set up camp on the west shore near Krestovka. Don’t tell me you were in the village and we missed you.”

  “We were a few miles away at Listvyanka.”

  They both smiled like long-lost friends. “Would you care for some champagne?” Adam asked. “And then tell me what you liked most about Listvyanka. The church, the countess Armechev, or the ponies?”

  They agreed the church was a veritable jewel of provincial architecture. It was natural the artistic countess would have appealed more to a young man susceptible to female beauty than to a seventeen-year-old girl obsessed with horses. And the native ponies elicited a lengthy discussion on Asian bloodstock. They found in the course of the evening that they’d both been to Istanbul, the Holy Land, newly opened Japan, the upper reaches of the Sahara, Petersburg in the season. But always at different times.

  “A shame we didn’t ever meet,” Adam said with a seductive smile, his responses automatic with beautiful women. “Good conversation is rare.”

  She didn’t suppose most women were interested exclusively in his conversation, Flora thought, as she took in the full splendor of his dark beauty and power. Even lounging in a chair, his legs casually crossed at the ankles, he presented an irresistible image of brute strength. And she’d heard enough rumor in the course of the evening to understand he enjoyed women—nonconversationally. “As rare as marital fidelity, no doubt.”

  His brows rose fractionally. “No one’s had the nerve to so bluntly allude to my marriage. Are you speaking of Isolde’s or my infidelities?” His grin was boyish.

  “Papa says you’re French.”

  “Does that give me motive or excuse? And I’m only half-French, as you no doubt know, so I may have less excuse than Isolde. She apparently prefers Baron Lacretelle’s properties in Paris and Nice to my dwelling here.”

  “No heartbroken melancholy?”

  He laughed. “Obviously you haven’t met Isolde.”

  “Why did you marry, then?”

  He gazed at her for a moment over the rim of the goblet he’d raised to his lips. “You can’t be that naive,” he softly said, then quickly drained the glass.

  “Forgive me. I’m sure it’s none of my business.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.” The warmth had gone from his voice and his eyes. Remembering the reason he’d married Isolde always brought a sense of chafing anger.

  “I haven’t felt so gauche in years.” Flora said, her voice almost a whisper.

  His black eyes held hers, their vital energy almost mesmerizing; then his look went shuttered and his grin reappeared. “How could you know, darling? About the idiosyncracies of my marriage. Tell me now about your first sight of Hagia Sophia.”

  “It was early in the morning,” she began, relieved he’d so graciously overlooked her faux pas. “The sun had just begun to appear over the crest of the—”

  “Come dance with me,” Adam abruptly said, leaning forward in his chair. “This waltz is a favorite of mine,” he went on, as though they hadn’t been discussing something completely different. Reaching over, he took her hands in his. “And I’ve been wanting to”—his hesitation was minute as he discarded the inappropriate verb—“hold you.” He grinned. “You see how blandly circumspect my choice of words is.” Rising, he gently pulled her to her feet. “Considering the newest scandal in my life, I’m on my best behavior tonight.”

  “But, then, scandals don’t bother me.” She was standing very close to him, her hands still twined in his.

  His fine mouth, only inches away, was graced with a genial smile and touched with a small heated playfulness. “I thought they might not.”

  “When one travels as I do, one becomes inured to other people’s notions of nicety.” Her bare shoulder lifted briefly, ruffling the limpid lace on her décolletage. He noticed both the pale satin of her skin and the tantalizing swell of her bosom beneath the delicate lace. “If I worried about scandal,” she murmured with a small smile, “I’d never set foot outside England.”

  “And you do.”

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered. And for a moment both were speaking of something quite different.

  “You’re not helping,” he said very low. “I’ve sworn off women for the moment.”

  “To let your wounds heal?”

  “Nothing so poetical.” His quirked grin reminded her of a teasing young boy. “I’m reassessing my priorities.”

  “Did I arrive in Virginia City too late, then?”

  “Too late?” One dark brow arched infinitesimally.

  “To take advantage of your former priorities.”

  He took a deep breath because he was already perversely aware of the closeness of her heated body, of the heady fragrance of her skin. “You’re a bold young lady, Miss Bonham.”

  “I’m twenty-six years old, Mr. Serre, and independent.”

  “I’m not sure after marriage to Isolde that I’m interested in any more willful aristocratic ladies.”

  “Perhaps I could change your mind.”

  He thoughtfully gazed down at her, and then the faintest smile lifted the graceful curve of his mouth. “Perhaps you could.”

  “How kind of you,” Flora softly replied in teasing rejoinder.

  “Believe me, kindness is the last thing on my mind at the moment, but people are beginning to stare. It wouldn’t do to besmirch your reputation on your first night in Virginia City. And I like this waltz, so allow me the honor of your first dance in Montana.” He was avoiding temptation as he swung her out onto the floor, cutting short a conversation that had turned too provocative.

  But he found dancing with the alluring Miss Bonham only heightened his sensational response to her, and everyone in the room
noticed as well. A palpable heat emanated from the beautiful couple twirling across the floor, and people turned to watch as they passed.

  She wore violet tulle, elaborately ornamented with moss-green ribbon and ivory lace, a dazzling counterpoint to her pale skin and auburn tresses and to the severe black of Adam’s evening clothes. The diaphanous froth of her gown and her lush femininity were a counterpoint as well to Adam’s harsh masculinity. And later as they danced, when a silky tendril of Flora’s hair fell loose from the diamond pins holding her coiffure in place, Adam bent his head and lightly blew it aside. At his intimate, audacious gesture, simultaneous indrawn breaths from scores of wide-eyed guests seemed to vibrate through the room.

  And molten heat flared through Flora’s senses.

  Even as she shut her eyes against the exquisite sensation of his warm breath on her neck, she felt his arm tighten around her waist, as if he too were susceptible to urgent desire. And she understood suddenly why women pursued him. Beyond his obvious beauty he offered a wild, reckless excitement; oblivious to exacting decorum and every watchful eye, he did as he pleased. Heedless, rash, direct. And she felt him hard against her stomach.

  She was far too beautiful, too impetuously unconstrained, and even as he moved against her in the dance, his arousal pressed into her yielding body, he struggled to retain a pragmatic grip on reality. Only short hours ago he’d vowed to give wide berth to pampered patrician women. But she’s not precisely pampered, his libido pointed out, allowing him the rationalization he craved. She’s lived in tents in far corners of the world most of her life. There. It’s all right, his heated voice of unreason said. And as his erection swelled, he found himself surveying possible discreet exits from the room. “Can you leave?” he bluntly asked, deliberately omitting the familiar seductive words. He didn’t wish to be so aroused by her. His irrational, heated desire disturbed him; he would prefer she refuse.

  “For a short time,” she said as bluntly as he.

  His surprise showed.

  “If it will ease your discomfort,” Flora softly said, her dark eyes touched with violet squarely meeting his, “I could seduce you.”