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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