Free Captive Splendors by Fern Michaels Page A

enough swath with the gentle sex, is that it?”
    â€œFrom Java to Sumatra,” Caleb laughed. “I thought I would take a chance and see what America has to offer.”
    â€œThey have wild Indians in America,” Sirena remarked fearfully.
    â€œAnd do you think my son is no match for an Indian? For shame, Sirena,” Regan chided.
    â€œIt might be advisable if you laid back your rapier and took up the bow and arrow. I don’t think the women of the world will take to a baldheaded Dutchman.” Sirena smiled fondly at Caleb.
    Malcolm Weatherly stood on the sidelines, a smile pasted on his face. He thought everyone was displaying incredibly bad manners. Wren’s parents hadn’t even acknowledged him. The Baroness, despite her bloated condition, had not seen fit to welcome either him or her guests, and Wren was conspicuously absent. And this overgrown clod of a Dutchman was getting all the attention he himself should be getting as Wren’s intended. He noticed Caleb’s attire, and he admitted to himself that the man’s easy elegance annoyed him. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what his tailor did, he would never look like the giant standing in the middle of the room. He watched as father and son lit cigars without offering him one. How long, he wondered, could he keep this ridiculous smile on his face? Peasants, the lot of them! He needed a drink. If these bumpkins could smoke cigars in Baroness Sinclair’s parlor, then he could have a drink.
    Seeing Malcolm’s movement to the liquor cabinet, Sirena turned and smiled winningly, her emerald eyes glowing. “You must excuse our bad manners.” Her voice was low, musical—almost seductive, Malcolm thought as his eyes widened in interest. “We haven’t seen our son in a long time, and it’s just that we’re happy to be together again under the same roof. I’m sure you understand and will forgive us. Pour me a glass of wine,” she said boldly. “And then let us sit here and have a chat. By the way, I’m Sirena van der Rhys, and the fair-haired man is my husband, Regan, and, of course, you’re Malcolm Weatherly. Wren spoke of you this morning.” Sirena nodded sweetly as she accepted the glass of wine and downed it in one swallow, to Malcolm’s acute discomfort. She wanted to tell him to fill her glass again, because she would need the dulling effect of the wine to get through this luncheon. What a fop he was, she thought with distaste. Oh, Wren, how could you?
    â€œWould you care for another glass of wine?” Malcolm asked quietly. She must be a sot, he thought maliciously.
    â€œIf you insist,” Sirena said, holding out the goblet. “Fill it to the brim.”
    To the brim! Malcolm’s mind raced. If she drinks, what does van der Rhys do? he wondered as he handed the glass to her, careful not to spill any of the burnished liquid.
    Sirena allowed her soft hand to come in contact with Malcolm’s long, slender fingers. She glared directly into his eyes and then coyly lowered her lashes. If he was the fool she thought he was, he would take this as a hidden invitation to a deepening friendship, or worse. She preferred not to put a name to whatever he might think it was. She sipped at the wine, the glass held provocatively in her hands as she met his eyes repeatedly.
    Regan gave Caleb a gentle nudge. “Another five minutes with Sirena, and the dandy will forget why he’s here. A wager, Cal?”
    â€œI may have not learned too much, Father, but I did learn that it’s only a fool who would lay odds against Sirena.” Both men threw back their heads, the slim cigars clamped between strong white teeth, and laughed uproariously.
    Startled, Sirena turned to look at the two men she loved most in her life. She gasped, and then a warm, delicious feeling spread through her entire body. They were hers, Regan by marriage and Caleb by an invisible bond