Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (43 page)

Jackson apparently was not listening. He struck the window’s
wooden frame a blow, then another. With a screech of protest the latch gave
way, the panels swinging noiselessly inward. At the same time Reagan sat up
with an outraged gasp, grabbing the pillows, flinging them one by one at his
arrogant head. “How dare you break into my chamber!”

“This is my house, and they are my windows, and I’d break every fucking
pane if it would mend what is wrong between us.”

Risking a glance at him from under the cover of her lashes, Reagan
saw him come slowly into the room. She tensed as he approached the bed where
she crouched warily, prepared to spring up off the mattress and flee.

But he only paused by the foot of the bed, leaning one hard-muscled
shoulder against the bedpost. “You’re crazy, you know that?’ ’ Reagan said with
a s
nif
f.

“Crazed... yes, I am crazed. But is it any wonder? I am enamored
with a woman who is the antithesis of everything I am and have always been. I
bring her into my home and provide her every luxury, and she cannot seem to run
far enough, fast
enough....
I buy her silks and satins; she persists in wearing her brothers’
cast-off rags. I give her diamonds and gold and she flings them in my face.”

“I did not fling them in your face.”

“You may as well have,” he said, then continued, totally
undaunted. “She perplexes me, confounds me, maddens me, constantly yearning for
her freedom when all I want is to hold her close to my heart.”

Reagan lifted her gaze to his, searching his face for some sign of
his sincerity. His expression was grave, the tension that gripped him evident
in every feature. “Don’t you say things you don’t mean just to keep me close at
hand. It isn’t fair.”

Crossing to the side of the bed, he sat down, the mattress dipping
beneath his weight. “I meant every word,” he said, reaching out, taking her
hand in his, kissing her fingertips, her palm, her wrist. “I’ll take back the
diamonds, if you wish. I’ll withdraw my offer to make you my mistress, I’ll
give G. D. back his position, and I’ll even try to tolerate his leering at you,
if you’ll promise to stay. Papa needs you, the servants adore you, Catherine
admires your spirit, and no one has ever put Madame Chouteau in her place so efficiently.”

“And you?” Reagan asked, holding her breath.

“I want you, and need you, and love you more than I can tell you,
more than I imagined I ever could, doubtless more than is wise. I do not care a
damn that it makes no sense, that you think we don’t suit. I’ll make us suit.
I’ll do whatever I must—anything, just say that you’ll be my bride.”

Reagan’s tears spilled over, bridging her lower lashes, tumbling
down her cheeks. “Anything?”

“Anything,” he vowed solemnly.

“Then, say it again. Tell me you love me, tell me you want me... tell
me you’re really and truly mine.”

“Regan, I love you,” he said, reaching into his pocket, coming
away with the diamond necklace. This time Reagan made no protest as he fastened
the finely wrought gold about her throat He sank down on the mattress, pulling
her with him, rising above her so that he might gaze deeply into her eyes. “I
want you and need you. You do realize, however, that marriage to me will not be
easy?”

She smiled up at him, a smile that clearly said that all of her
dreams had just been realized. “I don’t care for difficulty, or the gossips’
wagging tongues. I don’t give a tinker’s damn for anything but you.”

“There will be a lot of talk,” he warned her softly.

“There will indeed,” Reagan agreed, “but not tonight.” Sighing
deeply, she kicked off her slipper, sliding her stockinged foot suggestively
up and down his booted leg.

Needing no further encouragement, Jackson leaned back against the
headboard and, loosening the flap of his trousers, dragged her up and onto his
lap. She braced her hands against his chest, but hers was a token resistance,
vanished the moment he smiled up into her face.

She blushed prettily, but she did not turn her face away, only
whispered, “What is it you wish me to do?”

“Only trust me,” he whispered against her heated cheek. “There is
a place called ecstasy... a place where we belong. Come, my sweet love, and I will
show you the way.”

Reagan shivered as she complied, rising as he silently bade her,
impaling herself on his rigid shaft. He filled her slowly, took her with
exquisite care, instructing her, holding her tightly as he joined her in the
rhythmic, timeless dance, deeper and deeper. Reagan felt him touch the core of
her being, worshiping at the altar of her woman’s flesh, marking her as his
own.

And she clung to him.

A breathless anticipation, a quick, deep thrust, and the moment
shattered, raining bliss down upon them. The ecstasy he’d promised.

Standing in the shadows outside the girl’s bedchamber windows,
Navarre listened quietly as Jackson declared his heart to Reagan Dawes, and
with each poignant word the action he must now take was driven forcefully home.

That girl was a threat to everything for which he had striven so
hard these past months. While he’d been working to unseat his brother from his throne,
she had been worming her way into Jackson’s confidence, his affections, into his
bed. A casual dalliance Navarre would have allowed, but this...
this
was dangerous.

Laying Jackson low last night had been a grievous error, yet if
not for the meddling of that wretched little waif, he would never have allowed
Abe McFarland to go to drastic lengths, nearly killing Jackson... his last
surviving link to Miralee.

He’d been fooled at first by the shadows, yet tonight at dinner
when he’d looked down the table and into the eyes of Jackson’s ward, it had all
become exceedingly clear. That waif had been no waif at all. The clear gray
eyes peering at him from the cover of the rhododendron had belonged to Miss
Dawes.

She
had put Jackson in danger.
She
was urging Emil from his
despondency. Jackson and Emil were growing closer. All of Navarre’s hard work
was coming undone, for which he had the chit to thank. Reagan Dawes posed the
greatest threat of all to his plans. If she should confide in Jackson, if
Jackson were to believe her, the one thing he feared above all else could
become a reality.

Jackson could turn against
him.

A chill cut through Navarre as he melted back into the shadows,
slipping noiselessly down the stairs and through the gate to the street. Unable
to resist the urge, he glanced back at the second-floor gallery. In the warmth
and comfort of the big feather bed, Jackson and his paramour were busy making
plans. But Navarre was scheming, too. He’d dismissed Abe McFarland as a nuisance.
Perhaps it was time he changed his way of
thinking
, and utilized the big man’s
talents.

He smiled to himself as he climbed into the waiting barouche and
rapped on the roof to signal his driver. “Yes, indeed. Jackson and his paramour
are making plans. What a pity she will not be here to see them to fruition.”

Within twelve hours there was hardly a soul in all of Saint Louis
who had not heard the news. The surviving heir to the Broussard fortune, the
most scandalous and, without a doubt, most eligible bachelor in all of Missouri
was about to wed. That the young woman in question—and those in Madame
Chouteau’s fashionable and proper circle pointedly refrained from calling her a
lady—was his ward, presently living at Belle Riviere, only served as fuel to
the fire... a fire that threatened to rage out of control.

The gossips claimed that the engagement was to be formally
announced that very evening, a rumor that had invited guests rifling their
armoires for something spectacular to wear.

Madame Bridgewater had such an influx of commissions that she had
to turn all but her most faithful clients away from her door. And even then,
two days did not allow ample time to fulfill the orders. In desperation she
took on half a dozen new seamstresses, and one young woman who did nothing but
ply the scissors.

As the evening of the festivities arrived, those not fortunate
enough to garner an invitation dusted off tall silk hats and mended lace
gloves, preparing to promenade past the wrought-iron gate in the hopes of
viewing the festivities from a distance... and if they were lucky enough,
perhaps, just perhaps, they could catch a glimpse of Jackson Broussard and his
bride-to-be.

Behind the wrought-iron gate and great mahogany door, the first
floor of Belle Riviere was crowded with guests. Revelers from as far away as
New Orleans mingled with citizens of Saint Louis—the same citizens who had
crossed the street just last week rather than be forced to meet their host’s
gaze.

Jackson greeted each one with the same solemnity, dragging out a
social correctness he had not used in a dozen years. Standing elbow to elbow
with Catherine’s husband, Jason St. Claire, he took part in a rousing political
discussion, and in the next moment rescued Madame Chouteau’s ostrich plume from
the punch bowl.

Madame stiffly congratulated him upon his pending nuptials.

Jackson pretended not to notice her grudging sentiment, admitting
instead in a moment of calculated and unaccustomed candor that his eagerness to
please his bride had all but destroyed his confidence, rendering him a
veritable bundle of masculine nerves.

Madame nodded her understanding, reassuring him that he was not
alone. Why, there was not a man in all of Missouri who proved worthy of his
chosen mate. Why, of course he was doomed to failure, but not to worry. Women
tended to be very forgiving of their husbands’ shortcomings. Why, just look at
her and M’sieur Chouteau!

Jackson humbly thanked her for her words of advice, and she
immediately flew to find her friend Madame Girard. “Why, that Jackson Broussard
is not as bad as you claimed him to be!” Jackson overheard her saying. “With a
bit of instruction and a curb bit to keep him under control, he might make that
young Kentuckian a proper husband yet.”

Jackson left off his eavesdropping and wove his way through the
throng. Changing one’s spots took more patience and more creativity than he had
ever imagined, and he was suddenly desperate for a few moments of uninterrupted
quiet in which to gather his thoughts.

Soon the crowd would assemble, Reagan would come down the stairs,
and as he led her out on the dance floor, their life together would begin.

It was essential that everything be perfect.

Entering the study, Jackson closed the doors. Outside, an autumn
rain buffeted the mansion, pelting the windowpanes with the sound of tiny,
skeletal fingers, tearing the leaves from the trees. Murphy had kindled a fire
in the grate an hour ago to dispel the ensuing chill, and now it crackled
merrily, bathing the room in a soft golden light.

From her station above the mantel, the woman who had given him
life, then abandoned him, smiled benevolently down upon him. And in that moment
he missed her more than he ever had in all of his twenty-nine years.

“I wish that you were here,
Maman,”
he said
softly, “to help me get it right. I have a good life now—or at least the chance
of one, a young woman of heart, who loves me, the opportunity to start again.
Even Papa is trying hard to make amends—and
yet...
I find that I cannot let go
of the mystery surrounding Clay’s death. Without the truth, I cannot lay his
memory to rest, and I greatly fear that any happiness I can achieve will be but
an illusion.”

He took the ring he had purchased for Reagan early that morning
from his coat pocket and held it to the light. The large pigeon’s-blood ruby
winked a mysterious deep red in the firelight, the diamonds surrounding it
shooting blue-white sparks. “There is no escaping. Not for me. No matter how
much I wish it. Without the truth, all of this will rise to haunt me again.”

There was no revelation forthcoming, no ghostly whisper on the
night wind, nothing but his mother’s indulgent glance and haunting smile.
Gathering his courage, Jackson straightened and started to turn away when a
soft scratching sounded on the windowpanes.