Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (6 page)

Her tone was intentionally cutting, and as a result his expression
darkened. “I’ve seen goats with more amiable dispositions than you can lay
claim to, but few that were more fragrant. You smell like a sump hole.”

Reagan felt the hot blood of mortification rise to her cheeks. She
was well aware of her indelicate condition, and she did not need this handsome
rake to point it out to her. “It ain’t no fragrance of my choosin’!” she said
hotly. “Those jackanapes thought it a fine joke to roll me in buffalo dung
after they caught me, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a mite too
busy to indulge in a bath, unlike
some
folks I know!” The tears did come now, in earnest. Groaning, she
half turned away, wiping her face on the sleeve of her old woolen coat. Her
face stung where she’d fallen, she ached in every muscle, bone, and limb, and
she just wanted to go home. To add insult to injury, her reluctant savior
smelled just fine, a fact that soon turned a trickle of tears into a raging
torrent.

Then, before she knew what was happening, she was being turned,
her cheek pressed against a hard-muscled shoulder, a clean kerchief pressed
into her hand. “Come,” he said, “don’t cry. You’ll wear yourself out, and it
isn’t as bad as all that. Though it may appear otherwise at this moment, you
haven’t quite fallen afoul of the devil.”

It sounded good in theory, Reagan thought with a watery sniff. Yet
she’d witnessed the way he had chastened her, and bullied and threatened his
way into her life, and as she clung to him, sobs racking her, the strength of
his wrath was hard to forget. And despite Jackson’s reassurances that she was
not in the company of Lucifer incarnate, Reagan clung to her doubts.

It had long been Jackson’s experience that the consequences of an
impetuous act were always hardest to face the morning after. Having seduced his
way into many a regrettable situation in his not-so-distant past, he considered
that by now he should have known better than to act on impulse. It was a
foolish and softheaded way to conduct one’s affairs, and it never failed to get
him into trouble.

He sensed that he was in deep trouble now, for although it was not
yet half-past nine o’clock, he was already torn between conscience and regret,
and he could only imagine that by the time the dawn broke on his latest folly,
he might well wish he had drowned himself in the Popo Agie River, instead of in
Tom Bridger’s whiskey.

The reward of his impetuous act sat huddled close to the fire at
his campsite. Arms folded over her upraised knees, she closely watched his
every move, as if she fully expected that he would devour her at any given
moment, an impression that Jackson found vastly irritating.

He paced a little, and her gray gaze followed him.

Turning back, he raked a hand through his shoulder-length hair;
the girl started visibly, tensing, as if ready to take flight.

“For heaven’s sake—and my own—would you occupy yourself with
something other than watching my every movement? I feel like an insect under
glass.”

She flinched a little at his sharp tone, but recovered quickly.
“What would you have me do?” she asked. “I ain’t got no embroidery, and I never
saw no sport in twiddlin’ my thumbs.”

“Don’t have,”
Jackson
corrected. “You don’t have
any
embroidery, and you never saw
any
sport in twiddling your thumbs.
For your edification, the words
never
and
no
should not be used in the same sentence. It’s poor grammatical form,
and you really should know better.”

Despite his reprimand, her gray gaze never wavered. “Funny, at
first glance you sure don’t look like no schoolmaster.”

Jackson let out a slow breath, ready to chastise her, then thought
better of it. This verbal sparring was getting him nowhere. Miss Dawes had a
tongue as sharp as a rapier, and she plied it with total disregard for whose
sensitive hide she sliced to ribbons. Since he was nearing the end of his
patience, Jackson felt it far wiser to glean as much information from her as
was possible. Perhaps if they opened a dialogue between them, she would be more
pliant, less resistant to him.

Pliant, yes,
he thought
to himself, not quite able to forget the feel of her body as she clung to him
on the dais.
Pliant is good.

His movements deliberately slow, he took a seat across from her,
and reaching into his hunting shirt, he came away with a thin black cheroot,
which he clamped between his teeth. “You do not mind if I smoke?” he said,
holding a burning straw poised in midair. She shook her head and he lit the
cheroot,
inhaling
sharply. “Is there anything you wish? Food? Whiskey, perhaps?”

“Never did care much for whiskey,” she said, “except for the
cherry bitters my ma used to make.” She broke off, a trace of a smile flirting
with the corners of her lovely mouth.

And she did have a lovely mouth, Jackson thought, when it was not
drawn into a belligerent slash. He knew a wild impulse to tell her so, but
checked it immediately, drawing fragrant smoke into his lungs instead. “Where
is your mother, Miss Dawes? And who were those men back there?”

Her voice was soft when she replied, softer than Jackson imagined
it could be. “Ma died last spring, after a lingerin' illness, and Luther
decided to venture west to seek his fortune.”

“Luther was your mother’s husband,” Jackson guessed, “but not your
father?”

A curt nod.

“And the bookends?” Jackson prodded.

She wrinkled her nose, clearly perplexed. “Bookends?”

“The pair that held you captive.”

“Luck and Lafe. They’re Luther’s blood sons and my half brothers.”

Jackson frowned at that. “As hard as it may sound, you are better
off without them. Your stepfather is no fitting guardian for a young woman.
That much is obvious. We’ll need to find someone else to take you in. Have you
any other distant relatives?”

Reagan Dawes shook her head. “What I said earlier was truth.
There’s no one left but Luther, the boys, and me. Only don’t go lookin’ so
worried. I sure don’t expect
you
to look out for me. I’m twenty years and two months, old enough
to take care of myself. That much is certain. I can find my own way home—” She
broke off, glancing wistfully into the dark. “That is, just as soon as I get
clear of these mountains.”

She was quiet for a moment; then she swallowed hard, screwed up
her courage, and raised her gray eyes to his. “Two thousand, five hundred
dollars is more money than some men see in a lifetime. Why’d you do it? Why’d
you pay all that money to get me back here when I would have gladly come for
nothin’?”

Shame,
Jackson thought.
Remorse.

Because he’d acted instinctively in sending her away, selfishly.
Because he’d seen something, some earnest, deeply felt emotion in her small,
heart-shaped face, and had been genuinely terrified of his own feelings.
Because, insanely, he had wanted her, wanted to strip away those men’s rags and
take her lithe white body right there under the stars.

All of this, he thought, and more, glancing impatiently at her
from under his lashes. She was waiting for his answer, and he knew from their
short time together that she was just dogged enough to try to drag the truth
from him if he did not fully satisfy her burning curiosity.

So he gave her what she wanted—or at least a fraction of it.

“Because I had it within my power to do so,” he said simply. “Any
of a hundred men back there would have done the same, given the opportunity and
the availability of funds.”

Reagan looked into his dark visage and knew that he was lying. She
could see it in his eyes, yet the truth remained hidden somewhere in their
fathomless deep green depths. “Few men would spend a fortune to buy a woman
they don’t even know, to save her from an uncertain fate... unless, of course,
they had something specific in mind.”

He’d been staring into the flames; now he glanced up at her from
under slightly satanic brows, giving her a penetrating look that sent shivers
up her spine. “And if I did have other motives? What then?”

His voice was silken as he said it, making Reagan think of his
words to the cleric:
the girl would fare better
in my tender care should I decide to make her my concubine than she has under
your so-called protection....

Was that what he planned? To force her to share his blankets? To
Reagan’s utter horror, she did not find the idea altogether unappealing. There
was something about him, an underlying tenderness running somewhere deep
beneath the brittle shell of his hard and sinister exterior that any
red-blooded woman would thrill to lay bare.

She thought of the sinewy, muscular body beneath his rough leather
garb, remembered the sensation of his weight bearing down upon her earlier, the
feel of his arms around her, and bit her lip until it bled.

With a will, she forced her thoughts from Jackson to Arley Pratt
and the sharp hurt she’d suffered at his hands—Arley, who seemed as
ineffectual, as harmless as a child when compared to this man. The words
sounded strangled as she forced them past her lips: “Then you’re bound to be
sorely disappointed. I may have been bought and paid for, but I’ll have you
know right off, I ain’t no man’s whore.”

Nonplussed, Jackson Broussard smiled. “No self-respecting
prostitute would be caught wearing such disreputable rags... yet I will admit,
the question of what lies beneath those rags lingers in my mind.”

Reagan’s heart fluttered crazily in her breast. Her skin went
blazing hot, then icy cold all over. Struggling for control, she schooled her
features into her best, most menacing glare. “Look you here, Frenchman. Since
we’re going to be keepin’ close company for a few weeks, we’d best get one
thing straight: you might be bigger and stronger than me, able to force
yourself on me if you’re so inclined, and there may not be anything I can do to
stop you. But I vow, if you make the attempt, you’d best be prepared not to
sleep, because if you so much as close an eye, I’ll find a way to kill you.”

He laughed at that, a delighted sound that rippled in pleasurable
waves along Reagan’s taut nerves. “Force myself upon you? My dear Miss Dawes, I
have never forced a woman to my will in all my life. Besides, one cannot force
a woman to do what she burns to do with all her heart, all of her soft,
perfumed being.”

Reagan snorted. “Of all the conceited... Why, you’re nothin’ but a
dandy in deerskins! A ne’er-do-well, an out and out bounder!”

“Ah, ah, ah!” the grinning devil said, wagging one lean brown
finger in her direction. “I am also your savior, your benefactor, your sole
protector... and you need me desperately. Do not tax my patience too greatly or
I’ll take great pleasure in turning you over my knee and tanning that lovely pale
hide of yours.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“ He just might,” another voice affirmed, its owner emerging from
the shadows, pausing just inside the circle of firelight. “He’s a heartless
bastard, if ever I saw one, always rescuing stray kittens and hapless young
women about to be become part and parcel of some wild-eyed trapper’s larder.”
The newcomer, a fine-looking man with golden hair and deep blue eyes that
glittered in the firelight, smiled and winked at Reagan. “Don’t let Seek-Um
scare you, miss. Despite the scar, he’s not so fierce as he likes folks to
think.”

Jackson just grunted, turning his gaze to the firelight. Reagan
looked from one to the other, confounded. “Seek-Um?”

“So the brute has not introduced himself properly? Then by all
means, allow me. Miss....”

“Reagan Dawes,” Reagan supplied, warming to the newcomer’s soft
Southern drawl and easy manner. “Reagan Winifred Dawes.”

“Miss Dawes,” the man said, “allow me to present Jackson Parrish
Broussard, scion of an old and revered French family, Jack Seek-Um to his
friends and not a few enemies. Seek-Um, here, is not a man given to talk, at
least not about himself. Therefore he will not tell you that he’s but half
Creole, nor that the rest of his bloodline is an unlikely mix of Irish and
Choctaw Indian.”

“G. D. talks too much,” Jackson said, throwing some buffalo chips
onto the fire. “It’s one of his numerous faults.”