Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (11 page)

She sniffed, snuggling closer. He was large and warm, and
strangely, he made her feel safe, a new experience for Reagan. For as long as
memory served her, she’d been looking out for someone else: the twins, and then
her dying mother. There hadn’t been time to be selfish, and no one who cared
enough to see that she felt loved or wanted.

“There is more, is there not?” he asked, and Reagan marveled at
his tone, his caring. When had he become so gentle, so tender, this man who had
bought her at auction, threatened her with the prospect of an unwanted
marriage, clashed with and infuriated her at every turn?

“This land,” she said, her voice strained. “It’s so huge, so
dangerous. It frightens me. So many things can happen, even to someone like
you. You know the land; you’re prepared, cautious.
But—”

“But your brothers and your stepfather are not?”

“I know it must seem crazy, my worryin’ about them after all
they’ve done... but I just can’t seem to help myself.”

“It isn’t crazy,” Jackson said with a rueful smile. “It’s
admirable, and they do not know how fortunate they are to have someone who
cares about them despite their faults. Perhaps even because of them.”

“You don’t think I’ve lost my senses?”

“On the contrary. I am envious.”

“You, envious of Luther and the twins?” She sounded incredulous.
“You’re makin’ sport.”

But Jackson was not laughing. He
was
envious—envious of the
loyalty she so freely gave to her stepfather and half brothers, envious of that
soft light that had come into her clear gray eyes as she spoke of her concerns
for their welfare. And he couldn’t help but wonder if in his entire lifetime
anyone had cared that deeply for him.

Aloud, he said, “I suppose that I am unused to such concern, such
loyalty. It is exceptionally rare.”

“They’re still my kin,” she said, for all the world as if those
four words explained everything, no matter what they’ve done. Of course I care,
just like your kin care about you.”

“I’m afraid there’s no comparison,” Jackson said flatly.

She frowned at that. “How do you mean? You have family, don’t you?
Are your parents still living?”

Jackson sighed. “My mother died shortly after I was born.”

“And your father?”

It was Jackson’s turn to frown. In his mind’s eye he saw the glint
of sunlight on metal, felt the kiss of the blade as it bit to the bone. “He is
living still... or at least he was when I left Saint Louis. I suppose that if
that much has changed I shall learn of that happy circumstance when I arrive.”

Her frown deepened. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Jackson
snorted. “You don’t know my father.”

He’d hoped she would take the hint and leave off her questions.
He didn’t want to talk about Emil, tonight of all nights, not when the supple
curves concealed beneath the homespun shirt she wore were uppermost in his mind...
curves he longed to explore. He’d hoped to kiss her until she was pliant, then
tumble her here by the fireside, yet she remained as irritatingly persistent as
ever.

“You don’t get on well, I take it? You and your pa.”

“My father loathes the very sight of me,” Jackson found himself
saying, “and I am only too happy to return the sentiment.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jackson didn’t understand either. How could he be staring down
into her upturned face, so clearly marked with concern, and entertaining such
wicked thoughts?

Mother of God, he wanted so desperately to peel away the
disreputable rags that covered her luscious body and worship her fragrant white
flesh with his mouth and his tongue and his teeth. Wanted to test her
resistance, to tempt and to tease, to promise her anything if she would
just....

Even the thought was dangerous, and Jackson was appalled to
discover that he lacked the will to simply set it aside. Appalled, yes, but not
surprised. The tension had been building between them for days, ever since that
first night, when he’d laid down a tidy fortune and mounted the dais to claim
her.

As difficult as it was to countenance, he’d wanted her even then.
Nothing had changed between them, however, nor was it likely to. There was no
room in his life for Reagan Dawes, and a casual dalliance would only ruin her
chances of making an advantageous match when they reached the city, a fact of
which he was uncomfortably aware. Yet, no matter how valid the reason, how
strenuous the argument, the inclination to follow his instincts was strong.

Irresistible, almost.

“Kaintuck, I—”

She leaned toward him. “Yes?”

Jackson started to pull back, to warn her away, but the words
stuck in his throat. Something held him there, close to Reagan, yet not close
enough... some intangible force that bade him to sample her sweet lips again,
and this time he did not resist.

Reagan didn’t protest, didn’t speak. She was afraid to, afraid of
breaking the spell she was under, certain this was some sort of waking dream.

It must be a dream.
The sweet
anticipation threading its way through her veins as Jackson pressed her back
into the grass and claimed her mouth with his felt too good to be
real...
the pure
persuasion in his kiss and the solid reassurance of his strong arms around her.

Persuasion, yes.
His
possession was beguiling, and she could no more have refused him in that moment
than she could have willed a forest to sprout in this arid, empty land.

He spoke and she complied, willingly.

He bade her to open to him, and she parted her lips.

He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth across hers, teasing her
full lower lip with the tip of his tongue, then advancing. Reagan was shocked
by his boldness, shocked to discover that she liked the playful caress of his
silken member. Entwining her tongue with his, she sighed and settled closer,
drawing him deeper, deeper into her mouth, wrapping her arms around his lean
middle and reveling in his answering groan.

If she could have melded with him in that moment, body and spirit,
she still would not have been close enough.

She wanted to possess
him,
wanted him to possess
her.
She wanted to touch him, to
feel his flawless skin abrading hers. In all truth, she was not sure precisely
what she wanted, except that she did not want this night, this moment, to end.

But it did end. Jackson left her lips, and Reagan moaned her
disappointment, straining upward to brush her mouth against his, to tease and
tempt, to renew the sensual play. Jackson kissed her soundly, once, twice, then
touched a finger to her swollen lips to stay her. “Mother of God, you inflame
me,” he said, “enough to make me forget all caution... everything save the
sweetness of your response.” Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he rained
kisses across one cheek to the bridge of her nose, her lowered lids, her temple
and ear.

Seemingly intent upon sampling every inch of her flesh, he took
her lobe into his mouth, gently nibbling the sensitive flesh, running his
tongue into the shallow hollow beneath it, tracing a scorching path down her
throat.

Fire followed in his wake.

Reagan felt it lick along her nerves, felt it sear her vitals, and
fought to catch her breath. But she was too weak with wanting, too breathless
with excitement to form a protest when he reached for the bone buttons that
held the front of the homespun shirt in place. A flick of his deft fingers
freed the fasteners from their rough moorings, and Jackson parted the front of
the garment, baring her breasts to his ravenous gaze.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, bending to tease one small pink nipple
to an aching peak. “So beautiful.”

Reagan watched breathlessly as his raven head dipped and his sooty
lashes drifted down, and her heart swelled alarmingly in her breast as he took
her nipple into his mouth. Heat, such blessed
heat. S
he feared
that she would die of it. Starting at his carnal kiss, it flooded, molten and
immediate, demanding, past her vitals and into the secret place between her
legs.

Oh, touch me there,
she
silently willed him. And somehow, miraculously, his hand slid over her waist
and down.
Seek out and soothe the ache you
have created.
Conceived in passion, born of a
burgeoning fascination, and fostered by dark magic, his touch was a sorcerer’s
trick meant to woo her right out of her virtue.

And it was working.

Jackson’s touch was anything but soothing. He threaded his fingers
through the downy thatch of sable curls that crowned her womanhood, and Reagan
arched against him, tangling her fingers into the silk of his hair, sighing her
impatience as she kissed his temple, his cheek.
The devil take her virtue.
She wanted this. Wanted whatever came next, and wanted to touch him, too, skin
against skin.

“Kaintuck,”  he said, leaving one breast in favor of the other, “I
want you. I ache to lose myself in your sweet, irresistible charms.”

Reagan wanted him, too, but reality had chosen that moment to rear
its ugly head. “I must know. What happens after? Where do we go from here?”

Jackson replied without thinking. “We go to Saint Louis, precisely
as planned.” Yet the words had no sooner left his mouth than he realized that
he had committed a grievous error, for the body that, seconds ago, had been so
pliant, seemingly so willing, suddenly had all the pliancy of a glacier.

“No more,” she said, “leave be.” And then, when he attempted to
drown her protests with a fresh onslaught of seduction, she wedged an elbow
against his Adam’s apple.

“Reagan, sweetheart,” he said with a disarming smile. “I beg you,
don’t act in haste. Don’t do anything that we both may come to regret.”

She shoved at his shoulders, weakly, and he saw that her hands
were trembling. “I regret it already. Now get off!”

Jackson released her, sprawling on his side in the grass, trying
to appear nonchalant when he was anything but. His blood was still running hot,
and the throbbing ache in his loins was annoyingly persistent. “Was it
something I said?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then we are to pretend this episode never occurred?” he
questioned quietly, almost casually. It was a commendable performance,
considering the fact that he wanted badly to press her back into the grass, to
still her protests and pretensions with his kisses, to selfishly take what she
had so generously offered a moment ago. “Pretend that we did not make love a
moment ago, forget the intimacies we shared and reveled in? And I should forget
the succulent fullness of your breasts, forget how sweetly you sighed your
surrender?”

She threw him a thunderous look by way of reply.

“Very well, then. I shall strive to honor your request, though I
must admit it isn’t going to be easy, given the fact that I find myself quite
taken with your charms.”

Though he would not have thought it possible, her frown deepened.
“A gentleman would have stopped flappin’ his jaws five minutes ago.”

Josephine crept near, insinuating herself between them. Shifting
positions, Jackson scratched the feline’s chin, addressing the cat with a weary
sigh. “Poor Papa. I am afraid our sweet mountain lily no longer likes me.”

“I like you just fine, at a distance,” she said stiffly.

Jackson frowned at her. “You liked me well enough a moment ago,
and if I remember correctly, we were quite... close.”

“Since your memory’s so good, you might try rememberin’ that
husband you mentioned before. I don’t know what’s proper in Saint Louis, but in
Kentucky a virtuous woman doesn’t lie with one man and marry another.”

“Ah, but there are ways,” Jackson said, his voice deliberately
silky. “Your future husband need never know.”

“I
would know!” she shot back
angrily. “It ain’t right, and it wouldn’t be fair—not to the man I marry, and
not to me.” Jackson got up and slowly sauntered to where she sat, her arms
wrapped around her upraised legs, her chin resting on her knees. “Come,” he
said, reaching down to grasp her wrist, urging her up and onto her feet. Her
manner was decidedly hesitant, almost nervous; she wouldn’t meet his gaze at
all, but kept her lashes lowered, partially masking the light of desire that
still shone in her soft gray eyes.