Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (17 page)

Closing his eyes against the persistent ache in the left side of
his face, he lowered his guard, too weary now to keep the past at bay. Images
flooded in, disembodied voices seeping through his mind like floodwaters
through an earthen levee, distorted, nightmarish.

“Did you think for a moment that I would not discover your
betrayal?” Clay had thundered. “Allegra told me how you came to her, half out
of your mind with whiskey, how you tried to force your attentions upon her!”

“So that’s what she told you,” Jackson countered, unsurprised at
Allegra’s deception. Allegra Santana had first come to his bed the previous summer,
when she’d moved north from New Orleans. It hadn’t taken long for Jackson to
discern that the dark-haired, dark-eyed young widow had a bottomless abyss
where her soul should have been, a fact she’d taken great pains to keep hidden
from Clay, who had recently become enamored of her. “And you believed her.
Sometimes I think you are far too naive for your own good.”

“Do you deny it?” Clay shot back. He was caught in the grip of
righteous anger, fairly trembling with it. All Jackson could think of was getting
clear of the warehouse. He would give Clay time to cool down, and then they
would talk.

But Clay would have none of it. He grabbed Jackson’s arm, his
fingers crushing the nap of his velvet coat. “Do you deny it? I will have the
truth, damn you!”

Something leaped to life inside of Jackson at that moment, a
devil, dark and dangerous. It bade him to strike back, to hurt Clay the way he
himself had been hurt countless times by Emil’s overweening preference for his
firstborn and appalling neglect of his second. Jerking his arm from Clay’s
grasp, Jackson straightened his coat with an angry jerk, giving the devil its
head. “Very well, then. You’ll have your precious truth! I was with Allegra
yesterday. I took her up against the wall in the parlor of the house she rents
on Olive Street. It was half past three in the afternoon, broad daylight, and
she did not bother to close the curtains. Despite her claims to the contrary, I
did not force her. In fact, I was there at her implicit invitation. There’s no
need to take my word for it, however. You can ask Kevin Murphy. He was there in
the room when her footman delivered the note, and given his bent for gossip, he
doubtless read the missive before I did. Allegra deceived you, not I.”

“Liar!” Jackson was unprepared for the blow. Fueled by his
brother’s fury, it knocked him sprawling into the hundredweight bales of fur
stacked along the easternmost wall. “You have abused and maligned my fiancée’s
name for the last time! I demand satisfaction!”

The last thing Jackson remembered was turning and walking into the
foggy night. When he awoke late the next afternoon at Kate Flannigan’s
bordello, his head splitting from too much whiskey, his life had already
started to disintegrate.

Clay was dead. The town was buzzing with speculation, and he was
racked with cold remorse.

Jackson squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, struggling
against the incessant throb in his cheek, the ghosts, and his memories.

He hadn’t known that Clay was planning to marry Allegra. He hadn’t
deliberately set out to hurt anyone. He wished that he could change it all,
bring Clay back.

It was impossible, beyond his power. He could only seek out the
truth of what happened after he left Clay that fateful night, try to put the
speculation to rest, learn to live with himself... for Reagan, if for no other
reason.

She needed him, for stability’s sake. Somehow he would see that
she had a steady, honest husband, someone upon whom she could depend. He,
Jackson, needed her for the welcome distraction she provided—perhaps for the
sake of his sanity.

Reagan stood in the glittering foyer downstairs, a resplendent
Jackson standing by her side, and her heart thumping a nervous tattoo. She
could not believe it was happening. In a moment Jackson Parrish Broussard,
wealthy rake and adventurer, would stand up with her before Reverend Wells and
declare his undying devotion. . . . Yet as the door opened, it was not the
preacher who came into the pristine room, but a long line of suitors Jackson
had sought out on her behalf. Then, as every gap-toothed, whiskey-soaked, sorry
excuse for a man west of the Mississippi stepped to the fore, Jackson would
whisper bawdy nothings in her ear, kiss her soundly, and, laughing in a dark,
demented fashion, insist that she choose....

Instead Reagan ran up the long, winding staircase and flung
herself into the first chamber she stumbled across, slamming the door, drawing
the
bolt...
but the dregs of mankind streamed up the stairs after her,
pounding on the door, pounding and pounding, and….

Shaking off the foggy clutches of the nightmare, Reagan pushed
herself up against the pillows and lay blinking at the shaft of buttery
sunlight shifting through the sparkling window panes, illuminating the delicate
lace of the curtains and playing over the richly patterned rug... and for a
moment, just a moment, she let herself imagine that she was more than just an
interloper, an uninvited guest from a far-off and foreign place... a place
where the riches Jackson took for granted were completely unheard-of.

It didn’t last. False hope and fanciful dreams always faded
quickly in the bold, revealing light of day. It was only the nightmares and
grim reality that lingered. She was thankful there was no time to dwell upon
that thought before the door opened, and Jackson stepped into the room. Garbed
in a pristine white shirt, dark gray trousers, claret-colored velvet coat, and
knee-length boots, he looked every inch the gentleman. Reagan studied him
hard, yet the only trace of Jack Seek-Um, mountain man, that she could see was
the wicked glint in his deep green eyes and the vivid slash of the scar on his
cheek. Reagan found his presence so unnerving that she instinctively drew the
covers up to her chin. “Jesu, Jackson, don’t you ever knock?”

He slanted her a look, closing the door, leaning against it. “With
all that we’ve shared, I wasn’t aware that we needed to stand on such ceremony.
Did you sleep well? No howling dogs annoying you? No chasing fleas? No deep
pangs due to our brief separation?”

“I didn’t miss your snorin’ none, if that’s what you were gettin’
at.”

Chuckling low, he pushed away from the door and made his way to
the bed, where he stood smiling down at her. “ Snoring is a small price to pay
for the pleasure of my company, eh? Besides, since it bothers you so much, I’ll
be sure to select only soundless sleepers for your list of potential husbands.”

“Conceited oaf,” Reagan said, then relented a little as he sobered
and the moment passed. “I don’t expect your snoring kept me awake most nights
for more than an hour or two.” In all truth, when lying on the vast prairie,
with a million bright stars overhead and an uncertain future looming somewhere
beyond tomorrow, she’d taken comfort in the sound because it had reaffirmed his
nearness, though at that moment she would have suffered a thousand deaths
rather than admit it.

Reaching out, he took her hand, holding it in both of his, chafing
her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “I missed you, too,” he said softly.
“More than is proper for a guardian to miss his ward. But then, we both know
that I’m a poor choice for a protector.”

Reagan shrugged, wanting to squeeze his hand, to touch his cheek,
knowing that she did not dare. If she weakened now, let her feelings toward him
show, the results could be disastrous. He’d made his feelings clear that night
on the prairie. He did not believe in love and marriage. He was not a man upon
whom she could depend for more than a playful tussle. She was his
responsibility, an obligation, and there was nothing more between them than a
passing physical fancy. “It seems to me that except for the fact that you’ve
got an overblown opinion of yourself and more than your share of
bullheadedness, you’ve done a passable job of it so far.”

Bending near, he dropped a kiss upon her mouth. The contact was
brief, yet it still had the power to shake Reagan’s resolve to its very core,
and she watched him intently as he straightened. “Such loyalty must be
rewarded,” he said. “Would mademoiselle care to see Saint Louis?”

Reagan immediately brightened. “You mean it?”

He took out his timepiece and regarded it with a frown. “You have
ten minutes to make yourself presentable and meet me downstairs for breakfast.
Once we’re properly sated,” he said with a wink, “we can be on our way.”

She appeared in the doorway to the morning room a short while
later, garbed in her freshly laundered shirt and cast-off breeches, the hideous
excuse for a hat tucked beneath one arm. Jackson looked her up and down, from
the top of her shining dark head to the rounded toes of her shoes and back
again. “You’re late,” he said. “I told you ten minutes; it’s taken you nearly
fifteen.”

“I would’ve been here,” she replied, sliding into the chair
Jackson held for her, “’cept for the fact that I got lost.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Jackson said, setting aside his coffee as
Bessie came into the room. “I hope you’re hungry, Kaintuck. I’ve asked Bessie
to prepare us a feast. It seems like ages since I’ve had a decent meal, and
she’s the best cook in all of Missouri.”

Bessie came into the room, bearing a silver tray, which she placed
in the center of the table.

Jackson took one look at the contents of the tray, and sat back to
scowl at Bessie. “That’s it? Hard-cooked eggs and gruel?”

“It’s what we’ve all been eatin’ for the last month... porridge
and hard-boiled eggs, hard-boiled eggs and porridge... least till the chickens
quit layin’; then I expect we’ll have to do without the eggs.”

“It was biscuits I had in mind,” Jackson said. “Biscuits with
butter and honey.”

“Biscuits take flour and leavening, lard and salt,” Bessie said,
“and there ain’t none of that in the larder. Matter of fact, the larder’s
almost empty.”

“The pantry shelves are bare?” Jackson could hardly believe what
he was hearing. “Why on earth didn’t you send Annette to market?”

“I’d like to do just that; I surely would! But you got to have
money to go to market, and ain’t none of us got more than a penny or two. We
don’t get no wages no more.”

Jackson rattled his cup on his saucer, his scowl growing blacker.
“What about the household allowance?”

Bessie just snorted. “Ain’t been no household allowance since you
went off to the backcountry and your papa took sick!”

“Did you tell Garrett to ask Papa? He might have suffered an
apoplectic seizure, but I could tell from his glare that it hasn’t addled his
wits.”

“Yes, sir. Garrett would’ve done that, except for one thing: your
daddy don’t hold the purse strings ’round here no more. That rapscallion Navarre
come marchin’ in here after your daddy took ill and told us all that he was
takin’ over. He took over, all right, and things ain’t been the same since! If
you ask me, I think he’s tryin’ to starve us all
out...
your daddy, too, for that
matter!”

Jackson ran an impatient hand through his hair. “Have you
discussed this with Navarre?”

“I asked him twice,” Bessie said. “He just mumbled somethin’ about
the account ledger and went off to meet one of his lady friends. I expect that
with the goin’s-on down at the warehouse, he plumb forgot we all need to eat!”

Jackson’s head came up sharply. “The warehouse?” he said, then
just as quickly raised a hand to still whatever Bessie was about to say. “On
second thought, don’t tell me. I expect I shall find out soon enough.” Sighing,
he dug into his coat pocket and came away with a handful of gold coins. “Send
Annette to market; have her restock the larder. And for God’s sake, bring me
some coffee. Since it appears I won’t be dining after all, and my presence at
table is a mere formality, I might as well drown my sorrows.”

Bessie disappeared into the kitchen, appearing a moment later with
an elegant silver coffeepot, which she held poised over Jackson’s cup. Pushing
out her chin, she issued her challenge. “You gonna fix things with that
rascally knave Navarre? Let him know it ain’t his place to be orderin’ us all
about, now that the true master’s home?”

“I will speak with him later today,” Jackson replied, unable to
conceal his disappointment as he flicked his hand at the china place setting
laid out before him. “You may take this away.”

Down the board, Reagan peeled an egg and looked a trifle smug.
“You ought to learn not to be so choosy. You never can tell; the meal you turn
your nose up at might well be your last!”