Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (24 page)

Like all wishes granted, it came with a price, for although
Jackson had made love to her last night on the gallery, there had been no
promises, no heartfelt declarations, nothing on which to build a life together.
Now, in the bold light of day, her future looked shaky indeed.

As she opened the door, she could only bite her lower lip and hope
that after last night, after all they’d shared, he would forget his
crackbrained scheme to find her a husband. It would give her time to think,
time to try to find some logical way out of this impossible situation she
seemed to be in.

The young, dark-haired maid she’d noticed before beamed at Reagan
over the stack of boxes she carried. “Good morning, mam’selle,” she said,
pushing past a gaping Reagan to lay her burden on the bed.

“Lord God, almighty,” Reagan said softly, glancing around expectantly.
“Is somebody else gonna share this room with me?”

“Non, mam’selle,” Annette replied. Smiling indulgently, she lifted
the lid off the topmost box and took out a sumptuous creation of tawny silk and
blond lace. “It is your wardrobe, mam’selle—or part of it—just arrived. Oh, la!
Are they not breathtaking?”

“They’re taking my breath, all right,” Reagan said, suddenly feeling
as if she’d fallen asleep in a meadow and swallowed a host of butterflies. “I
never imagined there would be so many!”

Annette laughed. “This is just the beginning. Your trousseau will
not arrive until next week. M’sieur has outdone himself, no?” She lifted a
bonnet of dove gray velvet and silver satin ruching from a milliner’s box and
held it out to tempt Reagan, who hung hesitantly back, too nervous to approach
the bed and its extravagant display.

Josephine was not so reticent. She rolled onto her side and batted
playfully at the bonnet’s trailing ribbons. Annette clucked her tongue in
disapproval, removing the prize from the inquisitive feline’s reach. “La, mam’selle!
Do not look so heartsick! M’sieur has had mistresses before, but never a ward.
It’s obvious that he sets great store by you. Will you not come close and
look?”

Annette’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Reagan couldn’t help
inching her way forward, close enough to peer cautiously into the boxes, yet
far enough away that she could do no irreparable harm.

Several day dresses of dimity and sprigged muslin, as white as
freshly fallen snow, a silver-gray brocade for afternoon with a cherry-colored
velvet sash, and a deep russet silk shot through with gold threads for evening
took their places alongside the tawny silk.

Having succumbed to the lure of the bottle green wrapper, denying
herself the purely feminine pleasure of donning one of the lovely, extravagant
garments was unthinkable.

“Does mam’selle have a favorite she wishes to wear to breakfast?”
Annette asked.

“Breakfast?” Reagan repeated, glancing worriedly up. “Oh, no, I
couldn’t.”

“But you must,” the maid insisted. “M’sieur is waiting, and he
will be greatly displeased if you refuse to wear his gifts. Surely you do not
wish to displease him?”

Reagan wanted more than anything to please Jackson. She just
wasn’t sure how to go about it without making a fool of herself.

Biting her lip, she searched her mind for the resources she
required, yet try as she might she couldn’t recall a scrap of information that
would transform her from a rustic slightly
rough around the edges, to a
young woman worthy of winning Jackson’s heart.

In fact, it seemed like an eternity since she had dressed like a
proper young lady, and even then her garments had been simple. She wasn’t at
all certain that she could manage all the corsets, hoops, and numerous
petticoats that were an essential part of the fashionably dressed young woman.
And even if she could, she doubted she could do so gracefully.

She’d been too long in Lafe’s homespun shirt and breeches to know
how to comport herself like a lady. Yet she was far too proud to confess her
doubts and insecurities to the lovely, fe
minin
e Annette.

“The truth is, I was hopin’ for somethin’ simpler,” she admitted.
“These dresses are fit for a queen, not for someone like me.”

Annette just smiled, plying her unshakable logic. “It was no queen
m’sieur had in
mind
when he commissioned the gowns, mam’selle. It was you. And the
choices he made show a minute attention to detail that few men lavish on their
mistresses, let alone their wards! Observe! The bronze taffeta and the russet
and the tawny silks are the perfect foil for mam’selle’s dark beauty, and the
silver gray!” She held the gown against Reagan and spun her to face the cheval
glass. “It matches your eyes perfectly! M’sieur Jackson has been very
attentive, and when a man pays such close attention to a woman, it can mean but
one thing.”

“Oh, I am sure you are mistaken,” Reagan protested. “All of this,
the gowns and slippers, hats and gloves, are the equivalent of a fat worm on
the end of a fishin’ line. They’re Jackson’s idea of bait. He thinks to catch
me a worthy husband, someone staid and dependable, to take me off his hands.”

Even as she said the words, Reagan couldn’t help thinking of last
night, of his scalding, insistent kisses, the way he’d held her, for all the
world as if he’d never let her go.

“Forgive my boldness, mam’selle,” Annette said softly, “but is
this what you wish, a husband who is staid and dependable?”

Reagan’s gaze sought the maid’s and held for a moment. Oh, how she
wanted to trust her, wanted to feel as if she were a part of this household, as
if she truly belonged here. Yet one glance at the much-mended boy’s clothing,
folded neatly and lying forgotten on the overstuffed chair by the window, was
sufficient to quell the irrational impulse, to convince Reagan to keep her
truths, no matter how painful, to herself.

She wasn’t a part of this household, she thought. She was an
outsider, so different from everything Jackson knew, so foreign, that they
might as well have been from different worlds. “Mam’selle?” Annette pressed
gently.

Reagan forced a smile, turning away from the glass. “It really
doesn’t matter what I want. It’s what Jackson wants that counts. You know how
hardheaded he can be when he’s got his mind set on somethin’.”

Annette returned the silver-gray gown to the bed, smoothing the
wrinkles from the skirt. “Pah! Men rarely know their own minds, and they never
know their hearts! That is, not until a woman shows them what it is that they
are missing.” She paused to open another dressmaker’s box, humming softly
beneath her breath in a show of total nonchalance. Yet Reagan wasn’t fooled,
nor was she surprised when the maid fired her final volley; “You may not be
aware of it, mam’selle, but you have everything at your disposal, should you
decide to set aside the prospect of a staid and reliable husband in favor of
capturing the heart of a certain very handsome, very eligible gentleman.”

Smiling a knowing smile, she lifted the bottle green wrapper from
the clutter littering the bed. ‘‘Kevin Murphy found mam’selle’s robe on the
gallery early this morning, along with m’sieur’s shirt. I am sure that mam’selle
slept well, no?” Reagan pretended not to hear the remark as she lifted a gown
of cream-colored muslin from the bed, but she blushed deeply. “I suppose if I
have to wear the dresses he bought, then this one will do.”

“A wise choice,” Annette agreed. “Here, let me help you with your
stays.”

A half hour later, Reagan emerged from the bedchamber and,
accompanied by Josephine, made her way to the morning room.

Her steps were slow and deliberate, her heartbeat unnaturally
fast. The very thought of facing Jackson after the intimacies they’d shared
made her all warm and quivery inside, a veritable bundle of nerves.

She would have paused outside the morning room to draw several
deep breaths, to try to regain her shattered composure and slow the rapid
tattoo of her pulse, yet she feared that if she did she would turn and run back
to the relative safety of her bedchamber. The rattle of a cup in its saucer
came plainly to her ears, the scrape of chair legs on polished wood, and Reagan
hesitated, turning back toward the stairs.

“Will you turn away without breaking your fast, Mademoiselle... Dawes,
is it?”

Caught, Reagan froze in her tracks. As she turned reluctantly back
to face the older gentleman who’d addressed her, she was struck anew at how
great the resemblance was between Jackson and his uncle. It was the same face,
except for the eyes, which were so deep a brown they appeared to have no
pupils. Reagan judged him to be two score ten and a few years of age. Yet,
except for the heavy stripe of silver jutting back from his right temple, the
years had been uncommonly kind to Navarre Broussard. “For a moment I mistook
you for— That is, I didn’t realize that Jackson had company.”

The sound of Jackson’s voice, raised in an angry bellow, drifted
down the stairs, a fact that seemed to amuse Navarre. Sending a glance heavenward,
he smiled, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling pleasantly. “Yes, well. My
nephew is paying his respects to his father and, I trust from the sound of
things, will be joining us shortly. Besides, I am hardly a guest, my dear. Over
the years it has often been my habit to take coffee at my brother’s table. A
tradition, you might call it. Sadly, Emil, Jackson’s father, can no longer
preside over our little circle as family patriarch, and so I come often to
visit my dear brother and cheer his spirits, and to enjoy a few moments in the
society of my nephew. We are very close, you know,” he confided, his brown eyes
glinting with secret humor. “In truth, more like father and son than uncle and
nephew. But where have my manners gone? It’s nearly nine o’clock—you must be
famished. Shall we?”

He bowed lightly, yet, as he started to offer his arm, Josephine,
half-hidden behind Reagan’s voluminous skirts, gave a menacing hiss. Navarre
tried a conciliatory tack. Bending slightly, he stretched a hand toward the
animal, as if to pat her broad head, but the cat drew back sharply, growling
low in her throat.

“How very like a woman,” Navarre said with a dark chuckle.
“Temperamental, perhaps even a bit jealous, but ever intriguing. Perhaps,
after all, it is best if we do not test her restraint.” Withdrawing the
offending hand, he indicated that Reagan should precede him. “My dear
Mademoiselle Dawes, if you will? We shall await my nephew’s return together. I
am most anxious to know you better.”

Reagan’s steps dragged as she entered the morning room. Navarre
Broussard comported himself in a gentlemanly fashion; he was soft-spoken,
kindly even. Yet she was decidedly ill at ease as she slid into the chair he
held for her, then took the place on her right. Kevin Murphy appeared at her
elbow, holding a silver coffeepot. “Coffee, miss?”

“Yes, please,” Reagan said, glad for the diversion. Navarre
watched her intently, rather like a cat watched a mouse hole. She drew the
process out, thanking Kevin as he withdrew.

“Would you care for some cream, Reagan?” Navarre asked, a slight
smile playing about his firm mouth. “You don’t object to my calling you by your
given name, do you? Miss Dawes is so formal, and it would seem that you are
very dear to my nephew.”

“I’m not sure I know how you mean,” Reagan replied, careful to
avoid his gaze.

“The dress you are wearing is quite fashionable. Your
accommodations are unparalleled. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, ’twould
seem that you are being gradually assimilated into this household.” He paused,
raising his cup to his lips, taking a sip, then lowering it to its saucer
again, and the gentle clink of bone china was loud in the silent room. “Perhaps
even into this family.”

Reagan felt her temper stir to life inside her, and did her best
to tamp it down. “I didn’t ask for any of this, if that’s what you’re saying.
It wasn’t my idea to come here, to wear these fancy clothes, and I’ve got
family of my own.”

“Really?” Navarre said, scrutinizing her over his coffee cup. “Then
perhaps you will explain just how you came to be under my nephew’s protection?”

Reagan opened her mouth to reply, and at that same moment Jackson
entered the room. He was dressed in a plain white shirt and buff-colored
trousers; he carried a frock coat of deep blue broadcloth over one arm. His
face was still lined from sleep, and he’d neglected to shave.

Reagan’s willful heart turned over at the sight of him, and she
hoped against hope that her feelings did not show.

“Precisely what would you have her explain, Uncle?” he asked as he
slid into his seat.

Navarre’s expression was bland. “Why, the manner in which the two
of you became acquainted, of course. I assumed that the girl had no family, and
that was the reason for your guardianship, but she has just informed me that
such is not the case. How is it, then, that she is here, under your care?”