Jackson made no reply, catching the hem of her voluminous night rail instead, sliding his hand underneath. Reagan felt his hand graze the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, and her breath caught in her throat. “I want you, Kaintuck. Tell me that you feel what I feel.”
His fingers glided over Reagan’s skin, higher, higher. “Wanting isn’t good enough,” she insisted. “Wanting doesn’t last beyond the moment.”
“Only the sun, the moon, and the stars last forever,” he said. “Human lives are frail, fleeting. Moments like this one are all that matter, the only thing of any value in this world.” He kissed her again, determinedly, persuasively. He kissed her until she could not catch her breath, until her limbs were wobbly and weak and she had no more will to resist. Slowly, almost of their own volition, her hands came to rest on his warm, bare chest, her fingers splayed, reaching. As she tried and failed to form a convincing argument in her mind, Jackson covered Reagan’s hand with one of his own, guiding it down over the satiny skin of his chest to the waistband of his trousers and beyond.
“Will you touch me, ma cherie amour?” he asked softly, so gently. “I’ve an unquenchable thirst for the feel of your small, deft hands on my body.”
Reagan did touch him. She knew she should have been shocked, but propriety and outraged virtue were swept far beyond her grasp as his fingers found the secret place at the apex of her thighs, and all thought of the consequences of their actions, all thought of tomorrow, of prospective husbands and marriage beds, drifted slowly away, leaving the growing certainty that Jackson was right.
She could not live for tomorrow, could not deny herself the chance to live her dream, even if that dream was fleeting. She’d wanted him for what seemed like an eternity, and it occurred to her that when she was old and gray, and wed fifty years to another man, she would have the memory of this night and her love for this tragic man to cherish, and to sustain her.
And she did love him.
She’d loved him almost from the beginning. She loved him for his kindness and thoughtfulness and generosity, his arrogance, his dark, dangerous good looks, and the fact that he snored. Most of all she loved his intensity, the way he was looking down into her face as he touched her there... as he kindled a fire in her blood and her loins that threatened to rage out of control.
The way he watched her made her blush; instinctively she tried to turn her face away, to bury it in the curve of his throat, anything to avoid his penetrating gaze.
Selfishly, he would not permit it, and forced her back. “Don’t turn away from me, Kaintuck. I want to watch your rapt expression as the ecstasy claims you. I want to see your torment, your triumph, and know that I’m the cause of it.”
‘ ‘You would strip my soul bare and leave me bereft,” Reagan said.
Chuckling darkly, he bent to his task, teasing her senses, manipulating her woman’s body, silently promising heaven, then deliberately holding it back. “Not bereft,” he whispered. “Never bereft. I would never leave you wanting.”
Reagan was not so certain. The tension that gripped her, that made her heart flutter like a wild thing in her chest, was mounting at a terrifying pace. It was terrible and wonderful, frightening and delicious. She wanted it to go on forever; she wanted it finished.
Gripping his shoulders, she silently willed him to end it, begged him without uttering a sound to give her surcease. Jackson replied just as silently, opening the front flap of his trousers, wrapping her in his embrace. Then, with the wrought-iron support at her back, he caught her left leg at the knee, bending it, guiding it over his hip.
As Reagan stared up into his shadowed visage, he brought her hips against his, the rock-hard shaft of his manhood, now fully aroused, taking the place of his hand, slowly stroking, caressing, coaxing the burgeoning ache in Reagan’s woman’s flesh to a painful, pleasurable peak without ever achieving a true penetration.
On and on it went, until Reagan thought she would die from wanting. Clutching at him, she tried to wrench control from him, tried to force him to claim her in truth. She wanted him inside of her, she wanted all of him, everything he was willing to give. He denied her, withdrawing so far that she feared he would leave her completely, then thrusting again.
Just when she could stand no more, just when she thought she would go stark, raving mad from die unbearable intimacy of the act, the spasms claimed her, flooding her senses with a pleasure so intense that it left her shaken and weak.
Watching her closely, Jackson saw her lids drift down, saw her face go slack, felt the throb of her woman’s flesh, and knew that he had brought her to the pinnacle of physical bliss. Then and only then did he allow himself to follow, thrusting once, twice, and melting against her.
Chapter Ten
Reagan was on her knees peering under the bed when an insistent scratching sounded on the bedchamber door. “In a minute, Josephine,” she said impatiently, continuing to grope the dim recesses beneath the four-poster bed in search of the bottle green wrapper. “Hang it all, it’s got to be here somewhere!” The scratching came again, accompanied by a woman’s voice. “Mam’selle? Mam’selle, are you awake?”
Startled, Reagan raised up, hitting her head on the heavy wooden bed frame. Biting back an epithet, she scrambled from under the bed and sat rubbing her head while Josephine, curled cat-fashion at the foot of the bed, looked on.
The scratching came again. “Just a minute,” Reagan called out, scanning the room with a frantic glance. And then she remembered the heavy thunder, the blue-white flash of lightning, the soul-shattering moment on the broad gallery when the cool satin had slithered down her arms, and she gave an inward groan.
It all came rushing back as she glanced at the long French windows, open now to the blinding morning light... every touch, every kiss, all of the mind-numbing sensations and the feeling of being swept up and borne away, beyond rational thought, far beyond the reach of her moral integrity, from her knowledge of right and wrong.
She’d lost her mind last night. She’d let her heart have sway over her woman’s flesh, and it didn’t bode well for her future that she suffered no scalding sense of shame for her actions. All she could think of as she snatched a quilt off the brass-bound trunk at the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her was that she’d gotten precisely what she wanted.
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 slightlyrough 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, feminine 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 h
ead, 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.”
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 16
