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

by S. K. McClafferty

  Jackson winced. “I’m twenty-nine years and five months, and I believe I have a little time left before I must resign myself to age and infirmity. Besides, it would be an unconscionable father who would burden an innocent child with a legacy such as mine.” He took a firm grip on her left foot, cradling her heel in one broad hand while he kneaded her toes with the other. “As for a wife... she would need to be something of a challenge, else I would grow quickly bored and set her aside. Why do you ask, Kaintuck? Have you someone in mind?” Reagan bit her tongue to keep it still, permitting him to continue. “No? Good, for in all truth, I would much rather be with you. Now lie back against the pillows; this may take a while. You are very tense.”

  He thoroughly massaged her left foot while the silence stretched long between them. Reagan could see nothing wrong in doing as he suggested. She’d already made a bargain with the devil. She might as well enjoy her slow descent into sin. And she did enjoy it. Jackson had wondrous hands.

  Their deft ministrations made her relax, against her better judgment, and by the time he’d moved on to her right foot, her tension had melted away, and she was sighing with contentment. She barely noticed that his hands were inching their way toward the red satin garter with the small rosette that held her stocking just above the knee.

  Mesmerized, she watched him slide his fingers beneath the narrow band and edge both garter and stocking slowly downward. When he reached her shapely calf, he raised her knee, pressing a tender kiss at its sensitive bend.

  Reagan could not suppress a smile. “Jackson Broussard! You promised.”

  “Your pardon for my trespass, mademoiselle,” he said low. “But it is such an enchanting leg that I could not help myself. And we did agree that it is disputed territory, as is its mate, open yet to seduction—I mean, discussion. If you truly object, however, I shall be forced to stop. I did vow that I would not do anything you do not wish me to do.”

  He had already slid his fingers under the second garter, under the top of her stocking, and was tracing tiny patterns on her cool skin with his warm, strong fingers. “Well,” Reagan relented, strangely reluctant for him to stop, “since it is disputed territory, and falls outside our original agreement, I suppose there can be no harm—as long as you make a solemn vow that you will take no other liberties.”

  “A bargain is a bargain,” Jackson said, joining her on the bed, gathering her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her.

  Reagan tensed. This was the crucial moment, the moment in which he would press her back into the pillow and kiss her senseless, effectively robbing her of her will. In anticipation, she held her breath.

  Yet, surprisingly, it did not happen. He just rolled with her, lying half upon his side and half upon his back, still partially clothed, and not terribly threatening as he pulled the pins from her perfectly coiffed hair and allowed it to fall between them.

  Reagan slowly relaxed, feeling the delicious warmth that radiated from his body seep into her own... and something else... some strange seed of discontent that at that moment was stirring to life inside her. A twinge of restlessness added to her discomfort; she snuggled closer, seating her cheek against the center of his chest. His skin was as smooth and sleek as an otter pelt, totally devoid of the coarse hair that made other men so unsightly, and no doubt due, at least in part, to his Choctaw heritage.

  Unconsciously, Reagan rubbed her cheek against the hard wall of his chest. Her mouth grazed one small, erect pap, and she drew back, shocked by her own actions. Then, slowly, urged on by the sudden desire to experiment, she touched it again, brushing her lips across its pebbled surface, marveling at the way it contracted and grew hard.

  Growing bolder, she flicked it with the tip of her tongue, thrilling at Jackson’s sharply indrawn breath; then, seized by a compulsion she could not control, she took the small bud into her mouth and suckled gently. There was an answering tug low in her belly, too strong, too insistent to ignore.

  Jackson made no sound, just cradled her closer against him. Reagan, strangely, was not satisfied. She could not seem to get close enough. Shifting her weight, she rested a knee between his thighs, straining upward to nuzzle his jaw. “You may kiss me now, if you like,” she whispered.

  He raised himself slightly, kissing the corner of her mouth, then, much to her disappointment, fell lazily back into the pillows.

  He did not speak a word, did not move a muscle; he just lay there, waiting, his green eyes burning into hers.

  Reagan swallowed hard, and felt her pride go down. “Jackson, please. Won’t you kiss me?”

  Reaching up, Jackson trailed a teasing finger down the curve of her nose and across her lips. “Are you certain that’s what you want?”

  “Yes. Terribly certain.”

  It was all the encouragement he needed. He took Reagan’s face in his hands, urging her down, bringing her lips to his, and finally enfolding her in his rapt embrace. He kissed her with more tenderness than she could ever have imagined any man possessed, and when it ended, he kissed her again. He kissed her until Reagan’s breath was a soft sob of need in her throat, until she collapsed atop him, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in the curve of his throat.

  She wanted to weep for their situation.

  She wanted to strike him.

  If not for his obstinate heart, they could have been husband and wife by now. Within the legal bounds of holy matrimony, she would have gladly shared his bed; she would have lived with him—and for him—for all the years of his life, and hers. She would have been so happy, so proud to bear his children. Yet no part of that dream would ever be realized for her.

  All they would ever be was lovers, and even that was fleeting.

  After the ball it would all be over. Not that she imagined that suitors would flock to his door on her account, but few men could resist the lure of five thousand dollars.

  They had but four days left to them. Her troubled mind seized upon the thought. Four more days, and Jackson would walk out of her life—or she out of his—most likely forever.

  Reagan’s thoughts lent a quiet desperation to her actions. Gone now was all thought of intrigue or ladylike artifice. In that moment, lying so close to him, yet not nearly close enough, she knew what she was meant to do, what she’d wanted to do all along.

  “Jackson?” she said, stroking the plane of his lean, scarred cheek with the fingers of one loving hand.

  “Yes, my love?” he said quietly.

  “Can we renegotiate our bargain?”

  “That would depend. What sacrifice must I make to keep you here?”

  “No sacrifice,” she said, her gaze locking with his. “I want to stay.... What I mean to say is, I want you.” She traced a finger along his jaw to the hollow of his throat and down across his chest. At his waistband, she paused. “Could you—” she said, and stopped, a heated blush creeping into her cheeks. “Would you... make love to me please. Make me your own, even if it’s only for a little while.”

  “And your marriage bed?” he asked softly.

  “A pox upon my marriage bed,” Reagan whispered. “I have yet to clap eyes upon my soon-to-be husband, and already I despise him. It’s you I want, you I need.”

  Jackson rose above her, smiling down into her upturned face as he pressed her back into the soft feather mattress. “Reagan, my dear, sweet love, I greatly feared that you would never ask.”

  This time, when Jackson kissed Reagan, she did not resist, and all thought of protest was long forgotten. Eagerly she pulled him down atop her, wrapping one arm about his neck, the other around his lean middle, until he reached back, caught her hand, and guided it down between them.

  His fingers interlaced with hers, cupping her hand to his manhood, molding her slim fingers around the hard shaft. Then he kissed his way down one shoulder to the peak of her breast.

  But this time he failed to linger.

  He rained kisses, one upon each rib, then gently sank his teeth into her waist while Reagan writh
ed and panted and tried to convince him to put an end to her torment.

  Yet no amount of argument could make him stay.

  He continued to chart his leisurely course, down the length of her body, to the sole of one dainty foot.

  He seemed to derive great delight in placing a heated kiss upon her arch; then he started north again along her inner calf, to her thigh, sighing contentedly as at long last he reached his reward.

  He did not bother to loosen the knot she’d tied in the string that secured her pantalets. He just parted the long slit in the crotch and, sliding his hands beneath her hips, brought her to his mouth.

  Reagan gasped. She could not help it. The sensation of blistering heat was so shocking, so wondrous, so titillating. Her woman’s flesh sang from the sheer joy of his attentions, thrilled at the roughness of his tongue. The tension, the wild trilling she’d first experienced that night on the gallery leaped to throbbing life, seizing her senses, building and building. Need, as sharp as it was sweet, sank its talons deep into her soul, and she kneaded Jackson’s shoulders, sobbing for him to take her.

  “Ssshhh, my darling,” he said, rising above her, taking her face in his hands, kissing her to quiet her restless moan. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

  After what seemed an eternity, he unbuttoned the front flap of his trousers. Reaching down, Reagan wrapped her fingers around the rock-hard shaft, eagerly guiding him through the slit in her pantalets to the source of her selfishness.

  She felt his manhood strain against the secret place between her thighs, still moist and tingly from his kisses, felt Jackson’s whole body tense and quiver with the effort of holding back.

  But Reagan was impatient.

  She wanted him inside her, she wanted him to join with her, she wanted them to be one... as close as a man and a woman could possibly be. Lifting her knees, Reagan rose to meet him, pushing, straining, feeling the sweet, sharp pain as her body yielded and he slowly filled her, inch by miraculous inch.

  Such a glorious sensation. She wanted him closer, closer. Mindless of anything but her own desperate need, she wrapped her legs around Jackson’s hips, forcing his maleness in fully, mindless of the sudden searing jolt as he breached the barrier that was her maidenhead.

  Smoothing her tousled hair back from her brow, Jackson kissed her deeply, not breaking the contact as he slowly began to move inside her, pushing deeper, deeper, never really leaving her at all. Reagan felt the pleasure grip her, peak, recede, then peak again. It built and built and built, until she feared that she could stand no more, and still he probed her inner depths, sweeping her effortlessly along on a rising swell of pleasure so intense she was unsure that she could bear it... closer to the edge of the precipice... closer, until Reagan locked her legs around him, and together they plunged into the bottomless abyss.

  Jackson and Reagan made love again, while the hours passed and the moon shadows crept silently across the damp, tangled sheets. Jackson took untold delight in teaching Reagan things she had no business knowing, all of the many little secrets he had learned through the years as a devoted libertine. Once initiated in the art of sensual play, she proved an apt pupil, eager to experiment, and her brand of unwitting torture at times proved almost more than he could bear.

  Sated now, she slept, her head pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder, one hand curled between their bodies, the other lying possessively across his loins. Jackson lightly stroked her tumbled tresses and hoped her dreams were sweet ones.

  He entertained no thought of sleep himself. His thoughts were far too troubling, and kept him tense and wakeful.

  Overwhelmed by his ungovernable passion for a woman he could not keep, he had bargained for a night in her arms, he had teased and plied his charms, and in the end he had won her. Now, he was firmly entrapped by his own machinations. And the fact that a liaison with him would quite likely spell the forfeiture of her long-cherished hopes and dreams weighed heavily on his conscience.

  Reagan wanted a normal fife, with a reliable husband, and babies... lots and lots of babies. She wanted someone to hold her hand through the pain of childbirth, someone to sit with her by the fireside while their children played at their feet, someone with a love that would be unwavering even when they grew arthritic and old.

  She wanted the very antithesis of all that he stood for; perversely, Jackson just wanted Reagan. He just wasn’t sure that he could keep her from achieving her dream for the satisfaction of his own selfish whims.

  Strangely, the alternative was every bit as unacceptable.

  Unable to take her to wife, he would soon be forced to stand silently by in the downstairs study, before his mother’s portrait, and watch as she promised faithfulness and fidelity to another man.

  At the thought of it, he felt a strange catch in his chest, and unconsciously gathered her sleeping form more securely against him, dropping a kiss cm the bridge of her nose.

  Mother of God, he wished there were some way out of this.

  His emotional turmoil pricked painfully behind his eyes as he buried his face in the sweet-scented curtain of her hair. At the same time, an eerie scratching sounded on the bedchamber door. “A moment,” he said hoarsely, gently extracting himself from Reagan’s embrace.

  As he eased from beneath the covers, she awakened. “What is it?” she asked, her voice husky from sleep. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

  Jackson bent near the bed as he gathered his trousers in one hand, placing a finger to his lips with the other. “Stay where you are. There is someone at the door.” Sliding into his trousers, he walked to the door and edged it open. Bessie stood in the dimly lit hallway, garbed in night rail, wrapper, and snowy turban. She was wringing her hands.

  “Mr. Jackson, I’m sorry to disturb your rest.”

  “What is it Bessie? Is it Papa?”

  “No, sir. It ain’t your papa. It’s Mr. Navarre. He’s downstairs, and Sheriff Bedford’s with him. Mr. Navarre’s plenty angry, but the other man’s insistin’ that you come.”

  “Did he happen to say what this is about?”

  Bessie’s face took on a pained look, and she sniffed softly. “Yes, sir, he did. They done found a body. That rapscallion Malcolm Heath that used to work for Mr. Clay. Somebody killed him, and that lawman wants to talk to you.” Raking a hand through his hair, Jackson swore. Heath had been his only lead, and now the man was dead. It took him several seconds to collect himself enough to send Bessie away. “Tell them I’ll be down in a moment.”

  As he closed the door, Reagan sat bolt upright in the middle of the big bed, clutching the covers to her bosom. “I don’t understand. If someone killed that fella Heath, why do they want to talk to you?”

  Jackson said nothing as he gathered his clothing. Once he was dressed, he came to the bed and dropped a kiss on her brow. “Go back to sleep. You need your rest, and it’s nothing to concern you.” His voice was calm, soothing, yet Reagan couldn’t help but notice his harried frown.

  “I’ll get dressed,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”

  “You will do no such thing. You will wait here, and when I am finished I’ll return to you. If you dog my heels down those stairs and appear looking like you are, flushed from our lovemaking, everyone will know precisely what’s happened here tonight.” Tenderly he cupped her chin, gazing deep into her eyes. “I’ve cherished our time together, and I do not wish it spoiled. It will end too soon as it is. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Reagan nodded. She understood all too well. If their liaison became common knowledge, there would be serious repercussions. Because of his social position, and her lack thereof, word of their affair would spread like wildfire. She would be branded a loose woman, morally defunct, no better than the whores who plied their trade down at Kate Flannigan’s house of ill repute. The only redemption for which she could hope was one that remained far beyond her simple grasp. There had been no talk of love between them, no offer for her hand forthcoming.

  Jackson would not tak
e her to wife to save her from a scandal, and she’d be worse than a fool if she thought for a moment that he would. “Yes, I understand,” Reagan said, knowing it would be enough to satisfy him.

  “I’ll be back in a little while.” He turned away from the bed, and before she could do more than draw a shaky breath, he exited the room.

  The wisest, most prudent course would have been to heed Jackson’s advice and hide beneath the covers until he saw fit to return. Reagan might have done precisely that, had her curiosity and the burning need to know what was happening downstairs not gotten the better of her.

  She’d known for some time now that Jackson was keeping secrets, secrets that had to do with his nocturnal activities. She harbored little doubt that his nightly sojourns were dangerous indeed, yet no amount of verbal prodding could convince him to confide in her. He remained a man shrouded in mystery, and there seemed but one way to solve the puzzle his life had become.

  As soon as the bedchamber door clicked shut, Reagan tossed back the covers and dragged the quilt from the bed, wrapping it securely around her. Then, knowing she had no time to lose, she crept across the gallery and down the outside stairs. The thirteenth step put her at eye level with the study window, yet the graceful curve of the wrought-iron stairway helped hide her from view. From here she could be privy to what was going on, with little fear of discovery.

  From her vantage point, she could see the sheriff. He was older than Jackson by a score of years and had a slight paunch that spoiled the effect of his black frock coat and neatly tied cravat.

  Navarre Broussard, Jackson’s uncle, was seated across the room. Resplendent as ever in a wine-colored coat and buff pantaloons, he sat stiffly, his elegant hands folded one over the other and resting on the head of his walking stick, which was firmly planted before him. His attitude was haughty, superior, and contrasted sharply with Sheriff Bedford’s sharp impatience.