For a long moment they stood, their gazes locked, so alike in temperament and physiognomy that they more resembled sire and progeny than uncle and nephew. “Very well, then. I was there, momentarily,” Navarre reluctantly admitted. “As it happens, I was on my way to Philippe Ormond’s when I saw someone lying stricken on the portico of the very house you mentioned. I paused to investigate, and took the wretch for dead. Thinking there was nothing more that I could do, I departed the scene and went on to Philippe’s. I assure you I did not set fire to anything. I daresay it would require more effort than I am willing to expend.”
They stood a moment, toe-to-toe, tension bristling between them. Navarre shifted, then straightened. “If that is all that you require of me, and you will not permit me to send for the physician, then I must beg your leave. The hour grows late, and I should like to seek my rest.”
Jackson was far from satisfied as he took his leave. In that first moment when Navarre had caught sight of him, something had flared in his dark eyes... some stark reality Navarre seemed reluctant to face. Something that had terrified him. Jackson had seen it plainly.
But what could it possibly be? Had Navarre suddenly realized that Jackson had been the faceless wretch he’d abandoned on the old south road?
Or was there something more? Something deeper, darker, more complex?
Could Reagan be right about Navarre? Was he in league with Abe McFarland? Had he stood idly by as Abe fired the cabin, knowing full well it was occupied? Was he capable of such cold-blooded cruelty?
And if so, then why? What could he possibly hope to gain from a late-night visit to the home of a man he himself had referred to as an ancient, besotted relic?
The questions flailed at him as he rode back to Belle Riviere, dancing like dark specters around the perimeters of his conscious mind. Gulping the crisp night air into his aching lungs, he pushed the events of the evening aside, forcing himself to focus on the only clue he had, the one thing that had not changed.
It was more imperative than ever that he find Whiskey Joe.
Catherine St. Claire swept through Belle Riviere like a petite hurricane. From the lowliest chambermaid to the proud old man cloistered in his room upstairs, there was hardly a member of the household who failed to feel the force of her indomitable will, or bend before it like reeds before the gale. And Reagan was at the center of the storm.
It began at cock’s crow next morning with Annette’s sly scratching on the bedchamber door. “Mam’selle. Mam’selle!” Having lain awake most of the night, her thoughts a dark, troubling vortex that threatened to drag her under, Reagan buried her head in her pillows and pretended not to hear. “Mam’selle! Mam’selle, please, it is time to waken!”
“For heaven’s sake, Annette,” Reagan said with a yawn, “it’s half-past six! Leave me in peace. I’ll speak to you later.” Much to Reagan’s consternation, the door opened and Catherine entered the room on a wave of fresh lilac and steely determination. “Bonjour,” she began, breaking off suddenly to send Reagan a sunny smile. “Might I call you Reagan?”
Over steaming cafe noir, Catherine outlined her plan to repair Jackson’s reputation and find Reagan a suitable match, a task to which the older woman directed all the focus and energy of an advancing general.
By the time Reagan had fortified herself with her first cup of coffee, it had become exceedingly clear that the woman was bent on conquering, and God have mercy on all who stood in her path.
Catherine smiled at Reagan over the rim of her cup, while Annette looked excitedly on. “The wheels are turning even as we speak. My husband Jason is busy twisting influential arms from our plantation near New Orleans.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high, if I were you,” Reagan warned her. “Jackson has something of a reputation, and folks around these parts have long memories.”
Accustomed to having her own head, Catherine waved the comment aside. “We’re starting at the top, with the governor. When word gets out that some of the most powerful men in the country are attending, the rest of these social neophytes will fall neatly into place. I daresay, when Jason and I are through, these provincials will be clamoring to add his name to their guest lists! And you, my dear, will be happily wed.”
With that dire pronouncement ringing in Reagan’s ears, Catherine reviewed the state of Reagan’s wardrobe, advising her on the appropriate choices for the morning, afternoon, and evening, every moment of which Catherine had carefully planned. By the time the interview was ended, Reagan felt frazzled and in desperate need of escape.
Dressed in a gown of sprigged white muslin, a peacock blue sash banding her trim waist, and a soft woolen shawl drawn around her shoulders, Reagan slipped through the French doors and down the gallery stairs.
The morning was advancing, and the mist that was so much a part of September mornings everywhere was slowly being burned off by the persistent autumn sun. Reagan strolled along the crushed shell garden path, marveling at the tangle her life had become.
Hopelessly in love with a man who cared for her, but couldn’t seem to commit to anything more permanent than a night in her arms, she’d tried to save herself by fleeing, only to be caught up in a situation far more dangerous than any she could have imagined. And then there was Emil, whom she felt certain knew more than he was telling—about Navarre, if not about Clay’s death.
Navarre... a man with secrets of his own, untrustworthy, murderous, and cruel. But what would he have to gain by Jackson’s death?
Reagan racked her brain, but could find no answers that made sense, and no way to straighten out the endless morass her life had become. Like a knotted ball of woolen yarn, the harder she tried to untangle the threads, the more secure the knots became... Jackson, Emil, Navarre, Crazy Abe, and, lastly, Catherine, who seemed more intent upon marrying her off than Jackson had ever been.
Reagan sighed at the direction of her thoughts, disappointed that the peace she’d sought seemed determined to elude her.
“A weighty, careworn sound, that, for so early in the morning.” Gabriel Strickland was seated on the stone bench, his long legs stretched out before him, his elbows cocked and his hands locked behind his tawny head. “Tell me, lovely lady. Is your life here at Belle Riviere such a trial? Or are you merely impatient to find that you must share your solitude?”
“Neither one,” Reagan replied, tugging the shawl a little closer to her throat as his blue eyes traveled over her. “It has been a busy morning, is all, and I’d hoped to have the garden to myself.”
He smiled at that, a swift and confident display of strong white teeth that caused his eyes to crinkle at the corners. “The lady was bent upon escaping,” he surmised quite accurately. “Was it Seek-Um’s dark and brooding aspect that sent you scurrying, or a mere thirst for freedom?”
Reagan sniffed. “It seems to me that a man who begs his bed, board, and whiskey can ill afford to be so cheeky toward his host.”
The smile grew, carving long dimples in his sun-browned cheeks, daring the devil that danced in his deep blue eyes. “Why, cheeky is my middle name, sweetheart, and pushing the bounds of decent behavior is something of a pastime of mine. Since it’s quite clear that I’ve already tweaked your temper, might I say how lovely you look this morning, minus your bonnet, and with your hair streamin’ down around your shoulders.”
Reagan kept a stem demeanor, though his compliment was balm to a feminine heart that had been too battered and braised of late. “Are you always such an incorrigible rogue, Mr. Strickland? Or is it a role you’ve decided to play simply for my benefit?’ ’
“He is incorrigible to the very marrow of his bones,” Jackson assured her, “a true bounder, a breaker of hearts, and above all not to be trusted.” He had materialized behind her, the perfect foil to Gabriel Strickland, dark to light, intensity to humor.
G. D. placed a hand upon his chest and groaned. “I am wounded that you would think so ill of me. And here I thought we were friends.”
Jac
kson merely smiled. “Bessie usurped the cook and made cornmeal mush in your honor,” he said suggestively. “I would not disappoint her, were I you. Besides, I should like a word with my ward.”
Jackson let the sentence hang, watching as G. D. unfolded his long frame from the bench and rose, taking Reagan’s hand, bowing low over it. “My dear Miss Dawes, I shall save you a seat at table—close to mine, of course.”
Jackson saw his friend’s devilish wink, saw Reagan’s answering blush, and frowned at Strickland’s retreating back.
“Precisely what was going on here?” Jackson demanded, then cursed himself inwardly as he saw Reagan stiffen.
“It’s called a conversation,” she said, “an exchange of pleasantries, the sharing of ideas. You ought to try it sometime.”
“I don’t want you sharing anything with him,” he shot back. He knew he was being irrational—possessive, when he knew full well he had no right to be. Worse, he could not seem to stop it, to rid himself of the taut feeling that curled and wound and knotted in the pit of his belly at the mere sight of her laughing with G. D., the Virginian bending over her hand, his touch lingering a trifle too long on her skin.
“Maybe I don’t care what you want!” she flung back at him, her gray eyes smoky with anger. “Have you ever thought of that?”
Jackson reached for her then, intending to put a stop to this madness between them. She flung him off, taking a step back. “Don’t,” she said, her anger softening just a bit, melting into hurt. “You’re so used to havin’ everything your way, only this time it won’t work. You’re not my father, and you’re not my husband, and by the saints, you don’t own me!”
Jackson stared down at her, the tension gathering inside him reaching an unbearable peak. “Damn it, Reagan!” he all but shouted. “I did not come here to argue with you! All I wanted—”
Breaking off, he ground his teeth, tamping down his temper and the irrational feelings of jealousy seeing her with another man had aroused. “All I wanted was a moment alone with you, a little privacy in which to finish what we started last night. You have yet to answer me.”
“We could have had the time you now beg,” Reagan said, “had you not stayed away until the dawn.”
It was as close as she would come to telling him that she had lain awake the whole night through, torn by her thoughts about Navarre, reliving the terror they had been through at the cabin, waiting and worrying and listening for his footsteps in the hall, hoping against hope that he would come to her. Aloud, she said, “Maybe you should give it up, Jackson. Let Clay rest in peace.”
He shook his head, letting go a sigh threaded through with impatience. “I cannot. If my life is ever to regain some semblance of normalcy, I must have the truth.”
“At what cost?’ ’ Reagan cried passionately. “Just how much are you willing to pay for your precious truth? Will you pay with your life, Jackson? Will you?”
Stepping close, Jackson straightened the shawl, which had slipped low on her shoulders, cradling her chin in one broad palm. The look on his face was one she’d never seen before, a look of quiet resolve that terrified her more than his anger could. “Therein lies the rub, Kaintuck. It is no longer my life alone that the truth or lack thereof, affects. I cannot walk down the street without heads turning and tongues wagging viciously. Mine is a life I would hesitate to share with anyone, no matter how much I wish that it were otherwise.”
His fingers curved gently around her jaw, his thumb brushing idly against her smooth skin. “Last night I pleaded for time. Now I renew that same plea. A few more days is all I ask. Promise me that you will stay here at Belle Riviere until the ball. I want you here when it is over.”
They were inches apart, yet Reagan could feel the strange, magnetic current flowing unfettered between them. She would always be drawn to him, would always love him, but she could not give him what he asked. She shook her head slowly, sadly. “I can’t give my word. I can’t promise to stay and watch while you throw your life away, and it isn’t fair that you should ask.”
She turned and walked away.
Jackson watched her go, certain she would break his heart in the end. Seemingly there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He could offer her wealth, but she disdained diamonds and gold. He could give her his love, yet it was a simple band of gold that she most wanted, and marriage to him would only bring her shame. Worse yet, any child that would come of their union would be branded the son or daughter of a murderer. It was an indelible stain, a stain that all the wealth in the world could not erase.
Memories of his own childhood pressed heavily down upon him.
A mother he barely remembered.
A father whose coldness had cut like the keenest of blades.
The constant censure and his mounting apathy, the feeling that no matter what he did, it would never be good enough, that he would never be good enough.
He frowned at the gallery stairs, his gaze slowly drifting toward the upstairs window... Emil’s window. The pain was still fresh, after all these years. Unlike the scar on his cheek, the wounds he’d suffered as a child would never heal.
Having stared into a fathomless well of pain for a lifetime, how could he knowingly inflict a similar injury on an innocent child—his child?
Yet how could he let Reagan go?
Despite Reagan’s speech in the garden, she’d made up her mind to stay at Belle Riviere, at least until after the ball. Her concern for Jackson’s well-being would allow her no other recourse, yet she would not sit idly by, twiddling her thumbs while he searched for his brother’s killer. Jackson was about to discover that he was not the only one with a mission.
There was a great deal gone awry within Belle Riviere, and someone had to set things to rights. And she intended to start with Jackson and his father.
Annette finished fastening the myriad tiny jet buttons that closed the back of her gown, then stood back with a joyful clap of her hands. “Oh, mam’selle! I should love to be a little mouse in the comer when m’sieur sees you!”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?’ ’ Reagan agreed, fanning the voluminous skirts with her hands as she assessed her reflection in the long cheval glass. The woman who stared back at her was sophisticated and poised, her dark hair piled high at the crown, with one long, fat sausage curl resting provocatively on her left shoulder.
The gown itself was striking, fashioned of midnight blue taffeta, with an elongated, tight-fitting bodice that molded to her breasts while accentuating her trim waist, and turning her skin to purest ivory. The results were dramatic, and she could only think that Catherine’s choice was a good one.
"Non, mam’selle,” Annette said, beaming with pride. "You are beautiful. There is not a man alive who could look at you without falling head over heels in love.”
“I would settle for just one,” Reagan said softly. Biting her bottom lip, she turned from the glass. “I fear it’s too much to hope for. Since it seems I cannot have his heart, I will be happy with a small measure of cooperation. Wish me luck. If all goes well, this will indeed be a night to remember.”
She swept from the room, pausing in the hallway to rap lightly on Emil’s door. Hurried footsteps sounded, and the door swung open. Antoine Garrett made a most unlikely ally, yet curiously he had been most cooperative, and looked vastly relieved at the sight of her. “He is ready. But I fear that nothing I have said thus far has convinced him.”
Reagan entered the room, narrowing her gaze at Emil, who sat in the wing chair, looking every bit the patriarch of a powerful family in his black frock coat and trousers, silver waistcoat, and pristine white cravat knotted high at his throat. “You are looking quite handsome this evening,” Reagan said. “Ready to take your rightful place at the head of your family.”
“N-not r-r-readdy. Jackson’s household, n-not m-my plaace.”
Reagan let go a sigh of impatience. It had taken her several hours of argument to get him this far, and she was not above using blackmail to accomplish
this first step toward fulfilling her mission. She was going to resolve the difficulties between Jackson and Emil whether they liked it or not. “You said last night that Jackson needed me. That was just partially true. The fact is, he needs both of us, you and me.”
And still Emil sat, stoic, silent, seemingly unmoved. Reagan took a deep breath, playing her trump card. “Look, I don’t know exactly what ill will lies between you and Navarre, but I know that he’s up to no good, and his scheme somehow revolves around Jackson. He is downstairs now, laughing, drinking, weaving his web around the only son you have left. Will you come to Jackson’s aid, or sit here and do nothing? You need say nothing, but let us show him a united front. I greatly fear it is the only way.”
The knotted hand that gripped the cane tightened perceptibly, the knuckles showing white as he fought his inward battle. His wariness to face the world in his present condition was evident, yet in the end his feelings for his son won out. Gravely he nodded, struggling to rise, drawing himself up, and, finally, offering Reagan his good arm.
Chapter Seventeen
For what seemed like the hundredth time since entering the grande salle a quarter hour before, Jackson took out his timepiece, checking its accuracy against that of the gleaming walnut mantel clock. Dinner would begin promptly at seven. It was now six fifty-three, and Reagan had yet to put in an appearance, a fact that served only to heighten his restlessness.
Their argument in the garden had cast a black pall over his morning, which had lingered well into the afternoon. Up to his ears in prime peltry, inventories, and pay vouchers, he had felt as if his day had slowly bled away on the main floor of the warehouse. There had been no time to return to the house, to seek her out, to try to make amends for the latest in what seemed a long string of disagreements, a circumstance he silently vowed that he would remedy the moment she put in an appearance. And this time he would allow nothing to get in his way.
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 27
