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

by S. K. McClafferty

  He was still staring broodingly down into his glass of whiskey when G. D. struck a stance beside him. “Nice soiree, Seek-Um. You sure know how to arrange an impromptu bash, I’ll give you that.”

  Jackson’s gaze narrowed slightly as it slid to G. D. “This was not my doing, I assure you. We’ve Catherine to thank for that. She seemed to think that she could bully the lower echelon of Saint Louis society into receiving me by sheer dint of will alone.”

  “I’d say she thought right,” G. D. said, inclining his tawny head toward a group of matrons gathered on the opposite side of the room.

  Smiling disdainfully, Jackson raised his glass and sipped his whiskey. “They are here, but any fool could see that they would rather sup with Satan in Hades than sip champagne at my table.” His gaze swept the tight knot of matrons garbed in sedate shades of gray and brown. “A flock of plump wrens is what they are, nervously perched together on a limb, ready to squawk and flap their wings at the slightest start.” To prove his point, he deliberately caught and held Madame Chouteau’s gaze, and, smiling slightly, raised a hand to chafe the scar that scored his cheek. Madame blanched beneath her carefully applied Spanish paper and plied her fan vigorously, but seemingly did not possess the strength or self-control to tear her gaze away.

  Catching the episode from across the room, Catherine frowned at Jackson, who quirked a sardonic brow at her, inclined his raven head, then pointedly looked away.

  “Quite a parlor trick you’ve got there, boss,” G. D. said, hiding his smile behind his upraised glass. “What do you have planned for later? You gonna levitate the chairs or somethin’?”

  “Would that I were half the demon they believe me to be,” Jackson muttered. “I would make this assemblage disappear to the last man, not to mention those dried-up old prunes!” Draining the dregs of his whiskey, Jackson set his tumbler on the mantel and turned, stilling as his gaze lit upon the unlikely pair who paused in the doorway.

  Reagan was dressed in midnight blue taffeta and swirls of ebony lace, a gown that he had chosen for her. The rich, deep color set off her flawless ivory skin to perfection, accentuating her winged brows and sooty lashes, turning her gray eyes a smoky charcoal hue. Her head held at a stubborn angle, her gaze swept the room, seeking him out, and she seemed to issue an unspoken challenge.

  Jackson did not hesitate, but crossed the room in three quick strides. For a moment he just stood staring down at her, a look that would have stricken the spine from a lesser woman. Kaintuck failed to flinch, but stood her ground as stalwartly, as courageously as had her forbearers, her small feet planted firmly, a stubborn tilt to her chin.

  Jackson felt a strange and liquid warmth blossom in his chest as he took her hand in his, bowing low, bringing it to his lips. A courtly gesture, proper and beyond reproach, and if his lips lingered a fraction too long, let the dour old wrens and their bewhiskered consorts think what they would. Then, relinquishing his hold on her, he turned to face his greatest detractor, the one man with the power to destroy all that he was striving for.

  Steeling himself for the look of censure he anticipated in his father’s eyes, Jackson closed his feelings off from the icy disapproval that, from experience, he felt certain would come.

  Yet oddly enough it did not.

  Emil’s face, once so hard, so stern it seemed carved from granite, had been softened by illness. One comer of the hard mouth drew slightly down, as did Jackson’s own. The thought came and lodged somewhere behind Jackson’s eyes, accompanied by the flash of the sword arcing toward him, the pain as swift and sharp as it had been the instant it had happened.

  A red haze of remembrance wove its way around him, the hurt, the resentment and blame, the incessant bitterness... so strong he felt sure he’d strangle on them.

  Through that blinding haze, Reagan’s voice threaded, soft and sweet, strangely full of caring. “Jackson, please, you must. It’s time to let it go.”

  Jackson’s inward battle was as fierce as it was short-lived. He acknowledged the turmoil, the anger, the hurt, and then, for her sake, for his, he released his iron grip on it, allowing it to slip away.

  A hush had fallen over the room. Jackson could feel their eyes upon him, and knew that they were waiting, weighing, judging. Refusing to give them what they wanted, what they expected from the blackguard of the Broussard family, he deliberately reached out, laying a hand on his father’s shoulder, gripping it firmly. “Papa,” he said quietly, “I am glad that you feel well enough to join us at table. This is a true celebration.”

  His dark eyes glittering, his expression fierce, Emil patted the hand that gripped his shoulder, struggling to speak. His mouth worked furiously, his breath coming hard and labored. “Sss-on ...”

  Dinner was a prolonged and stilted affair through which Reagan suffered, nodding her head, smiling, making the appropriate noises as Madame Rhea Chouteau and her followers, Millicent Girard and Eloise Stimple, who dominated the conversation at the south end of the massive table. “A woman of wealth and position has a certain social responsibility, an obligation, if you will, to administer to those less fortunate,” Madame Chouteau declared. “M’sieur Emil’s late wife, Miralee, was heavily involved in various good works. A lovely woman, Miralee, and so very tragic! With your strong link to the Broussards, you will of course wish to carry on that tradition, won’t you, my dear?”

  “I’m not linked to anyone,” Reagan said quietly. “Not really.”

  Madame Girard’s brows, artfully darkened with a touch of burnt cloves, shot upward. “But M’sieur Broussard is your benefactor, is he not?”

  Protector, friend, lover, the one man on whom she’d foolishly pinned all her hopes and dreams . . .

  Reagan shifted uncomfortably on her chair, keenly aware that all three matrons watched her closely, waited with baited breath for some touch of scandal, some misstep upon which they could later elaborate. “Yes, I suppose you might call him that.”

  “Then you are indeed linked to the first family of Saint Louis,” Madame Stimple said with a sharp nod, “and therefore must decide which charitable cause you intend to support.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that’s appropriate—” Reagan began. Charitable causes were something she and Annette had not touched upon, and she sensed that she was treading on very shaky ground.

  Madame Chouteau rolled right over her uncertain reply. “I should suggest the Little Sisters of the Poor. Surely you have heard of them?”

  “I know a lot of poor people,” Reagan murmured. “Some had sisters, some didn’t, but I don’t know if they’re kin to the ones you mentioned.”

  Madame’s jaw went slack. Down the board Eloise Stimple tittered behind her hand. Reagan glanced at Jackson, but he was too far down the long board to come to her rescue. He was seated on his father’s right, and his dark, handsome face was unreadable as he toyed with the stem of his wineglass. How fragile it seemed in his lean brown fingers, as tenuous as the gossamer thread that bound them together, capable of breaking at any moment... too thin, too frail to last.

  As she watched, his raven head came up and his green gaze met and clashed with hers. His expression never wavered, but she could see the longing in his eyes, bringing home anew the fact that nothing was resolved between them. Then, in the next instant, his uncle said something to him, drawing his attention elsewhere, effectively breaking the spell.

  Even surrounded by a dozen others, Reagan still felt wary in Navarre’s presence. She watched as he turned slightly, whispering something in Madame Girard’s ear. Madame Girard laughed delightedly, tapping his coated arm with her ivory and lace fan. Navarre laughed, too, yet as his gaze lifted, encountering Reagan’s over her wineglass, his smile faded.

  He knew, Reagan thought, chilled by the realization. He knew that she’d witnessed his perfidy, that she’d glimpsed the ugly, venal skunk hiding beneath his elegant hide, and the fact that she could sense his brain churning behind those cold, dark eyes served only to heighten her wariness... to com
pound her distraction....

  “Dawes...” Madame Stimple was saying. “It is not a name with which I am familiar.”

  Across the board Madame Chouteau chimed in, while her husband frowned in her direction. “Merciful Mary, it isn’t Irish, is it?”

  Dragged from her musings, Reagan stiffened. “Scotch-Irish, there’s a difference.”

  “Precious little, besides their level of ingrained tenacity. They both seem overly fond of the whiskey—a crude drink, and so American.” Madame Chouteau’s pointed glance slid to Jackson, who returned her stare unflinchingly. A blush rising to her withered cheeks, she tore her gaze away, returning to her quest for information. “Has your family been here long, my dear?’ ’

  “Since before the war for the continent,” she said tightly. “You’ll remember it well, I’m sure. We fought the French and sent their insolent arses packing back to the Canadas, which, I might add, is precisely where they belong.”

  Madame Chouteau coughed and sputtered, while her husband thumped her back, and her fellow inquisitors exclaimed their shock and concern.

  Across the board, G. D. Strickland raised his glass in mock salute. “To Kentucky,” he said, grinning impishly. “Some fine, spirited fillies have sprung from that dark and bloody ground.”

  Unable to bear another moment in the company of Madame Chouteau and Eloise Stimple, Reagan made her apologies and, pleading a migraine, fled to her bedchamber and blessed quiet.

  Josephine was sprawled upside down on the foot of the old rice bed, but when Reagan entered the room, she righted herself. Yawning widely, she jumped down, padding lazily to the French doors, where she stood twitching her tail and blinking at Reagan.

  “I can see that you’re bent upon escape,” Reagan said with a weary sigh. “How would you like some company? I could do with a walk under the waning moon. Who knows, maybe the night air will help to clear my head.”

  Lifting the soft woolen shawl from the trunk at the foot of the bed, Reagan opened the French windows and followed the feline down the gallery stairs.

  As she cleared the first landing and started down the garden path, something stirred in the shadows at the corner of the building. Slowly separating from the concealing darkness, the watcher straightened, taking on human form, and, keeping well back, trailed along in Reagan’s wake.

  The garden had become a sanctuary, an earthly haven where—if she faced away from the glowing lights of the manse, and did not look too hard—she could feel nature’s glory all around her. She felt close to the earth out-of-doors. The trees, the rocks, the rain, and the wind helped to ground her, to remind her who and what she was... not less than those mean-spirited old biddies in the parlor, just different.

  Worlds apart.

  Josephine dashed off in hot pursuit of a mouse.

  Tilting her head back, Reagan breathed deeply of the cool night air, savoring the sweet, heady smell of autumn that seemed to linger everywhere, willing the tension that had gripped her throughout the evening to slowly drain away.

  “I know it may not seem it, but they’re the same stars that shine down on the Ohio, the Potomac, the Allegheny.”

  Reagan felt his presence an instant before she heard his voice, warm and smooth as sun-warmed honey, sounding close beside her. A sharp prick of disappointment worked its way through her, disappointment that it was G. D. Strickland and not another who had followed her out, and stood talking of familiar places under the starlit heavens. “In my heart, I know it,” she said, “yet somehow—”

  “It does not seem the same.”

  She nodded, barely surprised that he seemed to know what she was thinking. He stood beside her, his face tipped up to the night sky, as the silence stretched long between them. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its honeyed warmth, gaining instead a gravity that seemed unlike him. “Are you happy here, Reagan?”

  It was the one question she could not answer honestly. “I don’t know how you mean.”

  “I think you do,” he said. “But I’ll elaborate, in any case. If your heart is elsewhere, if you do not wish marriage to a stranger, you do not need to stay a moment longer.”

  “G. D.—”

  “Gabriel. Call me Gabriel.”

  “Very well, then, Gabriel. I appreciate your concern, but it’s just not that simple.”

  “You don’t owe Seek-Um your life, your future, if that’s what you’re thinking. He might have extended a helping hand to a stranger, but that doesn’t mean that he owns you.”

  Reagan made no reply. He couldn’t possibly know how complex her life had become, how tangled her emotions. And even if she’d had the urge to try to explain, she knew that he would never understand. A woman like her falling in love with a man like Jackson made no earthly sense. Unfortunately, the heart often wandered down dangerous paths, and there was nothing she could do to change that. Aloud, she said, “I really should be getting back.”

  She turned to go; at the same time, something squealed loudly in the yew hedges. The sound was sharp and piercing, so unexpected that her shawl slid from her shoulders, eluding her grasp. No matter how much she told herself that Josephine had nabbed her mouse, that it was nothing more, Reagan could not seem to curb the impulse to step back, into G. D. Strickland’s arms.

  Just before she spun to face him, she caught a glimpse of something in the shadows near the garden wall. It was sinister and unexpected, and it sent a jolt of chilling fear through Reagan that seemed to freeze the very core of her being. She grasped the lapels of G. D.’s coat in both fists.

  “You all right?” G. D. asked low, turning her in his arms, using one knuckle to tip up her chin. “You’re trembling.”

  “I was startled, was all. For a moment I thought I saw—” Reagan broke off, glancing past his shoulder at the spot by the garden wall, searching the shadows, finding them empty. Had she really seen the figure of a man, or had she been so unnerved at seeing Navarre again that she had merely imagined it?

  G. D. was watching her intently, a deep line of concern etched between his brows.

  Collecting herself, Reagan shook her head. “I guess it was just the shadows—a trick of the light, or perhaps the lack of it.”

  He seemed to accept her explanation, yet he didn’t let her go. Instead he reached out, his hand finding and cradling the turn of her jaw, his thumb tipping her chin ever so slightly upward as his tawny head came down.

  The kiss was soft and questing, oddly sweet, almost innocent, a word she would never have employed to describe its giver. A moment, and it was over. “I just wanted you to know that you have other options. We’re cut from the same bolt of cloth, you and I—not satin or lace, but linsey-woolsey and leather. I think we’d deal well together. I think you know it, too.”

  Suddenly Jackson was there, his expression murderous as he thrust Reagan aside and swung at G. D., a vicious blow that caught the Virginian on the point of his chin and knocked him off his feet.

  Before G. D. had time to recover, Jackson stepped in for another blow; at the same time Reagan screamed and grabbed his arm. “Damn it, Jackson, stop it! Haven’t you done enough?”

  Jackson’s glower was fierce. “Go back to the house and wait for me there.”

  “Wait for you to kill him?” Reagan shot back.

  G. D. picked himself up and stood rubbing his jaw. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I expect that I had that one comin’.” Jackson smiled at the statement, but there was not a shred of humor in the expression. “You play the gallant so well that one might be led to believe your offer genuine. Only someone who knows you would realize what a sham it truly is!”

  G. D. drew himself up, bracing his hands on his hips. “You don’t know a damn thing, Seek-Um.”

  “I know enough to want you well and gone from here,” Jackson said with a snarl, all trace of civility, vanished. “You’re fired. You may pick up your pay voucher at the warehouse first thing in the morning. Now be so good as to pack your things and get out.”

  G. D. s
tood his ground, refusing to budge. “Your objective was to find the young lady a husband, someone to take care of her and take her off your hands. Well, boss, you’ve found your man. I’d like to be the first to offer for her hand.”

  “Go to hell.” Jackson started to turn away. G. D. grabbed his arm, preventing it.

  “It’s a legitimate offer!”

  “An offer that I refuse! Stay the hell out of this, G. D.!”

  G. D. struck a belligerent stance. “Just what are you saying, Jackson? Are you telling me that you would sooner see Reagan wed to a stranger than married to me?”

  Pushed beyond the bounds of restraint, Jackson seized Strickland’s lapels in both hands and slammed him back against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak tree. “I am telling you that I love her, damn your eyes, and I will not relinquish her to any man!”

  The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and Jackson could have bitten his tongue in two. He let go of G. D., who was grinning like a jackass, and turned toward Reagan, who stood with one dainty hand pressed to her mouth.

  Her eyes were glittering with anger, and she quaked like a leaf in a strong northwestern wind.

  Not like this, was all Jackson could think. She could not find out like this. Mother of God, he’d waited for what seemed an eternity, hoping for the perfect moment, and now it was all destroyed. Not knowing what else to do, he looked at Reagan, a silent plea for mercy, a supplication... then looked past her and gave a heartfelt groan.

  A weeping Annette stood on the lawn just outside the kitchen entrance, flanked by Bessie, who planted her hands on her ample hips and sent words of praise heavenward. “Thank you, Lord Jesus! An’ I won’t even complain that you took your own sweet time!”

  Jackson reached for Reagan’s hand, hoping against hope that the moment, their glorious moment, was not shattered beyond all repair. Yet before he could attempt to repair the damage, before he could do more than murmur her name, Reagan gathered her skirts in both hands and ran for the gallery stairs.