It was a long while that Joe waited in the shadows of the yew hedge, clutching his beaver hat to his breast with one hand and the white man’s trinket tightly in the other. He’d come to see Jack Broussard’s woman, to place the trinket in her hand, certain she would comprehend and know just what to do. And then the others had come to shatter the stillness, and while he waited, the moment passed and Jack Broussard’s woman was gone.
Joe glanced at the gleaming ring nestled in the palm of his hand. He knew how important it was, far too important to trade for whiskey, even though his craving was deep and insatiable. Patience . . . Patience was everything. Men who hurried spent their lives too quickly, made mistakes. Joe had the wisdom of the ages at his withered fingertips. He knew that the best and wisest thing would be to find a safe place to watch and wait for the perfect moment.
“Kaintuck, wait!” Jackson’s voice rang out behind her.
Her cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger, Reagan did not slow her breakneck pace as she hurried up the stairs and across the second-floor gallery, not pausing until she had reached the dark quiet of her bedchamber. Once she was safely inside, she closed and locked the long French windows, then crossed the room to her door and, turning the key in the lock, flung herself full-length on the bed. But she’d barely had time to catch her breath when a heavy hand rattled the gallery knob.
“Reagan, cher,” Jackson pleaded. “Please. Let me in. We must talk about this.”
Reagan remained stubbornly silent. She didn’t trust herself to talk, especially not to Jackson. She desperately needed time to compose herself, time to gather her thoughts, to sort through her feelings.
Jackson was seemingly just as determined to gain entrance. He rattled the knob again, his beleaguered sigh coming clearly through the glass panes. “For the love of God, will you open the damnable windows?”
Open the windows and what? She’d gotten what she wanted. He’d said the words she’d longed to hear, and suddenly Reagan was terrified... scared witless that it had all been a mistake, that given a moment to think it all over, he would wish to recant the words, and in that moment she was certain that if the worst happened and he took it all back, she would curl up on the bed and die. “Go away!” she said, not willing to risk it, a hot rush of irrational tears welling up in her eyes. “Jackson, please, just leave me alone.”
Jackson apparently was not listening. He struck the window’s wooden frame a blow, then another. With a screech of protest the latch gave way, the panels swinging noiselessly inward. At the same time Reagan sat up with an outraged gasp, grabbing the pillows, flinging them one by one at his arrogant head. “How dare you break into my chamber!”
“This is my house, and they are my windows, and I’d break every fucking pane if it would mend what is wrong between us.”
Risking a glance at him from under the cover of her lashes, Reagan saw him come slowly into the room. She tensed as he approached the bed where she crouched warily, prepared to spring up off the mattress and flee.
But he only paused by the foot of the bed, leaning one hard-muscled shoulder against the bedpost. “You’re crazy, you know that?’ ’ Reagan said with a sniff.
“Crazed... yes, I am crazed. But is it any wonder? I am enamored with a woman who is the antithesis of everything I am and have always been. I bring her into my home and provide her every luxury, and she cannot seem to run far enough, fast enough.... I buy her silks and satins; she persists in wearing her brothers’ cast-off rags. I give her diamonds and gold and she flings them in my face.”
“I did not fling them in your face.”
“You may as well have,” he said, then continued, totally undaunted. “She perplexes me, confounds me, maddens me, constantly yearning for her freedom when all I want is to hold her close to my heart.”
Reagan lifted her gaze to his, searching his face for some sign of his sincerity. His expression was grave, the tension that gripped him evident in every feature. “Don’t you say things you don’t mean just to keep me close at hand. It isn’t fair.”
Crossing to the side of the bed, he sat down, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “I meant every word,” he said, reaching out, taking her hand in his, kissing her fingertips, her palm, her wrist. “I’ll take back the diamonds, if you wish. I’ll withdraw my offer to make you my mistress, I’ll give G. D. back his position, and I’ll even try to tolerate his leering at you, if you’ll promise to stay. Papa needs you, the servants adore you, Catherine admires your spirit, and no one has ever put Madame Chouteau in her place so efficiently.”
“And you?” Reagan asked, holding her breath.
“I want you, and need you, and love you more than I can tell you, more than I imagined I ever could, doubtless more than is wise. I do not care a damn that it makes no sense, that you think we don’t suit. I’ll make us suit. I’ll do whatever I must—anything, just say that you’ll be my bride.”
Reagan’s tears spilled over, bridging her lower lashes, tumbling down her cheeks. “Anything?”
“Anything,” he vowed solemnly.
“Then, say it again. Tell me you love me, tell me you want me... tell me you’re really and truly mine.”
“Regan, I love you,” he said, reaching into his pocket, coming away with the diamond necklace. This time Reagan made no protest as he fastened the finely wrought gold about her throat He sank down on the mattress, pulling her with him, rising above her so that he might gaze deeply into her eyes. “I want you and need you. You do realize, however, that marriage to me will not be easy?”
She smiled up at him, a smile that clearly said that all of her dreams had just been realized. “I don’t care for difficulty, or the gossips’ wagging tongues. I don’t give a tinker’s damn for anything but you.”
“There will be a lot of talk,” he warned her softly.
“There will indeed,” Reagan agreed, “but not tonight.” Sighing deeply, she kicked off her slipper, sliding her stockinged foot suggestively up and down his booted leg.
Needing no further encouragement, Jackson leaned back against the headboard and, loosening the flap of his trousers, dragged her up and onto his lap. She braced her hands against his chest, but hers was a token resistance, vanished the moment he smiled up into her face.
She blushed prettily, but she did not turn her face away, only whispered, “What is it you wish me to do?”
“Only trust me,” he whispered against her heated cheek. “There is a place called ecstasy... a place where we belong. Come, my sweet love, and I will show you the way.”
Reagan shivered as she complied, rising as he silently bade her, impaling herself on his rigid shaft. He filled her slowly, took her with exquisite care, instructing her, holding her tightly as he joined her in the rhythmic, timeless dance, deeper and deeper. Reagan felt him touch the core of her being, worshiping at the altar of her woman’s flesh, marking her as his own.
And she clung to him.
A breathless anticipation, a quick, deep thrust, and the moment shattered, raining bliss down upon them. The ecstasy he’d promised.
Standing in the shadows outside the girl’s bedchamber windows, Navarre listened quietly as Jackson declared his heart to Reagan Dawes, and with each poignant word the action he must now take was driven forcefully home.
That girl was a threat to everything for which he had striven so hard these past months. While he’d been working to unseat his brother from his throne, she had been worming her way into Jackson’s confidence, his affections, into his bed. A casual dalliance Navarre would have allowed, but this... this was dangerous.
Laying Jackson low last night had been a grievous error, yet if not for the meddling of that wretched little waif, he would never have allowed Abe McFarland to go to drastic lengths, nearly killing Jackson... his last surviving link to Miralee.
He’d been fooled at first by the shadows, yet tonight at dinner when he’d looked down the table and into the eyes of Jackson’s ward, it had all become exceedingly clear. That waif ha
d been no waif at all. The clear gray eyes peering at him from the cover of the rhododendron had belonged to Miss Dawes.
She had put Jackson in danger. She was urging Emil from his despondency. Jackson and Emil were growing closer. All of Navarre’s hard work was coming undone, for which he had the chit to thank. Reagan Dawes posed the greatest threat of all to his plans. If she should confide in Jackson, if Jackson were to believe her, the one thing he feared above all else could become a reality.
Jackson could turn against him.
A chill cut through Navarre as he melted back into the shadows, slipping noiselessly down the stairs and through the gate to the street. Unable to resist the urge, he glanced back at the second-floor gallery. In the warmth and comfort of the big feather bed, Jackson and his paramour were busy making plans. But Navarre was scheming, too. He’d dismissed Abe McFarland as a nuisance. Perhaps it was time he changed his way of thinking, and utilized the big man’s talents.
He smiled to himself as he climbed into the waiting barouche and rapped on the roof to signal his driver. “Yes, indeed. Jackson and his paramour are making plans. What a pity she will not be here to see them to fruition.”
Chapter Eighteen
Within twelve hours there was hardly a soul in all of Saint Louis who had not heard the news. The surviving heir to the Broussard fortune, the most scandalous and, without a doubt, most eligible bachelor in all of Missouri was about to wed. That the young woman in question—and those in Madame Chouteau’s fashionable and proper circle pointedly refrained from calling her a lady—was his ward, presently living at Belle Riviere, only served as fuel to the fire... a fire that threatened to rage out of control.
The gossips claimed that the engagement was to be formally announced that very evening, a rumor that had invited guests rifling their armoires for something spectacular to wear.
Madame Bridgewater had such an influx of commissions that she had to turn all but her most faithful clients away from her door. And even then, two days did not allow ample time to fulfill the orders. In desperation she took on half a dozen new seamstresses, and one young woman who did nothing but ply the scissors.
As the evening of the festivities arrived, those not fortunate enough to garner an invitation dusted off tall silk hats and mended lace gloves, preparing to promenade past the wrought-iron gate in the hopes of viewing the festivities from a distance... and if they were lucky enough, perhaps, just perhaps, they could catch a glimpse of Jackson Broussard and his bride-to-be.
Behind the wrought-iron gate and great mahogany door, the first floor of Belle Riviere was crowded with guests. Revelers from as far away as New Orleans mingled with citizens of Saint Louis—the same citizens who had crossed the street just last week rather than be forced to meet their host’s gaze.
Jackson greeted each one with the same solemnity, dragging out a social correctness he had not used in a dozen years. Standing elbow to elbow with Catherine’s husband, Jason St. Claire, he took part in a rousing political discussion, and in the next moment rescued Madame Chouteau’s ostrich plume from the punch bowl.
Madame stiffly congratulated him upon his pending nuptials.
Jackson pretended not to notice her grudging sentiment, admitting instead in a moment of calculated and unaccustomed candor that his eagerness to please his bride had all but destroyed his confidence, rendering him a veritable bundle of masculine nerves.
Madame nodded her understanding, reassuring him that he was not alone. Why, there was not a man in all of Missouri who proved worthy of his chosen mate. Why, of course he was doomed to failure, but not to worry. Women tended to be very forgiving of their husbands’ shortcomings. Why, just look at her and M’sieur Chouteau!
Jackson humbly thanked her for her words of advice, and she immediately flew to find her friend Madame Girard. “Why, that Jackson Broussard is not as bad as you claimed him to be!” Jackson overheard her saying. “With a bit of instruction and a curb bit to keep him under control, he might make that young Kentuckian a proper husband yet.”
Jackson left off his eavesdropping and wove his way through the throng. Changing one’s spots took more patience and more creativity than he had ever imagined, and he was suddenly desperate for a few moments of uninterrupted quiet in which to gather his thoughts.
Soon the crowd would assemble, Reagan would come down the stairs, and as he led her out on the dance floor, their life together would begin.
It was essential that everything be perfect.
Entering the study, Jackson closed the doors. Outside, an autumn rain buffeted the mansion, pelting the windowpanes with the sound of tiny, skeletal fingers, tearing the leaves from the trees. Murphy had kindled a fire in the grate an hour ago to dispel the ensuing chill, and now it crackled merrily, bathing the room in a soft golden light.
From her station above the mantel, the woman who had given him life, then abandoned him, smiled benevolently down upon him. And in that moment he missed her more than he ever had in all of his twenty-nine years.
“I wish that you were here, Maman,” he said softly, “to help me get it right. I have a good life now—or at least the chance of one, a young woman of heart, who loves me, the opportunity to start again. Even Papa is trying hard to make amends—and yet... I find that I cannot let go of the mystery surrounding Clay’s death. Without the truth, I cannot lay his memory to rest, and I greatly fear that any happiness I can achieve will be but an illusion.”
He took the ring he had purchased for Reagan early that morning from his coat pocket and held it to the light. The large pigeon’s-blood ruby winked a mysterious deep red in the firelight, the diamonds surrounding it shooting blue-white sparks. “There is no escaping. Not for me. No matter how much I wish it. Without the truth, all of this will rise to haunt me again.”
There was no revelation forthcoming, no ghostly whisper on the night wind, nothing but his mother’s indulgent glance and haunting smile. Gathering his courage, Jackson straightened and started to turn away when a soft scratching sounded on the windowpanes.
At first he thought it just the wind, a trick of the storm-swept night... but then it came again... eerie, unsettling, too real to be passed off or ignored.
Jackson turned back just as the lightning flashed outside and a peal of thunder rattled the floorboards underfoot, a perfect backdrop for the ragged figure in the old beaver hat scratching at the windowpanes.
As Jackson tripped the latch and swung the windows wide, the old Peoria stepped back into the safety of the shadows, motioning with one gnarled hand.
Without a second’s hesitation, Jackson stepped into the deluge. “Mother of God, Joe, where have you been?” he said, trying to be heard over the rising wind. “I’ve searched for you everywhere.”
The old man smiled and nodded. “A wise fox has many dens, Jack Broussar’. Joe watched and waited, but Jack Broussar’ and his woman are never alone.”
“Come inside and warm yourself,” Jackson urged him. “I’ll get you some food and a whiskey. You’re safe here. You have my word upon it.”
Joe just shook his head. “Do not trust in the past, Jack Broussar’. Good and evil have two faces. Nothing is as it may seem.”
Without further preamble, Joe took Jackson’s hand, placing a small but weighty object in his palm. As Jackson stared down at it, the lightning flashed again, the blue-white glare glinting off the signet ring that lay nestled in his hand. His belly knotting, Jackson’s fingers closed around it. “Where did you get this?”
“The place of many furs, the night Clay Broussar’ died. Joe watched from the cover of the bales.”
“Mother of God,” Jackson said softly, listening as the old man explained what he had seen, hoping there was some mistake. He did not want to believe that Navarre was capable of callously taking a life—most especially the life of someone Jackson loved.
Then he remembered the cabin along the old south road, reduced now to blackened beams and cold gray ash, the fact that Crazy Abe—who seemingly
had disappeared in the days since—had been there, in the company of Jackson’s beloved uncle. Navarre’s caustic criticisms of Clay over the years all came winging back to smite him at that moment... the evidence lying in his palm and the hard truth written on his friend’s weathered countenance niggling away at his denial until there was nothing left to cling to.
Seeming to sense Jackson’s inner turmoil, Joe laid a hand upon his shoulder. “Listen to your heart, Jack Broussar’. It alone will lead you to that which you seek.”
Joe turned away, melting into the storm and gone in an instant. Jackson did not attempt to stop him, knowing that Joe had accomplished what he’d set out to do. He had given him the one thing he’d striven so hard for in the weeks since his return to Saint Louis, the key to the mystery surrounding his brother’s death and the annihilation of his good name.
Quietly closing the French windows behind him, he started toward the stables. One way or another, tonight would see the end of it. He would find Navarre and have his truth.
How strange that he found no satisfaction in the prospect.
Reagan stood at her bedchamber window, staring out at the garden and the stables beyond... her garden, her mind amended.
Jackson had insisted on giving her an engagement gift, something elaborate, shockingly expensive, anything her heart desired.
Reagan had surprised him by asking for cuttings, saplings, and seeds. Hardwoods from Kentucky, primroses, and trilliums... hosts of trilliums, like the ones that sprang from the woodlands near her cabin home in early spring.
Bemused, he had given the garden into her care, and had set out to hire a gardener to assist her that very same day.
Thrilled, Reagan had thrown her arms around his neck, covering his face in kisses... at which point Jason St. Claire had taken the hint, and, grasping his wife by the hand, he led her from the room.
Reagan still could not seem to believe it. The garden was hers. The house was hers. Jackson was hers, and hers alone.
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 29
