Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (13 page)

“I’d sooner take my chances with the quicksand,” she replied,
“than with that big oaf back there.”

“Oaf? What oaf?”

“The one you outbid for the pleasure of my company.”

“Abe McFarland?” Jackson said, a trifle dubiously. “Are you sure
that it wasn’t just a nightmare?”

“He was back there,” Reagan insisted. “He said he wanted to renew
our ‘acquaintance.’ Then he laid his hand on me, and I whomped him with the fryin’
pan.”

Jackson set her gently from him, seating his pistols more securely
in his belt, prompting Reagan’s look of concern.

“You’re not goin’ to do something stupid, are you?” Reagan asked.
She caught at the fringes on his sleeve and hung on tenaciously. “I don’t think
that’s such a good idea. Can’t we wait until the sun comes up? Or better yet,
just go on from here?”

In an effort to distract her, to ease the tension that gripped
her, he gave her a crooked grin. “Your concern for my wellbeing is encouraging,
cherie.
Have you had a change of heart, by chance, and decided that we
should become lovers?”

Wrinkling her pert nose, she gave him a shove. “I swear, that’s
all you ever think about!”

Jackson’s grin deepened, turning up the unmarred corner of his mouth.
“From the extent of your pique, I would doubtless be safe in saying that you’ve
been thinking about it, too. You are simply too proud to admit it.”

She crossed her arms and turned up her nose with a sniff. The pose
was meant to show her disdain for his person, but all it did was display to
tantalizing advantage the ripe curves lurking beneath the worn homespun shirt.
“Go on, then. Go get yourself killed, and just see if I care!”

Chuckling darkly, Jackson walked off into the darkness. Reagan
waited a
full
minute before she abandoned her proud stance and ran to catch up
with him. “Dammit, Broussard, stay where you are! I’m coming with you!”

When they arrived the campsite was deserted, except for Josephine,
who had taken advantage of their absence to pilfer Jackson’s precious horde of
bacon, and now lay contentedly licking her paws.

Jackson studied the area intently, yet, other than a small patch
of trampled grass, there was no trace of Abe McFarland.

Reagan’s mind was not eased one whit. She knew that Abe was out
there somewhere, watching, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike again.
In the days that followed, the frying pan was never far from her grasp.

Despite the tenderness of the hour, the heavy damask curtains were
drawn when Navarre Broussard entered the second-story bedchamber, casting the
room in a deep, nearly impenetrable gloom.

Neither the shadows nor the brooding aspect of the room’s occupant
did anything to dampen Navarre’s high spirits. Hunched in a wing chair drawn
close to the massive black oak four-poster bed, Emil Broussard displayed so
little animation, he might have been cast in stone.

“This room has always been my favorite,” Navarre said pleasantly.
“Grandpere’s
bedstead
brought all the way from Lyons, the rich damask and Parisian wallpaper... why,
one can almost sense the past and present merging within these walls. But then,
Miralee always had splendid taste... in everything. It seems rather a shame to
cloak it in darkness on such a glorious morning.”

The shadowy form seated in the wing-back chair neither spoke nor
stirred, but that was to be expected, and as Navarre moved to the window, he
chattered on as if the one-sided conversation had been taking place for years,
instead of four short months. “I’ve only just come from the warehouse,” he said
matter-of-factly. “There have been a few minor complications in shipping the
inventory downriver. I fear that Redmond has lost another steamer to a snag a
few miles downstream. He was probably drunk at the time, but not to worry,
brother. I shall take care of everything. I always do.”

As he spoke the last syllable, Navarre drew aside the curtain,
allowing the bright summer sunshine to pour into the room. At the same instant,
a light scratching sounded on the bedchamber door. Navarre called an entrance,
and a petite, brown-haired maid came timidly into the room.
“Cafe noir,”
she said
softly, placing the silver tray on the foot of the high bedstead, “just as M’sieur
Emil prefers. Shall I pour, M’sieur Navarre?”

“Thank you, no,” Navarre replied smoothly. “I can manage quite
nicely. That will be all.”

The maid’s bright brown eyes held an inquisitiveness that Navarre
chose to ignore. She could think what she liked. Her master was in no condition
to gainsay his dictates, and he, Navarre, intended that the man would remain
that way.

During the brief exchange, the figure in the chair never moved,
never flinched, but sat as stoic as a marble statue, as pale and emotionless...
and the fierce glimmer of his dark eyes, eyes that followed Navarre’s every
movement, was the only sign that a spark of life remained in Emil’s body.

That, too, would be extinguished soon enough, Navarre thought,
slipping a small brown vial from the pocket of his waistcoat and palming it
until he had moved between the coffee service and his elder brother. Uncorking
the vial, he added the laudanum and silently stirred the liquid with his
forefinger. Then he handed the cup to Emil.

Emil raised his right hand, the one left unaffected by the
apoplectic seizure, as if to stay him, and turned his face away. “Come, come,”
Navarre chided. “We have always taken coffee together, and though it pains me
to say it, mornings like this one will someday come to an end. Let us cherish
this time together.”

Emil took the cup and sipped the black liquid. A small drizzle of
the liquid escaped the left side of his mouth, dampening his stock.

Navarre watched with a kindling interest. It had become a ritual
he practiced religiously. Each day he came to this house to call upon his
beloved brother, and the routine never varied. When he entered the room the
curtains were drawn, the room silent and dark. Each day he went to the window,
opened the curtains, and stood, relating the news of the business and the town
to Emil, who sat looking as if he had one foot in the grave and the other on
uncertain purchase.

As indeed he did have.

The metamorphosis was slow and subtle, helped along by the
ever-increasing doses of laudanum, yet Navarre could clearly see it. Emil cared
for nothing, not the empire he’d worked to build, not his vast wealth, not even
Belle Riviere
, the glorious house he’d built as a wedding gift to
Miralee Parrish, the young woman he’d married two years after the death of his
first wife. Certainly Emil did not give a tinker’s damn for his younger brother.

Navarre smiled at that, and went on playing the dutiful brother.
“There has been no word from Jackson,” he said, “but then, I did not expect
that there would be. Matters here are still too uncertain; the time for his
return is not yet right, but soon...
soon
father and son will be reunited and all will be right with the
world.”

Smiling, Navarre turned to meet Emil’s scowl. “Well, brother, do
finish your coffee. I’m afraid I must be going. I promised to meet that
rascally Philippe Ormond down at Madame Bourgeois’ cafe, and I dare not be late
or he’ll sulk the whole of the afternoon. Sweet Mary, the man is so mercurial!
I am not at all sure why we are friends, except for the fact that he’s always
good for a rousing political discussion.” He picked up his hat and gloves,
bowing deeply, elegantly. “Until the morrow, then.”

Emil waited until the door clicked shut, then spat the liquid he’d
been holding in his mouth back into the cup, and carefully emptied the cup into
the potted plant next to his chair with his one good hand.
“S-s-sc-c-scoun-drl,” he said.

Whistling softly to himself, Navarre went from the bedchamber and
down the wide staircase. From somewhere in the bowels of the manse came the
rattle of pots and pans and the light, pleasant chatter of feminine voices.
Bessie, the cook; Annette, the pretty young maid who had brought the coffee;
Kevin Murphy, the footman; and Garrett, Emil’s faithful valet, were all that
remained out of a household staff of twenty. The rest of the servants,
concerned with the uncertain status of Emil’s health, had sought positions
elsewhere, and Navarre had aided them in their efforts.

Bessie, born on their father’s Louisiana plantation—the first
Belle
Riviere
—had been with the family all her life, and though Emil had given her
her freedom a dozen years before, had not only decided to remain, but had
persuaded Annette to do the same. Kevin Murphy, Navarre knew, had kept his
position because of the dark-haired Annette... Kevin Murphy, whom Emil soon
discovered—from the deeper masculine tones that melded with the maid’s spirited
giggle—was keeping company with Annette and Bessie in the cavernous kitchen.

The defection of the once large staff suited Navarre’s needs
perfectly. And except for the loyal trio in the kitchen, he could move through
the house unobserved.

It was always best to keep things simple. That way there was less
of a chance that he would make a mistake. Complex plans, Navarre thought as he
slipped into the drawing room and closed and latched the doors, had a way of
coming undone, leaving the schemer exposed and vulnerable, something he did not
intend to be.

In the dim sanctity of the drawing room, Navarre paused to draw a
deep and steadying breath. Then, letting it go on a sigh, he crossed to the
fireplace, where he stood staring up at the life-size portrait of Miralee
Parrish Broussard, his brother’s bride, so many years deceased.

Mellow sunlight streamed through the many-paned windows, playing,
shifting over the ruby and jade and ecru rug, striking sparks off the portrait’s
ornate gilt frame, a circumstance that seemed to amuse the woman in the
portrait.

“Ah, Miralee, my only love,” Navarre said, reaching up, caressing
her painted hand. “The years pass so quickly, and age sits heavily upon my
shoulders.

“I remember the day you sat for this portrait. Emil was pleased
and proud at its unveiling. He proclaimed it a marvelous likeness, and paid the
artist handsomely for his efforts.” He sighed, and the hand resting on
Miralee’s painted one trembled ever so slightly. “He said at the time that the
man had somehow managed to capture your essence on canvas, that angel’s face
and haunting, wistful stare. Indeed, all who viewed it found it so unsettling
that they came again and again to stare up at your image... just as I do now.
And I alone could guess that that look was sadness in its purest, more
excruciating form.”

Navarre’s throat closed on the last syllable and for a long moment
he stood with his head bowed, struggling to regain his composure. When at last
he straightened, his sooty lashes shone with moisture. “Soon, my darling, my
heart... soon it will all be over, and everything will be precisely as it was
meant to be. It’s all falling into place: Jackson, the business, and dear,
tragic Emil, who, sadly, is not long for this
world....”
With a
shake of his head, Navarre gave one last, lingering glance at her pale, smiling
face, then slowly turned away. “It could not have gone better if I’d planned it
myself, and all I need do now is watch and wait.”

Reagan hadn’t seen much of Saint Louis en route to the Shining
Mountains with Luther and the twins. Afraid that some well-meaning clod might
try to interfere with his method of coping with an unruly stepdaughter, Luther
had awaited full dark before entering the town limits, not giving even a
moment’s pause in the face of Luck’s unbridled curiosity. Too weary to protest,
Reagan had been forced to concentrate all of her energies on keeping her seat
on Mariah’s slippery back while the yellow glow of lantern light and the sound
of a pianoforte slipped all too quickly past her.

Now, on a sweltering day in September, she was returning, and
though that return was not as triumphant as she would have liked it to be, her
lot in life
had
improved considerably, and she meant to see as much of her new
home as she possibly could while she still had a modicum of freedom.

Twisting this way and that, she gaped at the sights, drank in the
sounds of a bustling city-town settling in for the evening. Founded some
seventy years before, Jackson had told her, the town had been little more than
a sleepy village perched on the west bank of the great river when his father
had migrated there from Louisiana in the latter years of the previous century.
Then Napoleon sold the whole of Louisiana Territory to the United States, and
under American influence everything had changed.