Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (25 page)

Kevin came forward discreetly, filling Jackson’s cup with steaming
black coffee as Jackson sought an appropriately noncommittal answer. Once the
pack train arrived from the mountains, the truth would come out and there
would be no preventing it. But by then she would be safely wed. “It’s true that
Reagan has family, if indeed you wish to call them that. Her father passed on
when she was little more than an infant, her mother earlier this year, and the
man who married her mother and took her father’s place did not a fitting
guardian make. He and her twin half brothers left her stranded in the
mountains. Luckily I came along in time to prevent a tragedy from occurring.”

“And so you took her under your protection, brought her into your
home, and, if Garrett is to be believed, lavished her with gifts that must have
cost a fortune.”

“Antoine Garrett talks too much.” Jackson calmly sipped his
coffee, fixing his uncle with a level stare. “You have your answer, Uncle. You
may accept it or discount it, as it pleases you. I will remind you, however,
that
Belle Riviere
is
my
home, and the money left to me by the Parrish estate is mine to
dispose of as I wish. If I should decide to turn this house into a home for
wayward young women and lavish my last coin upon them, I shall do exactly that,
and no one has the right to question my motives. Not even you.”

His gaze slid to Reagan, who had sat quietly through the entire
exchange. How virginal and innocent she appeared in the white dimity gown. Not
a trace of the temptress he’d so blithely led into sin on the gallery was
evident.

A glimpse of the small, perfect breasts he’d suckled, artfully
displayed above her decolletage, was enough to set his pulse to pounding. How
could she appear so cool and detached? Had their lovemaking meant so little to
her that she could totally banish it from her thoughts? The notion nettled him
more than he cared to admit.

He wasn’t sure why it mattered to him. Falling in love with a man like
him was a dangerous venture indeed. His plans hadn’t changed, despite the
earth-shattering events on the gallery. He still intended to get her a husband,
still considered it the best, most logical course to follow—for both of them.

She needed some stability in her life, someone who would see to
her needs and cherish her bright presence. Someone with whom he had nothing in
common.

Still, he could not seem to help but wish—could not seem to tear
his gaze away from her, nor prevent himself from silently willing her to meet
his gaze.

As if on cue, she raised her gaze to his, then froze, her fork
halfway to her lips. Something kindled in her gaze... her soft gray eyes
turning smoky just before she tore her gaze away. She blushed prettily, the
reaction so sweet, so endearingly feminine that he thought with a pang that she
would not be long without a mate, nor long in his scandal-ridden company.

He had delayed as long as he dared. They’d been in the city for
three days, and though he had threatened, he still hadn’t found her a tutor.
The truth was that he rather liked her just the way she was.

Something else to overcome. Another inner battle to be fought,
heart against head, common sense against his baser urges. She was not a stray
kitten he’d found in the wilderness, to be petted and spoiled and kept here out
of selfishness. By postponing the implementation of his plans, he was only
delaying the inevitable, and the hard fact was that if he delayed too long, her
reputation would be in tatters and there would be no chance for her to make an
advantageous match.

Well aware of his own limitations, Jackson knew that it was a
chance he could not afford to take. For a moment he mentally debated the best
manner in which to make his announcement. Happily, Navarre solved his problem
for him.

Until now he had held his tongue. When he spoke, his pique at
Jackson’s reprimand was clearly evident. “Since I am not to comment on your
living arrangements, might I at least inquire as to the young lady’s future?
How can she hope to meet young people her own age, closeted here with Emil and
the servants?”

“I have given it a great deal of thought,” Jackson said carefully,
“and I have decided to hold a soiree a week from Friday, a full-dress affair to
properly launch Reagan into society.” He was watching Reagan’s face as he
spoke, trying to gauge her reaction, but she gave little away, no clue as to
what she was feeling.

There was only a slight tightening of her kissable mouth, a shadow
that flitted behind her eyes and then was gone. Not a word did she speak; it
was Navarre who answered. “A ball. Have you discussed this with Emil?”

“I informed him of my intentions, yes.”

“And does he approve?”

“The news was received with Papa’s usual warmth. He glared his
hatred at me, then turned to stare out the window. Not that it matters. My mind
is made up, and I do not need his approval to proceed with my plans.”

Navarre just smiled, glancing from Reagan’s pale face to
Jackson’s.

“Judging from your ward’s sudden pallor, I would venture to say
there are things that you need to discuss, so I shall take my leave. I must go
up and see Emil, in any case. What an unhappy circumstance it would be if he
became so upset over this that he succumbed to another fit of apoplexy.” He
stood. “Reagan, dear, I greatly enjoyed our chat. It was...
enlightening.
Nephew.”
He sketched a shallow bow, then made a graceful exit.

Jackson watched him go, but the older man had barely left the room
when Reagan turned on Jackson. “Have you taken leave of your senses? No!” she
said. “Don’t answer that! Of course you have.”

“On the contrary,” Jackson said, adding sugar to his second cup of
coffee with a heavy hand. “I have never been more lucid. If I’m to ever see you
safely settled, then I cannot continue to keep you closeted here with only
Josephine and me for company. You need the society of eligible bachelors, men
of good standing and at least moderate wealth. I’ll not have you wed to a
pauper, and there seems but one way to accomplish it.”

“You want to parade me in front of a bunch of aging widowers
drooling for a warm body to occupy their beds or a nursemaid to look after
their snot-nosed children!”

“I only want what’s best for you!” Jackson replied harshly, “and
at the moment that means keeping you as far away from me as possible!” He
passed a hand over his face, seeking calm. How could he make her see that he
was trying to keep her safe? Something she would never be in such close
proximity to a man with damn few morals and even less restraint. Last night on
the storm-swept gallery he had proven that given half a chance he would abandon
all of his lofty intentions and take her. He wanted her, and the interlude
outside her bedroom window, instead of cooling his lust for her, had served
only to increase it.

Sighing, he pushed out of his chair and crossed to where she sat,
white-lipped with fury. Reaching down, he took her hand and drew her up to
stand before him. “Look at me, Kaintuck, and tell me what you see.”

Reagan raised her gaze to his reluctantly, and felt her resolve,
her anger, slowly crumble. She swallowed hard. He was so handsome that it hurt
to look into his face. It hurt even more to look into her heart.

I see the man I love,
her heart replied,
the only
man I would willingly take for a husband, for a lover.
Aloud, she said, “Please don’t make me do this.”

“Humor me just this once. Tell me what you see.”

“I see a man, a stubborn, pigheaded man hell-bent on havin’ his
own way.”

He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “A man who cares
about you, who wants to see you happy. You deserve to be happy, Reagan. I have
done so damnably little good in my life. Let me do this one thing for you... please.”

Tears sprang to Reagan’s eyes; she battled them back, groaning
softly at the inward struggle. “Even if I agree, what difference could it
make? What makes you think that anyone will come? The town didn’t exactly
welcome you with open arms when you came back.”

“Trust me, they will come. Curiosity will drive them here in
droves, and despite my failings, the name Broussard still carries considerable
weight in this town.”

Trust me,
he’d said.
Reagan snorted at that. She’d trusted him last night, and look where it had
gotten her. Not quite a scarlet woman, not exactly innocent, and he still
planned to marry her off to a stranger.

And he wanted this so passionately that she didn’t have the heart
or the will to deny him, despite the knowledge that she was setting herself up
for disaster. He wanted her to join him in a grand masquerade in which he would
pose as her benefactor, and she would portray a young woman of breeding and
refinement... an impossible thing to ask. She didn’t know the first thing about
fine manners. She could not ape the aristocracy. She could not even dance!

And she could not refuse; he wouldn’t listen.

“Will you grant me this one thing?” he asked, and Reagan could
only dumbly nod her head.

His expression softened then, he inclined his head slightly, and
Reagan was certain he meant to kiss her. She covered his hands with hers,
straining up to meet him. But he only held her there for a moment, staring
intently into her upturned face; then, seeming to think the better of it, he
released her. “It’s decided, then,” he said, and, retrieving his coat, he left
her.

A heavy fog rolled in off the river, blanketing the city in a
thick shroud of sinister white. Seated at a table in the shadows of the Painted
Lady, Jackson lingered over his whiskey, watching and waiting, hoping for
something... some revelation to present itself... some rumor, some scrap of
information that would provide a clue, no matter how remote, as to why Clay had
been killed.

This wasn’t the first time he’d come here. Since his return to
Saint Louis he’d haunted the waterfront nightly, talking to the harlots who
plied their trade in the cribs above the taverns, to anyone who would listen,
and to a few who required a bit of artful persuasion. No one knew anything
about Clay’s death, nor about the whereabouts of Malcolm Heath, the man who’d
overheard him arguing with Clay just prior to the murder. Heath had been there,
outside the warehouse, and there was always a chance that he might have seen or
heard something that Jackson could use to catch Clay’s killer, to vindicate
himself.

He’d started that very afternoon, with the clapboard shack Heath
shared with his wife and three children on the outskirts of town. Elizabeth
Heath, a full-blooded Peoria Indian, had been polite but closemouthed. Her
children had clung to her skirts as Jackson asked after her husband, their eyes
round in their dirty brown faces.

Mrs. Heath gave away nothing, and Jackson had come away
dissatisfied. He’d inquired discreetly after the man at the warehouse and all
along the waterfront, yet Heath seemed to have vanished, and Jackson had
exhausted all other leads, a circumstance that served only to fuel his
frustration.

Night after night he searched, until he was exhausted and his
patience was worn thin, yet he was no closer to solving the puzzle that Clay’s
death had become than he was to securing Reagan’s future.

Thoughts of his tempestuous ward swirling in his head, Jackson
laid a coin on the table and was about to push out of his chair when he saw a
familiar figure in the far corner of the room.

At six feet three inches and one hundred fifty-five pounds,
Malcolm Heath’s scarecrow like frame was difficult to mistake, even in a crowd
as sizable as this one. Shouting for a bottle of whiskey, he sank down at a
table, roughly pulling a pretty little red-haired prostitute named Betty onto
his lap. The girl put up a nominal struggle, then squealed with delight when he
thrust a coin into her cleavage.

Malcolm Heath looked up just as Jackson’s shadow crept across the
table, and Jackson could have sworn the older man paled beneath his ruddy tan.
“Hey,” Betty said, her voice roughened by years of whiskey and smoke, “I know
you. You’re the one who used to come by once a month and bust up Kate Flannigan’s.
Kate always said that she’d have had you to the sheriff if you hadn’t been such
a looker, and so fewking rich.”

“Leave us, will you, Betty?” Jackson said in a tone that brooked
no argument. “I’d like to have a word with Mr. Heath in private.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you,” Heath growled, clamping an
arm around the girl’s waist, holding her on his lap when the look on her face
said she would have gladly complied with Jackson’s wishes.