Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (28 page)

Long after Annette returned to her duties, she practiced walking
in the garden until her feet grew sore; then she sank onto a bench to watch the
sunset, while Josephine sprawled atop the garden wall.

In a little while Jackson appeared, looking irresistibly handsome
in a pair of nankeen trousers, a white shirt, and a deep green waistcoat shot
through with golden threads. The trousers fit him like a second skin, leaving
nothing to the imagination. Remembering all that Annette had told her, Reagan
let her gaze linger a moment longer than she should have, then slowly looked
away.

Strangely, he did not speak, just stood beside the stone bench on
which she sat, watching her with that unnerving intensity that was uniquely his
own, while he indulged in a leisurely smoke.

She tried to remember everything Annette had taught her; truly she
did. Yet the moment he had appeared, looking so heartrendingly handsome,
everything she’d practiced the past few days went right out of her head. “My,
don’t you look handsome this evening. You headed down to that whorehouse on
Third Street, the one we passed comin’ into town?” Reagan asked pointedly.
Though she refrained from commenting on it, it was hard to put the image of the
scantily clad beauties shouting and waving at him from the second-floor gallery
out of her mind.

He smiled down at her, one corner of his mouth curling upward in a
wicked grin. “Would it trouble you greatly if I said that I was?’ ’

Reagan resisted the urge to snort, elevating her nose instead.
“Certainly not. If you want to spend your time and money on those loose-moraled
chippies, I reckon it’s no concern of mine.”

“Umm,” he said, dragging hard on the cigar, then flicking it into
the grass. “For a moment there I could have sworn that you were jealous, but I
suppose, after all, I was mistaken.” He sank onto the bench, draping an arm
over its high back, a hairbreadth from Reagan’s silk-clad shoulders. Her skin
prickled alarmingly at the mere thought of his nearness, a fact of which he
seemed blissfully unaware. “It’s a pleasant evening, eh? The air is deliciously
ripe with the sweet tang of autumn—or is that your perfume?” He bent near,
nuzzling the turn of her jaw just below her ear, breathing deeply as he did so.
“Lemon verbena and lavender... no, ’tis definitely the night, though I must
admit, your fragrance is almost as delightful.” He nipped the lobe of her ear;
forgetting her ladylike decorum, Reagan swatted him soundly.

Jackson just laughed. The sound was every bit as rich as it was
welcome, and all too fleeting. In an instant he had sobered. “We won’t have
many more nights like this,” he said softly, beguilingly, and Reagan knew that
it was not the beauty of the approaching twilight to which he referred. “We
would be fools to let this time pass us by.”

“How right you are,” Reagan replied a trifle shakily. His very
presence was potent, and possessed the power to unnerve her, to render her
shaky and weak, uncertain as to which course was wisest to follow, and which
would lead to a lifetime of regret. “I shall endeavor to make the most of the
little time that is remaining. I have always loved the autumn, but this year I
have not had the leisure to enjoy it. The nights already grow chill; almost
before we realize it the snow will be lying deep upon the ground.”

“Well said, my sweet.” Reaching down, Jackson took her hand,
settling it securely in his palm, folding his fingers around it. “But that was
not what I meant, and you know it. The preparations are well under way, and the
date of the ball will soon draw near. Your earthy beauty, your charms, are unequaled
anywhere, and once you’ve been properly introduced into society, your days in
my care will be numbered. Indeed,” he said with a sigh, “they already are.”

“I wish I was as sure of myself as you seem to be,” Reagan
admitted. “What if nobody wants me? Have you thought about that? I’m no great
prize, after all. I have no fortune, no family, no fortuitous connections.
Shoot, I can’t even dance.”

“There is not a man this side of the grave who could look at you
and fail to feel the blood pounding in his veins. And if that is not enough, I
have settled five thousand dollars upon you as a dowry.”

Reagan gasped. “Five thousand! That’s a bloody fortune. You must
be desperate to see me gone.”

He was silent for a moment, thoughtful, as he rubbed the pad of
his thumb lightly across her knuckles. “I am desperate,” he admitted at last,
“but not to see you gone. I have been many things in my life—an incorrigible,
ungovernable youth, a rake, a devoted drinker, and a duelist—and it took my
brother’s death to make me realize how little honor I had left. Buying a wild
young hoyden at auction was not an unselfish act on my part.”

“Why did you do it, then?” Reagan prompted. She had asked him once
before, but she knew that he had not answered honestly. Tonight he seemed
candid and forthright, offering her a glimpse into the uncharted recesses of
his heart, his soul— and, selfishly, she wanted to keep him talking.

“Because I wanted you even then.” His expression was grave, his
gaze filled with a longing so keen it hurt to see it. The pain was sharp and
sweet, a dagger to Reagan’s heart. Then, slowly, he smiled, and, getting to his
feet, he brought her up to stand before him. “As for your not being able to
dance, that is one thing that is easily remedied. Come, I will show you how
it’s done.”

“Here? Now? Oh, Jackson, I don’t know—”

“Where better than here in the garden, with the crickets to
serenade us, and the emerging galaxy to smile benevolently down upon errant,
star-crossed lovers? And should I succumb to the enchantment of the moment and
steal a kiss from my partner, I’ll wager that the moon would but wink
conspiratorially at my folly.”

Reagan giggled as he slid an arm around her waist and drew her up
against him. One hand remained captive in his; the other found a resting place
on his broad shoulder. Before she had time to be nervous, before she had the
opportunity to gauge his intentions, he swept her into the dance, guiding her
slowly, effortlessly, gracefully, around and around and around, while the stars
grew brilliant and the golden leaves drifted down all around them.

They reached a bend in the crushed shell path; Reagan laughed as
he spun her off her feet. She was breathless and begging for surcease by the
time the slim crescent moon appeared above the eastern horizon. “Surely it must
be improper for a gentleman to hold a lady so close,” Reagan said, though she
made no attempt to move away.

“It is, indeed,” he readily agreed, “yet happily I have never been
fettered by gentlemanly constraints. ’Twould seem that being a rogue of the
first water has its distinct advantages. Now, as to that kiss I mentioned.
”

Reagan strove to recall the things Annette had taught her, yet as
Jackson’s mouth grazed hers it all seemed somehow insignificant.

He kissed her long and deeply, slanting his mouth across hers,
crushing her body against his in a desperate embrace. When at last he broke the
contact, Reagan made to step back, away; Jackson would not let her go. “Therein
lies my folly, Kaintuck,” he said softly. “It seems I do not possess the will
to stop at one.”

“If you do not stop, your carefully laid plans will be destroyed,”
Reagan told him, winding her arms around his lean middle, pressing her heated
cheek against his shirtfront. “I must go to my marriage bed unsullied. ’It would
not be fair to my husband—”

“A pox upon your husband,” Jackson ground out. “I have yet to clap
eyes upon the fortunate bastard, and already I despise him.” He raked an
impatient hand through his raven hair and frowned down at her. “Damn it,
Reagan, I know that you want me.”

“We can’t have everything we want. Don’t you know that by now?”

Jackson knew it only too well. His mind had been chanting those
very words over and over in his head, almost since the moment he’d laid eyes
upon her. He wanted only what was best for her, and thus he’d striven to keep
his distance, yet what was best was not always easily attained, and at the
moment, with Reagan filling his arms and the timeless moon staring coolly down
from the indigo sky, his desire for this earthy slip of innate femininity
completely overrode his good sense, his better judgment... and every instinct
at self-preservation that he possessed, and which had kept him from her,
deserted him completely.

As he whirled her deeper into the garden, all of the cares of his
world fell away—his father’s enmity, his brother’s murder, her chances of
making an advantageous match—leaving nothing but the enchantment and the
simple wonder that was Reagan.

In the shadow of a spreading maple tree, Jackson halted, bringing
Reagan up against him, capturing her mouth with his once more. Hers was a
nominal resistance, a flutter of her hands as they rose to push against his
shoulders, then relaxed and slipped up and around his neck, her fingers
threading through his unfashionably long hair.

She succumbed so sweetly, gave herself up, a willing sacrifice to
his carnal appetite.

He was weary beyond belief of being cautious. Circumspection was
not in his nature. Seduction was, and Jackson plied his powers of persuasion,
his ability to bring pleasure, with alacrity, kissing her long and well,
teasing the soft inner recesses of her mouth with his tongue, making her
giggle, then gasp as she strained on her toes to get closer.

There was no artifice in Reagan. Her passion, once aroused,
burned as hot and as high as his own. Teasingly, she toyed with his waistcoat,
slipping the tiny pearl buttons from their moorings, undoing his cravat and the
first few buttons of his full-sleeved white shirt. Then she touched him, and
the feel of her hand on his skin was Jackson’s undoing.

In less than an instant, he bent, sweeping Reagan off her feet and
into his arms. “Jackson!” she said, “what do you think you are doing?’ ’

“Putting an end to this madness,” he replied, his swift,
determined strides taking them across the shadowed lawn and up the stairs to
the gallery.

Before Reagan could form a defensible argument in her mind, or put
voice to feigned indignation, he had borne her through the French windows of
his bedchamber and dumped her unceremoniously onto the huge four poster bed.
It was made of mahogany with sheaves of rice carved on the massive posts.

She landed hard, bounced, and rolled with a flurry of petticoats,
her goal the far side of the bed, but before she could escape he caught the
drawstring of her pantalets in his deft fingers and slipped the neatly tied bow
that held them at the waist. A flick of his wrist, and he whisked them away.

“Damn you, Jackson,” Reagan said, forgetting her ladylike decorum.
“Give them back!”

Jackson seemed unimpressed. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling
off his boots. One by one they thudded to the floor. His waistcoat came next, and
then his pristine shirt. Naked to the waist, and looking demonic in the
half-light, he stretched himself full-length on the mattress and grinned,
twirling her pantalets on one finger. When she did not rise to the bait, he
folded the garment neatly and placed it beneath his pillow. “To assure that my
dreams are sweet ones.” Reagan held out her hand; he shook his dark head. “If
you want them back, you’ll have to be a great deal more persuasive.”

“Only the worst sort of scoundrel would steal a lady’s drawers and
put them beneath his pillow.”

“A scoundrel with a mission,” he said with maddening coolness.
“What say you we strike a bargain? The liberation of your pantalets in exchange
for a night in my arms. That way we both get what we want, at least in part.”

“You are outrageous, conceited, and rude!”

“Outrageous, without a doubt, but conceited?” He laughed softly as
he chafed his knuckles along the length of the livid scar. “I fear that you are
mistaken on that score,
cherie.
A face like mine leaves precious little room for vanity.”

“Callous and unfeeling! What sort of man would bargain with a
woman’s virtue?”

“I was not about to wager your precious virginity,” he informed
her. “I’m but bargaining for a night in your arms. The outcome is completely up
to you.”

“What scheme is this, Jackson. Tell me true.”

He sighed, propping his elbow on the feather mattress and his head
on his hand. “It’s simple, really. I want the night with you. I want to sleep
with you cradled against me and wake with you in my arms. Stay with me, Reagan,
just this once. I give you my word that I will not try to seduce you—unless, of
course, you wish me to—and then it will be your decision, and yours alone to
make.”