Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (8 page)

Seek-Um was a deadly hand with the pistols he wore in his belt,
and Abe knew for a fact that he could wield a knife with equal precision.
Broussard wasn’t a man you could tangle with and come up a winner... leastwise,
not if a body fought fairly. It was a truth that Abe had pondered at great
length. When his thinking was done, he’d arrived at the conclusion that he
could have the girl, but only after he’d sent Jackson Broussard to meet his
maker. He possessed the strength, the unscrupulousness, the cunning.

All he required was an opportunity, and he was quite surprised
that the opportunity he had been hoping for had presented itself so soon. Abe
took that as a sign, an outright omen.

He and the girl were fated to be together.

Inhaling deeply, Abe turned to retrace his steps. If he circled
back around and forded the river a few hundred yards downstream, he could come
upon her unawares and clamp his hand across her mouth before she could utter a
scream.

The minutes ticked away, and Jackson fought down the urge to
follow in Reagan Dawes’s footsteps, choosing instead to prepare a breakfast
consisting of bacon, month-old biscuits, and a pot of strong black coffee.

After setting aside a portion for the girl, he ate his fill.
Attempting to woo a rasher of bacon for herself, Josephine set up a sputtering
purr loud enough to rival that of a steam engine and wove around his legs so
enthusiastically that she nearly knocked him into the fire.

Tossing the scraps to the cat, Jackson frowned at his timepiece.
“She should have been back by now, don’t you think?” Josephine showed a decided
lack of concern as she nibbled the delicacy, but Jackson was beginning to have
doubts about Miss Reagan Dawes’s delay and the reasons for it. Had she taken to
her heels, deciding to take her chances in the wilderness rather than remain in
his doubtful company? Or had she gotten lost?

He found his thoughts unnerving. “Come, Josephine,
ma petite chat.
Let’s go
for a stroll, shall we?”

Josephine, busy licking her paws, paused in her toilet to blink at
him, then, returned to her washing. Sending a frown the feline’s way, Jackson
turned and started down the path the girl had so recently taken, his mind
conjuring up dreadful scenarios with his every step. A rabid wolf had rampaged
through the encampment two nights ago, causing a commotion, leaving Jackson to
wonder if he’d find her torn limb from limb... and there were other predators
who walked upright on two legs and who were far more dangerous....

The men attracted to mountain life were misfits, for the most
part, slothful louts, and well-heeled ne’er-do-wells. Deemed unacceptable by
the standards of polite society, they fled to the high country, far beyond the
grasp of the law, where the wilderness and its warlike copper-skinned sons set
the only boundaries in existence. They were men with whom Jackson had a great
deal in common.

Though born to wealth, he thought like they did. He drank and
caroused with the same lusty abandon, he chafed beneath the constraints of
polite society, he shunned responsibility, and was generally considered
unpredictable and but halfway civilized. Perhaps it was his Choctaw blood—and
some factions certainly seemed to believe that such was the case—that rendered
him restless and dissatisfied. And though he’d never been the sort to lay a
violent or u
nkin
d hand upon a woman, there were some nearby of which the same
could not be said. That knowledge burned into his brain as he raced down the
narrow path, burst through the sparse growth of cottonwoods, and blundered upon
the object of his concern.

She was standing in the shallows of the river, her state of
undress leaving nothing, beyond the outcome of this encounter, to Jackson’s
imagination. With her long, dark tresses streaming moisture and the swift
current rippling around her firm, round buttocks, she appeared a water nymph,
as wild and untamed as her surroundings. Turned half-aside and gilded by the
newly risen sun, she stole the breath from Jackson’s lungs, rooting him to the
spot.

He was well aware that he should have warned her of his presence,
should have turned back before she saw him, should have done half a dozen
things to allow her to save face and him to preserve his sham facade of being a
gentleman. Instead, against his better judgment, he simply stood, his blood
warming as his gaze caressed her skin.

Blessedly clean and kissed with a fine sheen of pale golden light,
it glowed like the rarest of opals, flawless except for the tiny mole gracing
the upper curve of one small but perfect breast.

She was thinner than the women of Jackson’s doubtful acquaintance,
yet her charms were all the more evident, all the more delectable for the fact
that they were less than ample. Her breasts were high and lovely, her nipples a
succulent tawny pink, puckered from the water’s chill. Gazing at her, Jackson
knew such an insatiable hunger, such an irresistible urge to strip away his
clothing and join her there in the cold mountain stream, that he could scarcely
contain it.

Biting back an inward groan, he battled his baser urges, reminding
himself that to seduce her would be to prove G. D. and Tom Bridger right and
prove he really was a cad, totally lacking in morals.

The battle was quick and decisive. Jackson’s lustful thoughts
emerged the victor. He took a step toward her; at the same time, she wiped her
eyes to clear her vision, turned toward the shore, and went still.

If she was shocked to find him there, incensed that he dared to
invade her privacy, she concealed it well. She met his gaze unflinchingly, the
widening of her clear gray eyes her only outward sign that she was aware of the
danger in her situation.

The moment drew out, tension throbbing in the air between them
like a tangible and electrifying thing, and still she did not tear her gaze
away.

What on earth was wrong with her? Why didn’t she flee, or flay the
hide from him with some scathing diatribe?

And then it occurred to Jackson that perhaps—just perhaps—she did
not wish to run away, did not wish to be anywhere but where she was right now.
Mayhap her heart was racing just like his. Mayhap she wanted his touch, his
kiss, every bit as much as he longed for hers. “Come out of there,” he said,
unaccountably glad that his voice could work independently of his thoughts, for
in his
min
d he was laying her down in the grass, covering her slight frame
with his, cajoling away her virginity. “The water’s cold—you’ll catch your
death.”

Simple words, emphatic words, couched in the form of a direct
command. Reagan bristled. “Fearful of losin’ your investment?”

But he ignored the comment, reaching down to grasp her arm just
above the elbow, aiding her ascent to the grassy bank. Then his hands moved to
his belt, and Reagan held her breath.

Would he take her now, acting on the sexual threats to which he
had alluded not so long ago? More important, would she allow it? For the life
of her, Reagan was not sure.

But he only loosened the sash, shrugging out of the buckskin
shirt, placing the garment about her shoulders. It was large; her hands were
lost in the too-long sleeves, and the tail hung well down past her knees—thank
God--providing her with the modesty she had wantonly abandoned but a moment
ago.

Puzzled by his actions, Reagan frowned up at him. “Why’d you do
that?”

When he replied, his voice was surprisingly soft and liquid, his
faint accent growing slightly more pronounced. “Because it isn’t safe for you
to be out here, looking as you do. You’ll cause a stir—mayhap start a war, and
I dislike the thought of having to kill someone this early in the day. It would
bring ruin down upon my morning.” He paused, drawing closed the sash, knotting
it at her waist with an audible sigh. “And besides... at the moment you seem
to have more need of it than I do.”

“I’m sorry.” The apology slipped from Reagan, surprising her,
bemusing him. “I misjudged you. I thought that you would... that after what you
said back there, you were going to….
”

He had started to turn away; then he paused, his indecision
clearly imprinted upon his hard-featured face. “I thought about it,” he said
truthfully. As if of its own volition, his hand came up to grasp the trailing
ends of her sash, to toy with the fringe. “In all candor, I am thinking about
it still.”

Reagan’s imagination ran wild. She was a healthy young woman, and
the juices of life ran thick and hot in her veins. She knew what desire was,
knew what it was like to awaken in the heart of the night aching for something,
someone
she could not name. It was the outcome, the end result of succumbing
to that passion which remained a mystery... a mystery that she sensed that
this man, and only this man, could solve.

Unconsciously, she strained toward him, in a far more blatant
invitation than the one he had mentioned before.

He accepted with alacrity, bringing one hand up to capture her
chin, tipping her face up to his intense scrutiny. “For the sake of my immortal
soul and the preservation of your innocence, I should resist you. Yet you
offer yourself up so prettily. It would take a better man than I to simply walk
away.”

Gripping her shoulder with one large and capable hand, he tipped
her face up as his dark head descended.

Reagan knew that a profound truth was to be found in his words. He
should have walked away; she should have pulled back, should have scalded his
male pride with a stream of verbal vitriol. She should have done many things,
but as his arms came around her, wrapping her in his vital, animal warmth,
something rose up inside
her...
something so soft and feminine and melting, she simply forgot to
resist.

Instinct and a good measure of curiosity rendered her more
acquiescent than she’d ever been. She did not merely surrender to the
possession of his hard mouth, she welcomed it, straining on tiptoe to reach
him, entwining her arms about his neck, all the while incredibly aware that the
supple leather hunting shirt was all that stood between them. It was a fragile
barrier, so easily breached, a point brought forcefully home when she felt the
warmth of his hand on the cool, damp skin of her derriere. Strong fingers
splayed, he urged her hips against the hot, hard evidence of his raging ardor.

In that moment Reagan nearly succumbed. It was readily apparent
that he wanted her, and she could not deny that she desired him, was intrigued
by him, was curious as to what it would be like to lie in his arms and see him
rise naked above
her.

Then the bushes beside them rattled ominously, and a soft and
sibilant hiss insinuated itself into the passionate haze currently clouding her
thinking, dragging her attention away from the raven-haired rogue intent upon
stealing away her virtue, and focusing it on the source of the sound. Suddenly
impatient, she dragged her lips from his, not quite ready to push from his arms
completely. “What was that?”

“Hmm?” he answered.

“That noise. You must have heard it.”

Sighing, he studied her face for the space of an indrawn breath,
then bent to his task again, devoting all of his attention to nibbling the turn
of her jaw. “I heard nothing,” he said, his voice heavy with passion, “save for
the thunder of my heart in my ears, and, of course, the sound of your sweet
voice. I can only think to lay you down and finish what we’ve started, yet rest
assured, I shall remain attentive to your smallest request. You have but to say
what you will, and I shall be your slave,
cherie...
sexually
speaking, that is.”

“I don’t want a slave, you jackass!” Reagan said in a growl,
pulling away so that she could turn enough to peer at the pair of disembodied
yellow eyes that stared back at her from the midst of the sagebrush.

A jolt of fear shot through Reagan, so strong, so potent, that it
paralyzed her. Eyes widening, she stared hard, picking out details she had
overlooked before: the tawny fur glimpsed here and there through the sparse
vegetation, the graceful outline of a large feline head and the curve of a
powerful shoulder. Sweet Jesu, a mountain cat crouched behind the sagebrush,
less than two yards away. Crouched—ready to spring, to kill, or maim—and
Jackson Broussard was totally oblivious of the danger they both were in. “Your
pistols,” Reagan said softly. “Give me one of your—”

Jackson was not paying attention. He caught her hand as she
fumbled at the waistband of his leather trousers, bringing it to his lips. “My
lovely, you need no weapon with which to conquer my affections. You have but to
come back to my arms.”