Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (15 page)

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but the door was barred to keep out the
riffraff. We weren’t expectin’ you home so soon, and Mr. Garrett said—”

An unwilling witness to the scene, Reagan saw the color drain from
Jackson’s face. His voice, when he spoke, had lost its bluster. His tone was
quiet, calm—too calm. “Are you suggesting that Antoine Garrett is still in
residence?”

The other man grimaced, and tiny beads of perspiration appeared on
his brow. “Well, sir—”

Jackson closed his eyes, willing himself to be calm. He should not
make a scene in front of Reagan. She had seen enough unpleasantness in the past
few months to last her a lifetime. Yet he wasn’t altogether sure he could
contain the rage rising inside of him. “Tell me that he has defected from my
father’s service. Damn it, Murphy, tell me that hateful old bastard has not
continued to take shelter under my roof these past few months!”

The demand fairly shook the rafters. In a moment an elderly man
with a shock of graying hair appeared on the stairs. He was thin as a rapier,
stiff with indignation. “What is the meaning of this racket? Are you not aware
the master needs his rest?” When his black eyes settled on Jackson, they
widened perceptibly, and his tone lost its note of hauteur. “M’sieur Jackson.
We were not expecting you—”

“That much is obvious,” Jackson said, his quiet statement
punctuated by a sizzle and crack. For an instant the room glowed with an
unearthly blue-white light. As it died, and the peal of thunder shook the
floorboards underfoot, Jackson felt Reagan slip in close, just behind his right
shoulder. Yet he couldn’t seem to pull his attention away from the rigid old
manservant. “Tell me that you have left his employ in favor of mine,” he said
softly, and watched Antoine Garrett swallow hard. Mounted on the wall to
Garrett’s right was an antique sword. In Jackson’s mind, he heard the metallic
hiss as it was snaked from its tarnished scabbard, saw the evil blue light
reflected off the Toledo steel. He closed his eyes, forcing the image away,
grating through clenched teeth, “Tell me that after what occurred here that
night, he did not possess the audacity to remain in this house...
my
house!”

Garrett put out a blue-veined hand, a futile effort to calm him.
“M’sieur Jackson, you must listen to reason. M’sieur Emil is not himself—”

“M’sieur Emil is worse than the devil incarnate, and I will not
suffer him to reside under this roof a moment longer!”

“But, m’sieur, you do not understand—”

‘‘Look at me!” Jackson thundered, by now beyond all reason and all
restraint. He felt the sting of steel as the sword bit into his cheek, heard
his father’s voice ringing out behind him as he stumbled from the house.
Satan’s spawn! You are no son of mine!
“Look into my face and tell me that I do not know and understand
the canker that has eaten away that old man’s heart.”

Confrontation was inevitable. Indeed, this moment had been coming
for months. Without even realizing what he was doing, Jackson grabbed Reagan’s
hand and started for the stairs.

Reagan dug in her heels. “Damn it, Jackson, let loose!” she cried.
“I got no part in your quarrels with your pa! If it’s all the same to you, I’ll
just wait right here.”

Jackson snorted.
“And
let you make good your escape while my back is turned? Like it or
not, you’re coming with me.”

“What are you goin’ to do?” she asked, struggling to keep up as he
took the stairs two at a time.

“I am going to evict him from this house.”

Seeming to sense what was coming, Antoine Garrett turned and
hurried up the stairs. “Murphy, find M’sieur Navarre, and hurry! Tell him it is
most urgent that he come.”

From somewhere in the bowels of the great, cavernous house, the
querulous tones of the other servants issued, decidedly more feminine, but no
less strident. The sound of running footsteps followed.

Down a darkened hallway they sped, the somber dark eyes of
Jackson’s ancestors staring down from the walls in grimfaced disapproval.

At the same instant, a sturdy dark-skinned woman of indeterminate
years appeared at the top of the stairs, in the company of a young dark-haired
woman.

“Mr. Jackson!” the older woman cried, pushing past Garrett and
laying a hand on Jackson’s arm. “Lord, God, what on earth you doin’, raisin’
such a ruckus so late in the evenin’? Come away from there, boy, ’fore you
disturb Mr. Emil.”

“Go back to bed, Bessie, Annette; this does not concern either of
you.” He came to the first door on the left, the door to his father’s suite,
and burst in without knocking.

The room was large, and though several tapers had been lighted,
their soft, incandescent glow failed to reach the shadowed figure seated in
the massive armchair pulled close by the bed. The man was half turned away, and
Jackson could see little more than the gleam of silver hair and slightly
haughty profile.

Bessie took a step forward, close enough to lay a beseeching hand
on Jackson’s leather-clad arm. “Mr. Jackson, please,” she implored. “Come away
now, before you go sayin’ somethin’ you’ll regret.”

Turning slightly, Jackson smiled, yet he knew there was no warmth
in the expression. A true smile came from the heart— Bessie had taught him that
when he was just a boy—and his heart was cold and brimming with bitterness for
the arrogant old man in the cherry brocade wing chair. “Regret putting what’s
left of the great and powerful Emil Broussard, the man who put his mark upon me,
into the street?”

Bessie’s eyes pooled with unshed tears. “Mr. Jackson, stop now.
Come away—”

Emil’s proud, jutting chin came up, and Jackson could have sworn
he saw it tremble. It was a passing notion, a trick of the candlelight, he
decided, and pressed on, not through with him by half, as yet. “I want you gone
from this house, Papa, but first I want you to look at me. Look at your
handiwork, Papa, and tell me if it pleases you!”

Below stairs, the front door opened and closed, and Jackson heard
his uncle’s elegant tones, followed by Murphy’s muffled reply. He had but
seconds left before they burst into the room, but it was more than sufficient.

“Do you remember that last night, Papa? You said I was spawned of
the devil, a damnable traitor to hearth and to home. You were determined, you
said, to sever all ties between us, and with the slash of Grandfather’s sword,
you did exactly
that... Jackson’s
voice trailed away as he walked to Emil’s chair and, gripping the
arms, leaned down menacingly. When he spoke again, his voice was rough with
emotion. “Look at me, damn you.
Look at me!”

At that moment, Navarre and Kevin came into the room, and at the
same time Emil slowly turned his regal head and faced his youngest son.

The proud old man with the thick shock of silver hair was but a
shadow of his former self... a distorted mirror image, and surely no trick of
the light. The right half of his face was disfigured, the cheek, eye, and mouth
drawn down and drooping... the left his haughty self. As Jackson looked on, stunned,
his father struggled to speak, but only a garbled growl of sound issued forth.
He trembled with the effort, breathing hard through his arrogant nose, then,
with a groan of frustration, turned away.

Horrified, Jackson fell back. “Mother of God,” he said softly.
“What is wrong with him?”

Navarre appeared at his side. “Come away, boy. Come away.”

“When?” Jackson grated. “When did this happen?”

Navarre’s angular face clearly showed his concern. “A lengthy
discussion of your father’s failing health will only serve to upset him, and
might bring on another episode.”

Jackson stood his ground.
“When?”

Navarre pursed his full lips into a thin, disapproving line. “The
night of your unfortunate mishap. Now I must insist. Garrett, see that Emil is
made calm and comfortable.” He started to turn away, then hesitated when he
caught sight of Reagan, who stood well away from the others, and his arched
black brows went up. “What on earth— Bessie, have I not told you to feed the
derelicts at the back door?’ ’

Jackson saw Reagan curl her full upper lip and, well aware of what
would follow, quickly stepped between them. “This is no derelict, Uncle. It’s
Reagan Dawes, my ward.”

“Well, then,” Navarre replied tightly, “that changes everything.
Miss—”

“Dawes, Reagan Winifred Dawes,” Reagan supplied, “late of
Bloodroot, Kentucky. How do.” Jackson watched as she thrust forth a small grimy
hand, and felt a small, insistent tug deep in his chest that must have been his
heartstrings, for there was more dignity in that simple gesture than in this
entire room.

Navarre avoided the hand, bowing instead. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Jackson was enjoying his uncle’s discomfiture, yet he hadn’t
forgotten that there were other, more pressing matters at hand. “Bessie, would
you see that Reagan is made comfortable in one of the guest rooms. Lay her bath
and see that she has sustenance.”

Reagan raised her gaze as he issued the order, and he could see
the panic and cold dread. “Go with Bessie,” he said, wishing he could say more,
yet not daring to risk it with the others present. “I’ll look in on you after
my business with Navarre is completed.” She swallowed hard, but left the room
as Jackson turned to his uncle. “If you will, you’ve got a damned lot of
explaining to do.”

Bessie led Reagan along the darkened corridor to the last door on
the right. “I expect you’ll be comfortable in this here room, Miss Reagan. It’s
two doors down from Mr. Jackson’s, so you’ll be assured a good night’s rest.
He’s a powerful snorer, that boy.”

“Yes, I know,” Reagan said, then blushed to the roots of her hair.
“I mean, a body can’t help but notice such a thing, even from a respectful
distance.”

Bessie said nothing, just smiled as she opened the door and turned
up the wick on the whale-oil lamp on the bedside table. Mellow light filled the
room, and Reagan breathed a tiny sigh of relief. The room was cozy instead of
austere, the sheer ivory curtains and matching bed hangings a subtle accent to
the patchwork quilt that graced the spindle bed.

“My, what a handsome room,” Reagan said.

“I thought you might like it,” Bessie said. “You make yourself
right at home, child, while I put the water on for your bath.”

A half hour later, Reagan stripped off her ill-fitting cast-off
clothing and stepped into the shining brass tub. Sinking down, she relaxed for
a moment, letting the delicious warmth seep into her skin and trying not to
think about the events of the evening, or the storm that continued to rage
outside.

The attempt was futile.

She couldn’t forget Jackson’s bitter torrent or the look on his
face when his father finally faced him. Her heart had gone out to him in that
moment.

His father had tried to kill him—a circumstance so shocking, so
appalling, that Luther’s selling of her person paled by comparison.

She raised the sponge and worked the lilac-scented soap into a
velvety lather. Curse her curiosity. It simply wasn’t good form to poke one’s
nose into other folks’ personal affairs. Yet she’d tried to resist.

It was all Jackson’s fault.

If he hadn’t insisted upon dragging her into the midst of his
problems, she would not be brimming with questions, and would not be immersed
in his life.

She should have known he was trouble the first time she’d clapped
eyes on him. For all his striking good looks, he was, after all, just a man,
with all the failings and shortcomings inherent to the species: stubbornness,
pride, shortsightedness. He refused to see that it would have been better for
both of them if he’d just pretended not to notice her down there in the shadows
of the gallery, allowing her the dignity of a quiet escape.

Working the sponge over her skin, Reagan sighed. Dignity and pride
were all she had left to her now, and if Jackson had his way, he would ply his
silken words and raffish good looks to strip her of every last vestige of
both....
With
compliments and sweet kisses, he would make her fall in love with him... and
then he’d break her heart.

Disgusted with her train of thought, she pushed his dark, handsome
face from her mind’s eye, concentrating instead on plying the scented soap,
scrubbing the dirt and the sweat from her long sable hair and her body... not
fully content until every inch of her was pink and tingling and sweetly
scented. Then she rose from the tub and toweled away the moisture.