Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (18 page)

Jackson sent her a jaundiced look. “Was that a threat?”

She shrugged. “Just a polite observation. So where are we goin’?”

Jackson stirred sweetening into his coffee. “It’s a surprise.”

A short while later Reagan was perched on the red leather seat of
a high-wheeled calash, Jackson pointing out various landmarks and buildings as
they sped along. The city seemed to be in constant motion. Because the town
squatted on the edge of a vast, uncharted wilderness, the populace was always
busy, always shifting, changing, growing. A new influx of faces arrived every
day from the South and the
East…
men, mostly, armed with rifles and laden with traps, determined
to try their luck in the West.

These newcomers mingled with the seasoned trappers returned from
the high country, the riverboat men, the gamblers, the shopkeepers, and the social
elite, creating a rich and colorful human tapestry the likes of which Reagan
had never seen.

She stared unabashedly at the nattily dressed gentlemen in their
dark frock coats and tall beaver hats, and the fashionably dressed female
companions who clung to their arms, and smothered a sharp stab of envy. Even
dressed to the nines, she could never capture the heart of a man like the one
lounging indolently beside her, his left knee negligently brushing her right.

The contact was casually intimate, impossible to ignore.
Imperfections and all, Jackson was easily the handsomest man in all of Saint
Louis, and without a doubt the most dangerous... at least where Reagan was
concerned.

They barreled along the waterfront at breakneck speed, the
red-haired Kevin Murphy at the reins, scattering a small flock of guinea hens
in their hurried wake. The old woman herding the fowl shook her fist and
shouted, but the sound was all but lost as they rounded a corner and skidded to
a stop in front of a dressmaker’s shop.

Pretty things filled the window, feminine frills all covered with
ruching and lace. Reagan felt an odd sort of tugging sensation in her chest at
the sight, and it was all she could do to wrinkle her nose at the clothes in
the window and drag her oft-used armor around her. “He break an axle or
something?” she asked as Jackson alighted.

“No, he did not break an axle. You are a young lady in desperate
need of a wardrobe, and I fully intend to see that you get one.”

Taking her hand, he drew her from the carriage, giving her little
choice except to follow. Then, with his hand riding on the small of her back,
he guided her over the threshold and into the dressmaker’s shop.

Bolt upon bolt of beautiful fabric lined the shelved walls—creamy
linens, bright satins, and black bombazine—but the piece that drew and riveted
Reagan’s attention was a length of smoke-colored velvet. Without even realizing
she did so, she left Jackson’s side and, reaching out, ran her hand along its
luxurious length.

She was so mesmerized by its softness that she wasn’t aware of the
woman’s approach until her hand was suddenly and roughly snatched from the
bolt. “Here, girl!” the woman said as Reagan gasped in surprise. “Do not finger
the goods! That’s French velvet, and far beyond your modest reach!”

“Yet well within mine,” Jackson said, deftly extracting Reagan’s
hand from her tormentor’s grasp. He examined the appendage and, finding no
injury, lifted it to his lips while the matron hastened to correct her blunder.

“Why, Monsieur Broussard!” she exclaimed hurriedly. “I did not
realize the—er—young lady was with you.”

“The young
lady
is my ward, Reagan Winifred Dawes, first lady of the Shining
Mountains,” Jackson informed the woman, “and she is greatly in need of a
wardrobe and trousseau.” He went on, blithely ignoring Reagan’s outraged gasp.
“I quite naturally thought to commission your services, since your talents are
widely known, yet it seems I erred in coming here. Come along, Kaintuck.”
Bowing lightly, he took Reagan’s arm, propelling her toward the door while the
seamstress wrung her hands over the loss of such a handsome commission.

“Monsieur! Monsieur, please. It was a momentary lapse, I assure
you! Please, sir, have a look at our finer selections before you decide.
There’s a new shipment in back, just arrived from New Orleans.” She clapped her
hands sharply. “Marie! Helga! Quickly, girls! Quickly!”

At her sharp-voiced command, two young women emerged from the back
of the shop. The slender, mousy-haired one appeared to be close to Reagan’s age.
The other, a petite blonde with a pockmarked complexion, looked far younger.
“Helga, bring the swatches from the new shipment so that Monsieur Broussard can
inspect them. Marie, the dressmaker’s dolls.” At the mention of Jackson’s name,
the older girl’s gaze shifted to Jackson, her eyes widening as they traveled
the length of the scar; she nearly dropped the shears she’d been clutching.

By now the shopkeeper, Mrs. Bridgewater, had lost any semblance of
patience with the dumbstruck girls, and took a step forward, shooing them away
with a flick of her hands. “For pity’s sake, don’t just stand there gawking!
Hurry, get the swatches!” Another clap of the matron’s hands, and the two spun
as one, darting through the door and into the rear of the shop. The older woman
turned to Jackson with an ingratiating smile. “My most profound apologies,
monsieur. One simply can’t find good help these days.”

It was clear to Reagan that the seamstress was loath to lose
Jackson’s business. Yet Jackson gave nothing, and stood looking down his
arrogant nose at her, his features as rigid and unyielding as granite.

The entire situation made Reagan vastly uncomfortable. “Can’t we
go now? Seems to me that she’s suffered enough.”

A lazy smile curled the unmarred corner of his sensual mouth. “Not
by half,” he said softly. “The puffed-up old peahen will learn to bow to her
betters before I am through.” There was something in the way he said it that
convinced Reagan that he was not referring to himself, a fact that caused
Reagan’s heart to falter in her breast. “Besides, I fully intend that you shall
leave off wearing those dastardly rags, and dress the part of a well-bred young
lady.” One corner of his sensual mouth curled upward, making Reagan think of
his strong arms around her and his hot, carnal kisses, so distracting her that
she barely heard his next comment. “Knowing the extent of your stubborn streak,
I can see but one way to accomplish this enviable feat.” His lids dipped low,
and he peered at her from the shadow of his lashes, his smile deepening,
growing slightly wicked. “I shall have to lure you out of them.”

He hadn’t touched her. He didn’t need to. The silken tone in his
voice, the words—so innocent, yet brimming with hidden meaning—triggered an
alarming tingle that coursed upward from Reagan’s toes. Reagan shook her head.
“I can’t accept gifts of clothing from a man. It simply isn’t proper.”

“But I’m no ordinary man,” he countered smoothly. “I’m your
protector, and I insist.”

The shop girls returned with two baskets each, and each basket
was full to overflowing with the items requested. Madame Bridgewater gestured
to a settee just large enough for two. “Please, monsieur, mademoiselle, won’t
you sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”

Reagan just snorted. “When pigs fly,” she said in an aside.
Jackson lifted a demonic brow at her and, taking a firm hold on her arm, drew
her to the settee. “Strike your colors now, Kaintuck, surrender gracefully, and
I will try to make this as painless as possible. Fight me, and I shall drag out
every gewgaw and furbelow near and dear to a feminine heart, and tempt you to
distraction.”

Reagan sent him her best silvery glare and threw down the
gauntlet: “Kiss my old felt hat!”

Reagan soon learned that Jackson Parrish Broussard was a man of
his word, and far too learned when it came to the intricacies of feminine
apparel, as far as Reagan was concerned. Why, he surveyed the swatches with so
practiced an eye that it was downright embarrassing, choosing fabric and color
according to what
he
felt she should wear.

Sinuous fabrics... silk and satin and velvet... fabric that would
ripple and swish when she moved. And the colors... the shades he chose rivaled
the forest in autumn and spring: moss, apple green, and emerald; mustard gold
and russet; cream and tawny brown.

Reagan tried valiantly to stop him; she argued that she could not
accept his charity, but all to no avail.

This was a war of wills, and she was severely outgunned. Yet how
could she possibly hope to win out when pitted against so worthy an opponent,
an opponent who knew her woman’s heart and all of its frailties even better
than she herself did?

Whether he knew it or not, he was fulfilling a girlhood fantasy,
one she had kept carefully secret, pushed down into the deepest, darkest
recesses of her heart: to dress and to be like other young women.

Jackson, however unwittingly, was making that dream come true, or
would have been, had he been less self-serving.

His motives weren’t romantic or heartfelt. By getting her up in
fashionable garb, he was laying the bait for his trap, hoping to snare a
marriage-minded suitor for her.

He was determined; Reagan had to give him that much. Stockings,
slippers, gowns, chemises, night rails, wrappers, and hoops—it quickly became
obvious that nothing was to be held sacred. Goaded by her stubborn refusal to
let him have his way with her wardrobe, Jackson had all the restraint of a
runaway horse, and Madame Bridgewater, sensing a handsome commission, was only
too happy to oblige. “That will do for the wardrobe,” Jackson said after
choosing a length of white lawn as soft and translucent as a spider’s web for a
full dozen camisoles and matching petticoats. “And now for the trousseau—”

“Miss Dawes is to be married?” the seamstress said hopefully.
“Who is the lucky young man?”

“I cannot say,” Jackson said. “I have yet to select a husband for
her. But soon,” he murmured. “Very soon.” He glanced sharply up, pinning the
older woman with his intense green gaze. “How soon can you have the items
completed?”

“Two... maybe three months,” Mrs. Bridgewater replied. Jackson
shook his dark head. “That’s not good enough.”

^“
But the order monsieur has
placed is considerable. There are only the three of us, Helga, Marie, and
myself—”

“Miss Dawes will need several gowns by the week’s end,” he
insisted, “as well as the proper intimate apparel. I shall expect the remainder
in a week. We shall discuss the trousseau at her first fitting.”

“By week’s end! But, sir! It is Wednesday already! And we have not
even taken her measurements!”

“Then I would suggest you begin,” Jackson said smoothly, coming to
his feet in one fluid motion. As Reagan did her damnedest to stare a hole in
the back of his claret-colored frock coat, he took out his timepiece, flicking
open the lid. “I have some pressing matters to which I must attend. I’ll be
back in one hour. By then I trust you will have taken her measurements and
decided if your talents are up to this challenge. If not, my ward and I will be
forced to go elsewhere.” Closing his timepiece, he smiled at Reagan. “Be a good
girl, and do not tax Madame Bridgewater’s patience too severely.”

Before she could form an argument, he turned on his booted heel
and strode purposefully from the shop, leaving a sputtering Reagan in his
arrogant wake.

Dr. Jeremiah Nash’s office was three blocks west from Mrs.
Bridgewater’s shop. Flipping Kevin Murphy a coin, Jackson sent the younger man
off to quench his thirst, then walked to Nash’s office. Murphy was a good man,
and loyal, yet he was also given to indulge in a bit of gossip, and Jackson did
not want his father’s household staff to be privy to his comings and goings.

The young doctor’s office was empty when Jackson arrived, but he
could hear movement behind the curtained doorway that separated the doctor’s
office from his residence, and in the next moment Nash himself came into the
room, wiping his hands on a linen towel and looking distracted. His sandy hair
was mussed, his shirt undone at the throat and impossibly wrinkled. Tall and
lanky, with a freckled face and friendly mien, he hadn’t changed a bit since he
and Jackson had attended university together, and he hardly appeared the most
respected physician in all of Saint Louis.

“A bit early in the day for surgery, isn’t it, Jeremiah?” Jackson
asked.

“Not for the sort of operation I was doing. Jenny’s away visiting
her sister in Saint Charles, so I’m left to fend for myself. It hasn’t been
easy, I can tell you. I’m a better hand at lancing boils and tending gunshot
wounds that I am at making dinner.” He grinned and offered his hand. “Jackson,
it’s good to see you. Damn good.”