Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (30 page)

His fingers interlaced with hers, cupping her hand to his manhood,
molding her slim fingers around the hard shaft. Then he kissed his way down one
shoulder to the peak of her breast.

But this time he failed to linger.

He rained kisses, one upon each rib, then gently sank his teeth
into her waist while Reagan writhed and panted and tried to convince him to put
an end to her torment.

Yet no amount of argument could make him stay.

He continued to chart his leisurely course, down the length of her
body, to the sole of one dainty foot.

He seemed to derive great delight in placing a heated kiss upon
her arch; then he started north again along her inner calf, to her thigh,
sighing contentedly as at long last he reached his reward.

He did not bother to loosen the knot she’d tied in the string that
secured her pantalets. He just parted the long slit in the crotch and, sliding
his hands beneath her hips, brought her to his mouth.

Reagan gasped. She could not help it. The sensation of blistering
heat was so shocking, so wondrous, so titillating. Her woman’s flesh sang from
the sheer joy of his attentions, thrilled at the roughness of his tongue. The
tension, the wild trilling she’d first experienced that night on the gallery
leaped to throbbing life, seizing her senses, building and building. Need, as
sharp as it was sweet, sank its talons deep into her soul, and she kneaded
Jackson’s shoulders, sobbing for him to take her.

“Ssshhh, my darling,” he said, rising above her, taking her face
in his hands, kissing her to quiet her restless moan. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

After what seemed an eternity, he unbuttoned the front flap of his
trousers. Reaching down, Reagan wrapped her fingers around the rock-hard shaft,
eagerly guiding him through the slit in her pantalets to the source of her
selfishness.

She felt his manhood strain against the secret place between her
thighs, still moist and tingly from his kisses, felt Jackson’s whole body tense
and quiver with the effort of holding back.

But Reagan was impatient.

She wanted him inside her, she wanted him to join with her, she
wanted them to be one... as close as a man and a woman could possibly be.
Lifting her knees, Reagan rose to meet him, pushing, straining, feeling the
sweet, sharp pain as her body yielded and he slowly filled her, inch by
miraculous inch.

Such a glorious sensation. She wanted him closer, closer. Mindless
of anything but her own desperate need, she wrapped her legs around Jackson’s
hips, forcing his maleness in fully, mindless of the sudden searing jolt as he
breached the barrier that was her maidenhead.

Smoothing her tousled hair back from her brow, Jackson kissed her
deeply, not breaking the contact as he slowly began to move inside her, pushing
deeper, deeper, never really leaving her at all. Reagan felt the pleasure grip
her, peak, recede, then peak again. It built and built and built, until she
feared that she could stand no more, and still he probed her inner depths,
sweeping her effortlessly along on a rising swell of pleasure so intense she
was unsure that she could bear it... closer to the edge of the precipice... closer,
until Reagan locked her legs around him, and together they plunged into the
bottomless abyss.

Jackson and Reagan made love again, while the hours passed and the
moon shadows crept silently across the damp, tangled sheets. Jackson took
untold delight in teaching Reagan things she had no business knowing, all of
the many little secrets he had learned through the years as a devoted
libertine. Once initiated in the art of sensual play, she proved an apt pupil,
eager to experiment, and her brand of unwitting torture at times proved almost
more than he could bear.

Sated now, she slept, her head pillowed in the hollow of his
shoulder, one hand curled between their bodies, the other lying possessively
across his loins. Jackson lightly stroked her tumbled tresses and hoped her
dreams were sweet ones.

He entertained no thought of sleep himself. His thoughts were far
too troubling, and kept him tense and wakeful.

Overwhelmed by his ungovernable passion for a woman he could not
keep, he had bargained for a night in her arms, he had teased and plied his
charms, and in the end he had won her. Now, he was firmly entrapped by his own
machinations. And the fact that a liaison with him would quite likely spell the
forfeiture of her long-cherished hopes and dreams weighed heavily on his
conscience.

Reagan wanted a normal fife, with a reliable husband, and babies...
lots and lots of babies. She wanted someone to hold her hand through the pain
of childbirth, someone to sit with her by the fireside while their children
played at their feet, someone with a love that would be unwavering even when
they grew arthritic and old.

She wanted the very antithesis of all that he stood for; perversely,
Jackson just wanted Reagan. He just wasn’t sure that he could keep her from
achieving her dream for the satisfaction of his own selfish whims.

Strangely, the alternative was every bit as unacceptable.

Unable to take her to wife, he would soon be forced to stand
silently by in the downstairs study, before his mother’s portrait, and watch as
she promised faithfulness and fidelity to another man.

At the thought of it, he felt a strange catch in his chest, and
unconsciously gathered her sleeping form more securely against him, dropping a
kiss cm the bridge of her nose.

Mother of God, he wished there were some way out of this.

His emotional turmoil pricked painfully behind his eyes as he
buried his face in the sweet-scented curtain of her hair. At the same time, an
eerie scratching sounded on the bedchamber door. “A moment,” he said hoarsely,
gently extracting himself from Reagan’s embrace.

As he eased from beneath the covers, she awakened. “What is it?”
she asked, her voice husky from sleep. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

Jackson bent near the bed as he gathered his trousers in one hand,
placing a finger to his lips with the other. “Stay where you are. There is
someone at the door.” Sliding into his trousers, he walked to the door and
edged it open. Bessie stood in the dimly lit hallway, garbed in night rail,
wrapper, and snowy turban. She was wringing her hands.

“Mr. Jackson, I’m sorry to disturb your rest.”

“What is it Bessie? Is it Papa?”

“No, sir. It ain’t your papa. It’s Mr. Navarre. He’s downstairs,
and Sheriff Bedford’s with him. Mr. Navarre’s plenty angry, but the other man’s
insistin’ that you come.”

“Did he happen to say what this is about?”

Bessie’s face took on a pained look, and she sniffed softly. “Yes,
sir, he did. They done found a body. That rapscallion Malcolm Heath that used
to work for Mr. Clay. Somebody killed him, and that lawman wants to talk to
you.” Raking a hand through his hair, Jackson swore. Heath had been his only
lead, and now the man was dead. It took him several seconds to collect himself
enough to send Bessie away. “Tell them I’ll be down in a moment.”

As he closed the door, Reagan sat bolt upright in the middle of
the big bed, clutching the covers to her bosom. “I don’t understand. If someone
killed that fella Heath, why do they want to talk to you?”

Jackson said nothing as he gathered his clothing. Once he was
dressed, he came to the bed and dropped a kiss on her brow. “Go back to sleep.
You need your rest, and it’s nothing to concern you.” His voice was calm,
soothing, yet Reagan couldn’t help but notice his harried frown.

“I’ll get dressed,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”

“You will do no such thing. You will wait here, and when I am
finished I’ll return to you. If you dog my heels down those stairs and appear looking
like you are, flushed from our lovemaking, everyone will know precisely what’s
happened here tonight.” Tenderly he cupped her chin, gazing deep into her eyes.
“I’ve cherished our time together, and I do not wish it spoiled. It will end
too soon as it is. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Reagan nodded. She understood all too well. If their liaison
became common knowledge, there would be serious repercussions. Because of his
social position, and her lack thereof, word of their affair would spread like
wildfire. She would be branded a loose woman, morally defunct, no better than
the whores who plied their trade down at Kate Flannigan’s house of ill repute.
The only redemption for which she could hope was one that remained far beyond
her simple grasp. There had been no talk of love between them, no offer for her
hand forthcoming.

Jackson would not take her to wife to save her from a scandal, and
she’d be worse than a fool if she thought for a moment that he would. “Yes, I
understand,” Reagan said, knowing it would be enough to satisfy him.

“I’ll be back in a little while.” He turned away from the bed, and
before she could do more than draw a shaky breath, he exited the room.

The wisest, most prudent course would have been to heed Jackson’s
advice and hide beneath the covers until he saw fit to return. Reagan might
have done precisely that, had her curiosity and the burning need to know what
was happening downstairs not gotten the better of her.

She’d known for some time now that Jackson was keeping secrets,
secrets that had to do with his nocturnal activities. She harbored little doubt
that his nightly sojourns were dangerous indeed, yet no amount of verbal
prodding could convince him to confide in her. He remained a man shrouded in
mystery, and there seemed but one way to solve the puzzle his life had become.

As soon as the bedchamber door clicked shut, Reagan tossed back
the covers and dragged the quilt from the bed, wrapping it securely around her.
Then, knowing she had no time to lose, she crept across the gallery and down
the outside stairs. The thirteenth step put her at eye level with the study
window, yet the graceful curve of the wrought-iron stairway helped hide her
from view. From here she could be privy to what was going on, with little fear
of discovery.

From her vantage point, she could see the sheriff. He was older
than Jackson by a score of years and had a slight paunch that spoiled the
effect of his black frock coat and neatly tied cravat.

Navarre Broussard, Jackson’s uncle, was seated across the room.
Resplendent as ever in a wine-colored coat and buff pantaloons, he sat stiffly,
his elegant hands folded one over the other and resting on the head of his
walking stick, which was firmly planted before him. His attitude was haughty,
superior, and contrasted sharply with Sheriff Bedford’s sharp impatience.

“Gentlemen, the hour is late,” Jackson said as he entered the
room. “I trust you’ll humor me if I dispense with formalities and ask the
reason for this unexpected visit?”

The sheriff’s florid face flushed dark. “Your pardon, Mr.
Broussard, but justice doesn’t recognize nor follow the dictates of polite
society, and this matter simply could not wait.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” Navarre put in slyly. “Tonight,
tomorrow morning, I doubt that Malcolm Heath would care greatly. After all, it
isn’t as if he’s going anywhere.”

Sheriff Bedford harrumphed his displeasure with Navarre’s
irreverence, then dismissed him altogether, turning to face his host, who
splashed liquor from a crystal decanter into two tumblers. He paused, the
decanter poised above a third. “Brandy, Sheriff?”

“Thank you, no. As I already mentioned, this is not a social call.
In fact, it is a most unpleasant business that brings me here.”

Jackson gave the second glass to his uncle, then returned to lean
against the mantel. “Now, then, Sheriff. What’s so important that you felt a
need to disturb my household at such an ungodly hour?”

“A body turned up in an alleyway down by the waterfront a few
hours ago, and I’d like to know where you were last night.”

“For all intents and purposes, Saint Louis is still a frontier
town, Sheriff. Bodies turn up all the time, drunks get rolled for their purses,
arguments turn to violence, and none of it has anything to do with me.”

“I beg to differ with you, Mr. Broussard. You see, the body that
was found was that of Malcolm Heath, and I have a score of witnesses who swear
that you confronted him last night in a grogshop called the Painted Lady.”

“That’s quite impossible, Sheriff,” Navarre put in. “Why, Jackson
and I were together last night. He came by for a late supper and a game of
whist.”

“Your efforts are appreciated, Uncle,” Jackson said, “but wholly
unnecessary. Your witnesses were correct, Sheriff. I spent some time at the
Painted Lady last evening.”