Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) (31 page)

“What business does a gentleman of your rank and social standing
have in a waterfront grogshop?” The question was something less than politely
put, and Reagan saw Jackson’s jaw harden. “You already know the answer to that
question, Sheriff. I was there looking for Malcolm Heath, of course. Tell me,
how is the investigation into my brother’s murder progressing?”

“You know very well the status of that investigation, sir.”

“I do indeed,” came Jackson’s cold reply. “And the status of your
so-called investigation into Clay’s death is the very reason I pursued Heath
from the Painted Lady and into the night. Heath overheard enough of the
argument Clay and I had had in the warehouse, prior to his murder, to repeat it
verbatim. Therefore, I must surmise that he was present the night my brother
was killed.”

“Is that why you crushed his skull and left him bleeding in the
alleyway?” the sheriff demanded. “To punish him for bearing witness against
you?”

Outside, on the gallery stairs, Reagan strained to get a better
view of the proceedings. Gripping the balustrade rail with one hand and the
quilt with the other, she balanced on one bare foot, leaning out over the
railing in an attempt to see Jackson’s face. At the same time, something very
cold and wet nuzzled Reagan’s ankle. Startled, she whirled, got caught in the
folds of the quilt, and, uttering a soft shriek, pitched headfirst into the
bushes under the great bank of windows.

Startled by her mistress’s hasty descent, Josephine darted back
into the shadows of the second-floor gallery, leaving Reagan to extract herself
from the shrubbery as best, and as noiselessly, as she could.

Inside the study, the sheriff turned an accusatory stare on
Navarre, who shrugged lazily. “Do not send your piercing glower in my
direction. I had no part in raising that hideous ruckus.”

“Well, if it wasn’t you, then what the devil was it?”

“Calm yourself, Sheriff,” Jackson said with a smile. “It was only
Josephine.”

Sheriff Bedford shook off his nerves, drawing himself up to his
full five feet, eight inches, fixing Jackson with his penetrating stare. “You
did not answer my question, sir. Did you kill Malcolm Heath?”

“I was looking for answers, sheriff,” Jackson replied tightly,
“not revenge. Now, if you are finished with this inquisition, I should like to
seek the solace of my bed.”

“Very well. But Broussard? A word of advice: Stay away from the
waterfront. Another incident like this one, and not even your familial
connections will save you from a goodly length of hemp.” Seemingly satisfied
that he had done his duty, the sheriff stalked out, leaving Navarre to follow
at his leisure.

He lingered just long enough to send a smiling glance at the
portrait over the mantelpiece. When he turned his gaze again to Jackson, a
wariness had settled over his features. “As much as I detest admitting it,
Bedford is right. You really should avoid the grogshops. They are teeming with
unsavory characters, strumpets, gamesters, and those wretched boatmen. God
knows what sort of skullduggery such lowborn wretches are capable of—robbery,
perhaps even murder.”

“Uncle,” Jackson said gently, “we’ve talked about this before, and
I appreciate your concern—”

“Yes, yes, I know; I am behaving more like a concerned father than
an adoring uncle, and I should tend to my own affairs and allow you to live
your life. And yet,” he said, gripping Jackson’s shoulder with one beringed
hand and meeting his gaze directly, “you do realize that despite my meddling,
I have your best interests at heart?”

“Yes, Uncle.” Jackson followed Navarre out and stood watching from
the portico as he drove quickly away. With both late-night visitors departed,
he turned a jaundiced eye upon the bushes beneath the study window. “You may
come out of there now.”

Reagan emerged, wincing as she attempted to free herself from the
clutches of a nearby rosebush.

The look he gave her was a stem one. “I thought we had an
understanding.”

Reagan shrugged. “I understood you perfectly well; I just didn’t
make any promises.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I shall take care to be more exacting in
our future dealings.” A moment of silence followed, in which he looked her up
and down. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Reagan made a moue, gingerly massaging her derriere with one hand.
“I landed someplace soft, though I expect that it may be a trifle hard to sit tomorrow.”
Then suddenly she sobered. “Don’t you think it’s time we talked?”

“Just how long have you been eavesdropping?”

Reagan put her nose in the air. “I wasn’t eavesdropping; I was
takin’ the air.” He bent a look upon her, and she reluctantly gave way. “Okay,
so I was curious. You have only yourself to blame. If you had let me come with
you when I asked, I wouldn’t have needed to sneak.” She sighed, suddenly
serious. “That’s the real reason you go out at night, isn’t it? Not restlessness,
as you claimed before. You’ve been lookin’ for your brother’s killer.”

“It’s getting late,” he said evasively. “And we should not be
standing out here in the open, a young lady garbed in nothing but a quilt and a
shameless opportunist. It is far too dangerous, and besides, what will the
neighbors think?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Reagan said, holding the quilt closed at
the throat. It covered her from throat to foot, revealing far less than the
most chaste of her fe
minin
e apparel, and only the knowledge
that she was naked beneath rendered it the least bit risqué, a fact of which
they both were all too well aware. She felt his gaze go over her, caressing her
flushed face, touching the hand that held the makeshift garment closed.

“We really must be going in,” he said, “before you catch a chill.”

Intent upon her goal, Reagan balked. If she allowed him to lead
her up those stairs and into temptation again, the truth would never come out.
“But I’m not cold, nor am I so easily misled. It has been your purpose all
along, has it not, to catch your brother’s killer? It’s the worm that eats at
you, the driving force that makes you risk it all. Isn’t it?”

He watched her for a moment, saying nothing, taking her measure,
while a muscle leaped in his cheek. “Yes.”

“And all this time you’ve kept it from me,” Reagan softly accused.
“Why?”

“There was no point in telling you, and nothing you could do.”

Reagan was affronted. “That’s pure male arrogance talking, and a
hellish boatload of horse—” She broke off, hearing Annette’s soft reprimand in
her head. Softening her tone, she amended, “Manure!”

Jackson braced his hands on his hips, his elbows cocked, and
issued a dire warning. “Kindly sheathe that rapier tongue of yours. The fact
that I have taken you as a lover does not give you leave to act the hoyden.”

Searching her mind for an appropriately cutting reply that would
not compromise her newfound resolve, and finding none, Reagan put out her
tongue.

It was enough to goad Jackson’s temper, to drive him to dangerous
lengths. His blood running perilously high from the events of the evening, he
started toward her. Not surprisingly, she let go a soft and lilting burst of
laughter, snatched up the trailing ends of the quilt, and ran for the stairs.

She was fast, yet no match for his lustful determination, and he
caught her halfway to the top. “Jackson!” she cried, as he grasped her by the
waist, tossing her roughly over one shoulder.

Jackson replied with a hearty swat on her lovely behind. “Silence,
cherie
; you’ll wake the house.”

“Hang it all, Jackson, would you put me down!”

Safe inside the sanctuary of his boudoir, Jackson was only too
glad to comply. He set her on her feet, grasping and parting the quilt,
revealing his homespun Venus inch by luscious, irresistible inch... and this
time, when he slid out of his shirt, boots, and breeches, she didn’t resist,
but smiled as she stood her ground. “We can do it together, you know,” she said
with a secretive gleam in her soft gray eyes.

He closed the distance between them, bringing her back into his
arms, the only place she truly belonged.
“Together, yes. Precisely
what I have in mind.”

“Think of it, Jackson... partners, just you and me... Together we
can catch your brother’s
killer...
clear your name. And everything will be wonderful, just the way
it’s supposed to be.”

Unwilling to shatter the magical moment, Jackson said nothing,
just guided her knee up and around him, and with a will, he took her again.

Reagan woke to the sensation of something cool and velvety sliding
over the curve of her cheek, across her lips, pausing just beneath her nose.
She breathed deeply, not quite a closemouthed yawn, drinking in the rich and decadent
fragrance so redolent of summer, which was swiftly fading. “Is this a dream?”
she wondered, surprised not only that she spoke aloud, but that Jackson
replied.

“Only you can answer that. Open your eyes and decide.” Reagan
raised her lids, still leaden from a decided lack of sleep, and smiled at
Jackson. He sat beside her on the bed, freshly bathed, his hair still damp and
curling at his collar. He was dressed in a pristine shirt and tight black
trousers, the only spot of color on his person the blood-red rose he held
loosely in his fingers. “A rose,” Reagan said, not trusting herself to comment
on his presence in her bedchamber—to which she had returned as the dawn was
breaking—nor daring to hope for more than just one night. “Where did you find
it?”

“I was awake early, and wanted time to think undisturbed, so I
went into the garden, and there it was, a bright bit of color struggling
valiantly against the chill of autumn. It reminded me of another who has
struggled valiantly against adversity, someone whose spirit and vitality has
breathed life into this bleak old house, and into my existence.”

“You don’t mean that,” Reagan said quietly. “It’s just because of...
well, you know.”

“It is,” he assured her. “We have something special, Kaintuck. I
doubt that being the innocent, you can fully appreciate just how special, but
despite my resolve, I find that I am not yet willing to let it go.”

Reagan’s heart faltered in her breast, and for a moment she forgot
to breathe. “Then you thought about what I said? About us bein’ equal partners
in your investigation?”

He grimaced. “That was not exactly what I had in mind. I was
thinking about something a little more intimate, something infinitely more
satisfying.”

“We bargained for the night, Jackson. One night. No more than that.
The bargain we made was fully met. We can’t go back now.”

“We can’t go back, and we can’t change what’s occurred here, yet
there is nothing to prevent us from going on, so long as our desires are in
complete accord. And you and I both know that they are.” Reagan would have
protested, but he brought up the rose, teasing her to silence by tracing the
straight line of her nose with the velvety petals, her lips, her chin, his
mouth following in the bloom’s fragrant wake. By the time he had finished,
Reagan had forgotten every valid argument she’d been about to voice, and then
someone was tapping on the bedchamber door. “That will be Annette, bringing up
your breakfast and bath.”

“Go, before she finds you here.” Reagan tried to push him off the
bed, but he only grinned wickedly.

“I’ve pressing business I can’t ignore, but I’ll be back by one,
and I expect to see you in the garden. I’ve asked the cook to prepare a special
luncheon—oh, and wear the charcoal-colored silk. It brings out the silver in
your eyes.”

He kissed her again, sliding a hand beneath the covers to test the
pliancy of her woman’s flesh. Her response was as unwitting as it was
instantaneous. His strong fingers molded to the source of her desire, and a
tiny white-hot flame leaped to life inside her. It didn’t matter that the maid
in the hallway called out for admittance, nor did she seem to care that they
might be caught in a compromising act. Nothing mattered but Jackson’s touch,
Jackson’s kiss, Jackson’s presence—in her bed and in her life.

“Until then,” he said.

Reagan breathed a shuddering breath and he was gone, leaving the
deep red bloom upon her stark white pillow, tangible proof that it had been a
great deal more than just an erotic dream.