“He was back there,” Reagan insisted. “He said he wanted to renew our ‘acquaintance.’ Then he laid his hand on me, and I whomped him with the fryin’ pan.”
Jackson set her gently from him, seating his pistols more securely in his belt, prompting Reagan’s look of concern.
“You’re not goin’ to do something stupid, are you?” Reagan asked. She caught at the fringes on his sleeve and hung on tenaciously. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Can’t we wait until the sun comes up? Or better yet, just go on from here?”
In an effort to distract her, to ease the tension that gripped her, he gave her a crooked grin. “Your concern for my wellbeing is encouraging, cherie. Have you had a change of heart, by chance, and decided that we should become lovers?”
Wrinkling her pert nose, she gave him a shove. “I swear, that’s all you ever think about!”
Jackson’s grin deepened, turning up the unmarred corner of his mouth. “From the extent of your pique, I would doubtless be safe in saying that you’ve been thinking about it, too. You are simply too proud to admit it.”
She crossed her arms and turned up her nose with a sniff. The pose was meant to show her disdain for his person, but all it did was display to tantalizing advantage the ripe curves lurking beneath the worn homespun shirt. “Go on, then. Go get yourself killed, and just see if I care!”
Chuckling darkly, Jackson walked off into the darkness. Reagan waited a full minute before she abandoned her proud stance and ran to catch up with him. “Dammit, Broussard, stay where you are! I’m coming with you!”
When they arrived the campsite was deserted, except for Josephine, who had taken advantage of their absence to pilfer Jackson’s precious horde of bacon, and now lay contentedly licking her paws.
Jackson studied the area intently, yet, other than a small patch of trampled grass, there was no trace of Abe McFarland.
Reagan’s mind was not eased one whit. She knew that Abe was out there somewhere, watching, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike again. In the days that followed, the frying pan was never far from her grasp.
Despite the tenderness of the hour, the heavy damask curtains were drawn when Navarre Broussard entered the second-story bedchamber, casting the room in a deep, nearly impenetrable gloom.
Neither the shadows nor the brooding aspect of the room’s occupant did anything to dampen Navarre’s high spirits. Hunched in a wing chair drawn close to the massive black oak four-poster bed, Emil Broussard displayed so little animation, he might have been cast in stone.
“This room has always been my favorite,” Navarre said pleasantly. “Grandpere’s bedstead brought all the way from Lyons, the rich damask and Parisian wallpaper... why, one can almost sense the past and present merging within these walls. But then, Miralee always had splendid taste... in everything. It seems rather a shame to cloak it in darkness on such a glorious morning.”
The shadowy form seated in the wing-back chair neither spoke nor stirred, but that was to be expected, and as Navarre moved to the window, he chattered on as if the one-sided conversation had been taking place for years, instead of four short months. “I’ve only just come from the warehouse,” he said matter-of-factly. “There have been a few minor complications in shipping the inventory downriver. I fear that Redmond has lost another steamer to a snag a few miles downstream. He was probably drunk at the time, but not to worry, brother. I shall take care of everything. I always do.”
As he spoke the last syllable, Navarre drew aside the curtain, allowing the bright summer sunshine to pour into the room. At the same instant, a light scratching sounded on the bedchamber door. Navarre called an entrance, and a petite, brown-haired maid came timidly into the room. “Cafe noir,” she said softly, placing the silver tray on the foot of the high bedstead, “just as M’sieur Emil prefers. Shall I pour, M’sieur Navarre?”
“Thank you, no,” Navarre replied smoothly. “I can manage quite nicely. That will be all.”
The maid’s bright brown eyes held an inquisitiveness that Navarre chose to ignore. She could think what she liked. Her master was in no condition to gainsay his dictates, and he, Navarre, intended that the man would remain that way.
During the brief exchange, the figure in the chair never moved, never flinched, but sat as stoic as a marble statue, as pale and emotionless... and the fierce glimmer of his dark eyes, eyes that followed Navarre’s every movement, was the only sign that a spark of life remained in Emil’s body.
That, too, would be extinguished soon enough, Navarre thought, slipping a small brown vial from the pocket of his waistcoat and palming it until he had moved between the coffee service and his elder brother. Uncorking the vial, he added the laudanum and silently stirred the liquid with his forefinger. Then he handed the cup to Emil.
Emil raised his right hand, the one left unaffected by the apoplectic seizure, as if to stay him, and turned his face away. “Come, come,” Navarre chided. “We have always taken coffee together, and though it pains me to say it, mornings like this one will someday come to an end. Let us cherish this time together.”
Emil took the cup and sipped the black liquid. A small drizzle of the liquid escaped the left side of his mouth, dampening his stock.
Navarre watched with a kindling interest. It had become a ritual he practiced religiously. Each day he came to this house to call upon his beloved brother, and the routine never varied. When he entered the room the curtains were drawn, the room silent and dark. Each day he went to the window, opened the curtains, and stood, relating the news of the business and the town to Emil, who sat looking as if he had one foot in the grave and the other on uncertain purchase.
As indeed he did have.
The metamorphosis was slow and subtle, helped along by the ever-increasing doses of laudanum, yet Navarre could clearly see it. Emil cared for nothing, not the empire he’d worked to build, not his vast wealth, not even Belle Riviere, the glorious house he’d built as a wedding gift to Miralee Parrish, the young woman he’d married two years after the death of his first wife. Certainly Emil did not give a tinker’s damn for his younger brother.
Navarre smiled at that, and went on playing the dutiful brother. “There has been no word from Jackson,” he said, “but then, I did not expect that there would be. Matters here are still too uncertain; the time for his return is not yet right, but soon... soon father and son will be reunited and all will be right with the world.”
Smiling, Navarre turned to meet Emil’s scowl. “Well, brother, do finish your coffee. I’m afraid I must be going. I promised to meet that rascally Philippe Ormond down at Madame Bourgeois’ cafe, and I dare not be late or he’ll sulk the whole of the afternoon. Sweet Mary, the man is so mercurial! I am not at all sure why we are friends, except for the fact that he’s always good for a rousing political discussion.” He picked up his hat and gloves, bowing deeply, elegantly. “Until the morrow, then.”
Emil waited until the door clicked shut, then spat the liquid he’d been holding in his mouth back into the cup, and carefully emptied the cup into the potted plant next to his chair with his one good hand. “S-s-sc-c-scoun-drl,” he said.
Whistling softly to himself, Navarre went from the bedchamber and down the wide staircase. From somewhere in the bowels of the manse came the rattle of pots and pans and the light, pleasant chatter of feminine voices. Bessie, the cook; Annette, the pretty young maid who had brought the coffee; Kevin Murphy, the footman; and Garrett, Emil’s faithful valet, were all that remained out of a household staff of twenty. The rest of the servants, concerned with the uncertain status of Emil’s health, had sought positions elsewhere, and Navarre had aided them in their efforts.
Bessie, born on their father’s Louisiana plantation—the first Belle Riviere—had been with the family all her life, and though Emil had given her her freedom a dozen years before, had not only decided to remain, but had persuaded Annette to do the same. Kevin Murphy, Navarre knew, had kept his position because of the dark-
haired Annette... Kevin Murphy, whom Emil soon discovered—from the deeper masculine tones that melded with the maid’s spirited giggle—was keeping company with Annette and Bessie in the cavernous kitchen.
The defection of the once large staff suited Navarre’s needs perfectly. And except for the loyal trio in the kitchen, he could move through the house unobserved.
It was always best to keep things simple. That way there was less of a chance that he would make a mistake. Complex plans, Navarre thought as he slipped into the drawing room and closed and latched the doors, had a way of coming undone, leaving the schemer exposed and vulnerable, something he did not intend to be.
In the dim sanctity of the drawing room, Navarre paused to draw a deep and steadying breath. Then, letting it go on a sigh, he crossed to the fireplace, where he stood staring up at the life-size portrait of Miralee Parrish Broussard, his brother’s bride, so many years deceased.
Mellow sunlight streamed through the many-paned windows, playing, shifting over the ruby and jade and ecru rug, striking sparks off the portrait’s ornate gilt frame, a circumstance that seemed to amuse the woman in the portrait.
“Ah, Miralee, my only love,” Navarre said, reaching up, caressing her painted hand. “The years pass so quickly, and age sits heavily upon my shoulders.
“I remember the day you sat for this portrait. Emil was pleased and proud at its unveiling. He proclaimed it a marvelous likeness, and paid the artist handsomely for his efforts.” He sighed, and the hand resting on Miralee’s painted one trembled ever so slightly. “He said at the time that the man had somehow managed to capture your essence on canvas, that angel’s face and haunting, wistful stare. Indeed, all who viewed it found it so unsettling that they came again and again to stare up at your image... just as I do now. And I alone could guess that that look was sadness in its purest, more excruciating form.”
Navarre’s throat closed on the last syllable and for a long moment he stood with his head bowed, struggling to regain his composure. When at last he straightened, his sooty lashes shone with moisture. “Soon, my darling, my heart... soon it will all be over, and everything will be precisely as it was meant to be. It’s all falling into place: Jackson, the business, and dear, tragic Emil, who, sadly, is not long for this world....” With a shake of his head, Navarre gave one last, lingering glance at her pale, smiling face, then slowly turned away. “It could not have gone better if I’d planned it myself, and all I need do now is watch and wait.”
Reagan hadn’t seen much of Saint Louis en route to the Shining Mountains with Luther and the twins. Afraid that some well-meaning clod might try to interfere with his method of coping with an unruly stepdaughter, Luther had awaited full dark before entering the town limits, not giving even a moment’s pause in the face of Luck’s unbridled curiosity. Too weary to protest, Reagan had been forced to concentrate all of her energies on keeping her seat on Mariah’s slippery back while the yellow glow of lantern light and the sound of a pianoforte slipped all too quickly past her.
Now, on a sweltering day in September, she was returning, and though that return was not as triumphant as she would have liked it to be, her lot in life had improved considerably, and she meant to see as much of her new home as she possibly could while she still had a modicum of freedom.
Twisting this way and that, she gaped at the sights, drank in the sounds of a bustling city-town settling in for the evening. Founded some seventy years before, Jackson had told her, the town had been little more than a sleepy village perched on the west bank of the great river when his father had migrated there from Louisiana in the latter years of the previous century. Then Napoleon sold the whole of Louisiana Territory to the United States, and under American influence everything had changed.
The American character differed vastly from that of the French Creoles who had settled the town. Americans did not just settle the land; they conquered it, and commerce, adventurers, and lawlessness had followed in their wake.
The two cultures had not blended well, but for the most part they had managed to peacefully coexist, and the resulting complexion of the town was unique to Saint Louis.
The steep-pitched hip roofs, gray limestone, and Spanish stucco dwellings that comprised the old French section had mellowed with age. Flanked by walled gardens overflowing with greenery, the old, established dwellings served only to complement the new brick and frame houses belonging to the Americans. The overall effect was one of permanence and expansion, pleasing to Reagan’s eye and to her frontier spirit.
Surveying the houses, she tried to imagine the sort of life Jackson had led growing to manhood in this place. It was no secret that he was well-heeled. The ease with which he’d plunked down two thousand five hundred dollars in cash money for a woman he barely knew hinted strongly that his family was well-to-do.
Dusk was rapidly descending as Jackson reined Euripides in before the tall wrought-iron fence on the east side of First Street, between Chestnut and Pine. Behind the fence was a sweeping lawn and a house of mammoth proportions.
Built of the native gray limestone from the cliffs above the river, it had elements of the Creole cottage so indicative of the old French section, only on a much grander scale. It stood a full two stories, yet instead of the lower floor being used as a basement, as was typical of the design, both floors were used as living quarters.
For a moment Jackson simply sat his mount, watching the barn swallows that dipped and swooped around the triple chimneys, periodically disappearing into the foliage of the massive oaks that flanked the long double galleries. Then, as the light faded and the candles and lamps flickered to life behind the long French windows of the house, he turned to help her dismount.
Just standing outside the fence made Reagan decidedly nervous. She wasn’t privy to his plans, but she had a sneaking suspicion that whatever he had in mind, she wasn’t going to like it. “You didn’t tell me we was stayin’ in no hotel,” she said doubtfully, unsure of what etiquette might be required in such a grand place as this.
“It is no hotel,” he said quietly. “It’s my home.” Swinging from the saddle, he looped the reins around the fence and, at the same time, opened the gate. “Welcome to Belle Riviere, L’empire Broussard.”
Josephine darted through the opening while Jackson awaited her reaction, disappearing into the shadows of a giant oak.
‘‘This is yours?” The simple query was rife with an incredulity so potent that it bordered on disbelief. “You’re joking,” she insisted. “You’ve got to be joking! People don’t really live in places like this. They’re just for lookin’ at.”
The unmarred corner of Jackson’s mouth tugged upward. “Touché, mademoiselle. You’ve touched upon the truth without even trying. The ‘living’ I have done has indeed been outside those hallowed walls. That unhappy truth, however, does not change the fact that I own every stone and ounce of mortar in it, every stick and blade of grass.”
“Jesu,” Reagan said softly, trying to swallow the lump congealing in her throat. “You must be richer than God.”
“That would be my father’s position. I rank a few notches lower than the Supreme Deity on the monetary scale. As firstborn, my brother Clayton stood to inherit the bulk of Papa’s fortune, and if not for my mother’s forethought, I might have been cut off without a penny. Upon my birth, she put this house—given to her by her father, Matthew Parrish, on her wedding day—in trust to me. Out of respect for her memory, Papa did not go against her wishes. She lived but two years more, and succumbed to a bout of yellow fever.”
“But you all lived here,” Reagan said, hardly able to fathom owning such a magnificent structure. It was grander than anything she’d ever seen, and even outshone the Hermitage, Andy Jackson’s home. “Your father, your brother, and you. They did not leave you alone at so tender an age?”
Jackson’s gaze turned inward, from the palatial house to the small, motherless boy he’d been. He had been alone—in spirit, if not in body—more at ease in Bessi
e’s kitchen than in his father’s glowering presence.
Bessie’s kitchen... it was the only place he’d felt any true warmth. “We lived in residence together,” he replied mechanically. “In all truth, aside from myself, I cannot say who resides here now.”
His faraway tone was not lost on Reagan, who, holding on to her hat with one hand, tipped back her head, peering up into his shadowed face. His features gave nothing away, but she sensed there was something that didn’t sit well with him. “Are you all right?”
“What?” he said, seeming to come back to himself. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”
“For a minute you seemed... different. Like you’d gone away somewhere.”
He laughed a little, to put her at ease, Reagan thought. “It is this place. It’s haunted, you know. The spirit of my mother and the essence of past sorrows have seeped into its walls. On stormy nights when I was just a lad, I imagined that I could hear her crying, and it made me ache inside, for I knew she wept for me. Bessie, our cook, tried to reassure me that it was just the wind, but I remained unconvinced. Yet that is of no import, just a young boy’s fantasy.”
“Your mother was unhappy here?” Reagan prompted. Surprisingly he’d opened up, giving her a glimpse of something beyond the man he was today. That glimpse, so small, so insignificant, had whetted her curiosity.
“My mother was unhappy with my father, and my father was unhappy with me.”
A simple truth, wholly lacking emotion, quietly spoken, yet intensely profound. While they stood, the darkness gathered, the swallows retreated to their nests, and the air took on the tension of an impending storm. The lightning hadn’t begun yet. Not that it mattered. Reagan could feel the brooding presence, could sense the electrically charged air all around them. The tempest would come, and its violence would rattle the ground underfoot, she thought. Then she frowned, wondering if perhaps she was wrong, and the strange current she sensed had a completely different source... one much closer at hand.
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 9