Beside her Jackson drew a deep breath and ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, seeming to shake off his reflective mood. “We should go in. It’s getting dark.”
Reagan looked at the house and swallowed hard, but she couldn’t quiet her nerves. The thought of passing over that threshold made her quiver like a boneless thing. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” He raised a questioning brow at her. Reagan shrugged. “I ain’t exactly used to such lofty accommodations.”
“You will adjust,” Jackson assured her. “Now come.” Taking her elbow in his unrelenting grasp, he guided her through the gate and along the flagstone walkway, not stopping until they had gained the first-floor gallery.
The door was bolted. Reagan took it as an omen, Jackson, seemingly, as a personal affront. Releasing her elbow, he raised a fist and plied the big brass knocker, and when that failed to get results, he hammered the oak panel with his fist.
“Why don’t we go find a cozy place to lay-up for the night?” she suggested. “We can come back in the mornin’. Better yet, you can come back in the mornin’. I’ll just skedaddle.”
Giving in to her urge to flee, Reagan crept across the gallery floor and down the steps. The time had come to part company with Jackson Broussard. And though she felt a twinge of sadness at the prospect, it was quickly swept away by the notion that it wasn’t really Jackson she was fleeing, but an unwanted marriage, the prospect of which suddenly loomed very large.
All she had to do was slip through the gate and lose herself in the shadows. Later, once she had gotten clean away and only had herself to be concerned about, she would weigh her options and figure out what to do. Slipping the latch, she swung the gate open, and at the same time a large hand closed around the slim black bars, forcing it shut with an ominous click. Reagan could have cried.
“Where do you think you are going?” he asked in a silken voice.
“As far away from here as I can get. That house of yours ain’t no house; it’s a damnable palace, and in case you haven’t noticed, I ain’t exactly dressed for the occasion.”
“Isn 't,” he said, slipping back into the role of guardian with an ease Reagan found maddening. “The house isn’t a house, and you aren’t dressed for the occasion. I vow, I am going to do something about your vernacular first thing in the morning, and your manner of dress is not a valid reason to sneak off when my back is turned!”
“I wasn’t sneakin’!” Reagan said. “Exactly.” She could feel her freedom slipping away. In a moment it would be lost to her, and that thought brought on a surge of panic so strong it was nearly her undoing. “Don’t make me go in there, please.” She broke off and swallowed hard, Granny Dawes’s keening, inhuman wail crowding the back of her throat. Can’t you see? I don't belong here!
Jackson frowned down at her. “Here, what is this? Is that fear I see?”
“I’m not afraid!” Reagan insisted. But it was a lie. She was terrified—terrified that she would fail, become the object of ridicule, somehow disappoint him. On the prairie he had desired her, and that desire had been genuine, but their surroundings had been rough and uncultured... like she herself. Surrounded by the elegance of his home, the fancy furnishings she just knew waited behind that huge front door, her homespun, battered hat and oversize boots would be glaringly out of place. She already felt inadequate, and she hadn’t gone farther than the front porch... none of which she could admit to Jackson, who continued to stare down at her as if trying to read her thoughts.
Reaching out, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, brushing his fingers against the curve of her cheek as he did so. “You don’t understand,” Reagan said, her voice small. “You could never understand. We come from different worlds, you and I.”
“Yes. Yet in some ways we are more alike than you will ever know,” he said. “We’re outcasts, both of us.” He looked deeply into her eyes, and Reagan read in the dark depths the words he left unspoken. Trust me. Aloud he said, “I can help you, Reagan. Let me help you.”
It wasn’t his words, but something in his tone that decided the issue... some unspoken promise that went far beyond simple reassurance. Real or imagined, it was enough to convince Reagan, who swallowed her pride and allowed him to lead her back toward the house.
Chapter Six
As they swept onto the gallery and Jackson resumed his thundering knock, the first raindrops spattered on the flagstones. “Will someone open this goddamned door!”
The dark energy Reagan noticed before seemed to gather, gaining in strength, until the air around them crackled with it. It made Reagan edgy, and only her pride and the certain knowledge that he would shrug off her concerns kept her from begging Jackson to leave.
And it wasn’t just the coming storm. Something wasn’t right here, and she began to wonder if perhaps Jackson’s assessment had been accurate. Perhaps the grand old house was haunted. It certainly would have explained the feeling of deep melancholy that swept over Reagan like a crashing wave, a sense of lingering sadness that seemed to have seeped into the limestone walls.
It seemed almost as if... as if the house itself were in mourning... as if some deep emotional wound suffered decades ago had yet to heal.
The notion lingered long after the latch was lifted and the door swept open by a young man in black-and-white livery. He stood a full head shorter than Jackson, who pushed his way past the servant, dragging a reluctant Reagan along behind him. Once inside, Jackson propped his Hawken rifle in the corner and pinned the servant with a look. “Would you care to explain why I should require a battering ram to gain entrance to my own house?”
“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.
After several weeks of long, hard days, cold baths, and just making do, it felt heavenly to be clean again. Naked, she padded to her breeches and shirt, stockings and shoes, an untidy pile on the carpet, then fingered the hem of the night rail Bessie had thoughtfully laid on the foot of the bed. It was wondrously soft, and smelled like fresh air and sunshine... and since the hour was late, and she had nowhere else to go, she simply couldn’t resist.
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 10