“Conceited oaf,” Reagan said, then relented a little as he sobered and the moment passed. “I don’t expect your snoring kept me awake most nights for more than an hour or two.” In all truth, when lying on the vast prairie, with a million bright stars overhead and an uncertain future looming somewhere beyond tomorrow, she’d taken comfort in the sound because it had reaffirmed his nearness, though at that moment she would have suffered a thousand deaths rather than admit it.
Reaching out, he took her hand, holding it in both of his, chafing her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “I missed you, too,” he said softly. “More than is proper for a guardian to miss his ward. But then, we both know that I’m a poor choice for a protector.”
Reagan shrugged, wanting to squeeze his hand, to touch his cheek, knowing that she did not dare. If she weakened now, let her feelings toward him show, the results could be disastrous. He’d made his feelings clear that night on the prairie. He did not believe in love and marriage. He was not a man upon whom she could depend for more than a playful tussle. She was his responsibility, an obligation, and there was nothing more between them than a passing physical fancy. “It seems to me that except for the fact that you’ve got an overblown opinion of yourself and more than your share of bullheadedness, you’ve done a passable job of it so far.”
Bending near, he dropped a kiss upon her mouth. The contact was brief, yet it still had the power to shake Reagan’s resolve to its very core, and she watched him intently as he straightened. “Such loyalty must be rewarded,” he said. “Would mademoiselle care to see Saint Louis?”
Reagan immediately brightened. “You mean it?”
He took out his timepiece and regarded it with a frown. “You have ten minutes to make yourself presentable and meet me downstairs for breakfast. Once we’re properly sated,” he said with a wink, “we can be on our way.”
She appeared in the doorway to the morning room a short while later, garbed in her freshly laundered shirt and cast-off breeches, the hideous excuse for a hat tucked beneath one arm. Jackson looked her up and down, from the top of her shining dark head to the rounded toes of her shoes and back again. “You’re late,” he said. “I told you ten minutes; it’s taken you nearly fifteen.”
“I would’ve been here,” she replied, sliding into the chair Jackson held for her, “’cept for the fact that I got lost.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Jackson said, setting aside his coffee as Bessie came into the room. “I hope you’re hungry, Kaintuck. I’ve asked Bessie to prepare us a feast. It seems like ages since I’ve had a decent meal, and she’s the best cook in all of Missouri.”
Bessie came into the room, bearing a silver tray, which she placed in the center of the table.
Jackson took one look at the contents of the tray, and sat back to scowl at Bessie. “That’s it? Hard-cooked eggs and gruel?”
“It’s what we’ve all been eatin’ for the last month... porridge and hard-boiled eggs, hard-boiled eggs and porridge... least till the chickens quit layin’; then I expect we’ll have to do without the eggs.”
“It was biscuits I had in mind,” Jackson said. “Biscuits with butter and honey.”
“Biscuits take flour and leavening, lard and salt,” Bessie said, “and there ain’t none of that in the larder. Matter of fact, the larder’s almost empty.”
“The pantry shelves are bare?” Jackson could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Why on earth didn’t you send Annette to market?”
“I’d like to do just that; I surely would! But you got to have money to go to market, and ain’t none of us got more than a penny or two. We don’t get no wages no more.”
Jackson rattled his cup on his saucer, his scowl growing blacker. “What about the household allowance?”
Bessie just snorted. “Ain’t been no household allowance since you went off to the backcountry and your papa took sick!”
“Did you tell Garrett to ask Papa? He might have suffered an apoplectic seizure, but I could tell from his glare that it hasn’t addled his wits.”
“Yes, sir. Garrett would’ve done that, except for one thing: your daddy don’t hold the purse strings ’round here no more. That rapscallion Navarre come marchin’ in here after your daddy took ill and told us all that he was takin’ over. He took over, all right, and things ain’t been the same since! If you ask me, I think he’s tryin’ to starve us all out... your daddy, too, for that matter!”
Jackson ran an impatient hand through his hair. “Have you discussed this with Navarre?”
“I asked him twice,” Bessie said. “He just mumbled somethin’ about the account ledger and went off to meet one of his lady friends. I expect that with the goin’s-on down at the warehouse, he plumb forgot we all need to eat!”
Jackson’s head came up sharply. “The warehouse?” he said, then just as quickly raised a hand to still whatever Bessie was about to say. “On second thought, don’t tell me. I expect I shall find out soon enough.” Sighing, he dug into his coat pocket and came away with a handful of gold coins. “Send Annette to market; have her restock the larder. And for God’s sake, bring me some coffee. Since it appears I won’t be dining after all, and my presence at table is a mere formality, I might as well drown my sorrows.”
Bessie disappeared into the kitchen, appearing a moment later with an elegant silver coffeepot, which she held poised over Jackson’s cup. Pushing out her chin, she issued her challenge. “You gonna fix things with that rascally knave Navarre? Let him know it ain’t his place to be orderin’ us all about, now that the true master’s home?”
“I will speak with him later today,” Jackson replied, unable to conceal his disappointment as he flicked his hand at the china place setting laid out before him. “You may take this away.”
Down the board, Reagan peeled an egg and looked a trifle smug. “You ought to learn not to be so choosy. You never can tell; the meal you turn your nose up at might well be your last!”
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-u
sed 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 nee
d 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.
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 12