“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.”
“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 feminine 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 ris
k 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.
Chapter Thirteen
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.
Jackson’s pressing business took the better part of the morning to complete, and by the time he returned to the mansion, he was satisfied that everything was in perfect order, just as it should be. He had lain awake the greater part of the night, plotting and planning, and by the time the dawn arrived and it was time to return Reagan to her own bed, he had come to a startling, if somewhat terrifying truth: he could no longer go through with his plans to find Reagan a husband, feeling as he did about her.
He’d always seen himself in a truthful light. He knew his shortcomings and strengths more intimately than anyone else possibly could, and he knew that having succumbed to Reagan’s charms once, it would prove impossible to stay away. Husband or no, if she stayed in the city he would only seek her out again, putting her honor and good name at risk, shattering any chance she might have at happiness.
And as reprehensible as his actions had been, he felt that their encounter had also been fated. G. D. Strickland had seen it coming, but the outcome that G. D. had predicted would not come about.
Jackson was not about to abandon Reagan. He intended to take care of her, to shield her from harm, the only way he could.
Pushing through the wrought-iron gate, he skirted the lower gallery and entered the garden. The small table, which was placed beneath the grape arbor, had been spread with white linen. The china plates and gleaming silverware were in place, and a bottle of champagne rested on a costly bed of ice nearby.
Glancing at the house, he unconsciously patted the left breast pocket of his claret-colored coat, striving to ignore the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. The jeweler’s box was still precisely where he’d placed it.
Everything was in perfect order, and all he required now was one sable-haired, smoky-eyed vixen to fall into his arms—as he’d anticipated—to fulfill his carefully laid plans.
As if on cue, the French window
s opened and the object of his musings appeared, looking quite perplexed. She’d worn the charcoal silk, just as he’d requested, and as his gaze went over her, he found himself thinking that he couldn’t recall her ever looking quite so lovely. “Kaintuck,” he murmured as she neared, reaching out to take her hand, bowing deeply over it. “You are pure enchantment.”
She glanced at him, and then away, as if embarrassed, and he saw a touch of telling pink rise to her cheeks. “Oh, fie, Jackson, do you have to be so obvious? The kitchen staff was all agog at so much preparation for a simple midday repast. Why, even Bessie raised her brows and set to mutterin’ beneath her breath.”
“Muttering is Bessie’s favorite pastime, and has been for years,” Jackson replied, not in the least nonplussed. “As for the staff, I could fire them and hire new workers to fill their positions or, if you’d prefer, I could call them out. That would, of course, create quite a scandal, my facing off with the cook and scullery maid.”
Wrinkling her pert nose, she sank gracefully into the chair he held for her. “This isn’t the least bit funny.”
“No, but I must admit I find your concern heartening. The fact that you are worried is a clear indication that you can’t get the thought that we are lovers out of your mind.”
“Lower your voice!” she said to him in a hiss. “Do you want the whole house to hear?”
“It would not matter greatly if they did hear. I am master of Belle Riviere, and no one would dare to question me as to my behavior. Besides, it isn’t as if I have killed or maimed anyone. I have merely taken a comely young woman into my bed. There is no law against it; indeed, it’s done all the time. Now, come, let me tempt you. Will you have the chicken and creamed potatoes, or the roast beef and wine sauce? Bessie supervised the cook’s efforts at my request. It smells delicious, eh?”
Reagan narrowed her gaze at him. “Now I know how Eve felt, with that smooth-talkin’ snake hangin’ around the garden, tryin’ to tempt her. One bite of apple pie, and just look where she landed!”
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 21