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

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Authors: S. K. McClafferty
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away from the raven-haired rogue intent upon
stealing away her virtue, and focusing it on the source of the sound. Suddenly
impatient, she dragged her lips from his, not quite ready to push from his arms
completely. “What was that?”
    “Hmm?” he answered.
    “That noise. You must have heard it.”
    Sighing, he studied her face for the space of an indrawn breath,
then bent to his task again, devoting all of his attention to nibbling the turn
of her jaw. “I heard nothing,” he said, his voice heavy with passion, “save for
the thunder of my heart in my ears, and, of course, the sound of your sweet
voice. I can only think to lay you down and finish what we’ve started, yet rest
assured, I shall remain attentive to your smallest request. You have but to say
what you will, and I shall be your slave, cherie... sexually
speaking, that is.”
    “I don’t want a slave, you jackass!” Reagan said in a growl,
pulling away so that she could turn enough to peer at the pair of disembodied
yellow eyes that stared back at her from the midst of the sagebrush.
    A jolt of fear shot through Reagan, so strong, so potent, that it
paralyzed her. Eyes widening, she stared hard, picking out details she had
overlooked before: the tawny fur glimpsed here and there through the sparse
vegetation, the graceful outline of a large feline head and the curve of a
powerful shoulder. Sweet Jesu, a mountain cat crouched behind the sagebrush,
less than two yards away. Crouched—ready to spring, to kill, or maim—and
Jackson Broussard was totally oblivious of the danger they both were in. “Your
pistols,” Reagan said softly. “Give me one of your—”
    Jackson was not paying attention. He caught her hand as she
fumbled at the waistband of his leather trousers, bringing it to his lips. “My
lovely, you need no weapon with which to conquer my affections. You have but to
come back to my arms.”
    “Are you crazy?” she demanded. “We’re about to be carved up for
breakfast and all you can think of is what you’ve got in your breeches!”
    His passion slowly ebbing, Jackson frowned down at her. She was
staring fixedly at a rather large clump of sagebrush, behind which a tawny
feline rump twitched from side to side, a maneuver Josephine often employed to
check her balance just before she sprang on some unsuspecting deer mouse. Jackson
had always thought the maneuver charming, but he could tell at a glance that
Reagan was nearly breathless with panic. “There’s nothing to fear,” Jackson
said in an effort to reassure her. “It’s only Jos—”
    Before he had the chance to explain, the cat sprang.
    Letting go with a war whoop that would have done a Blackfoot
proud, Reagan Dawes clawed for possession of the pistol still thrust through
Jackson’s wide leather belt, but as her fingers found purchase, the piece went
off with a deafening roar.
    “Mother of God,” Jackson said prayerfully, his throat suddenly as
dry as sun-bleached bone. The whiz of the ball passing precariously near his
manly pride was almost more than he could bear. The stricken look on the small
white face of Reagan Dawes when she realized the enormity of what she’d done
might have been laughable in any other circumstance.
    Jackson was not laughing.
    “Jesu!” she swore again. “You didn’t lose your—is everything
still—are you all right?”
    Summoning the steel to survey the damage, Jackson glanced down at
the blackened hole in his buckskins, a mere inch and a half to the right of his
crotch.
    He shuddered to think what might have happened had he not been
fully aroused and standing at attention. Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew a
deep breath, letting it go slowly, and when he opened them again they were
brimming with anger. “Am I all right? Am I still intact? Yes, damn it, I
believe that I am, no thanks to you! What in hell were you thinking, trying to
seize my weapon just now? You might have killed me, or worse!”
    “There’s no need to shout!” Reagan

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