The Tiger Lily (43 page)

Straightening
his cravat, instantly in icy control of himself, Brett said crisply, "Come
back in five minutes and the room will by yours."

There
was a polite reply from Andrew and then silence. Cynically Brett stared at
Sabrina's flushed features and murmured, "I trust you know now what I
mean. And sweetheart, any time you want to slap me—go ahead. I have my own far
more pleasurable form of retaliation."

He
watched with interest as her fist clenched, and then, after bowing mockingly,
he strode arrogantly from the room.

Tears
of pain and rage pricking behind her lids, like a wounded animal, Sabrina
sought refuge. There was no gazebo by the lake here to offer her sanctuary, but
the small balcony of her room gave her the impression of protected isolation,
and with relief she made her way there, thankful that she met no one as she did
so.

It
seemed she'd had good reason to fear the fascination Brett held for her, and
woefully she stared down at the dark courtyard, wondering wretchedly how she
was going to make it through the next few days.

It
was useless to pretend that she felt nothing for him, that she could deal with
him unemotionally. Useless to tell herself that what had happened tonight would
never happen again—he had only to touch her and she was clay in his hands,
willing, no eager, to be molded in whatever fashion pleased him. Angry and
ashamed at how easily she had responded to him, Sabrina bitterly faced the fact
that in spite of all her denials, she did still feel something for him. Not
love, she told herself fiercely, but the memory of love. The memory of what she
had felt for him before that horrible conversation with Constanza. The memory
of what it had felt like to be in his arms, to feel that for the moment he was
hers and hers alone.

Somewhere
behind all the arguments she presented to explain her motives, Sabrina knew
that she was deluding herself. That behind the anger, behind the hurt, behind
even the passion, perhaps even the reason for the passion, was love. But for
tonight she convinced herself that love had nothing to do with the situation
between her and Brett Dangermond, that it was only desire that had prompted his
actions and that it was only her own foolish clinging to what had once been
that had allowed her to act as she had.

Ironically,
Brett used the same arguments on himself, arriving at much the same conclusion.
Only in his case there was never any question of love being involved. He did
not love her! he vowed furiously to himself once he had reached the privacy of
the library and poured himself another snifter of brandy. He hadn't admitted to
loving her six years ago when he had offered to marry her, and he sure as hell
wasn't going to admit it now! It would be the height of insanity to love a
woman who had made it so painfully clear that her only interest in him was the
size of his fortune.

Even
now, with the distance of nearly six years between the events, he could
remember vividly the pain and bewilderment that had eaten at him, the black
rage that had consumed him, as he had waited those nerve-racking weeks in
Natchitoches, one part of him longing unbearably for her to indeed be pregnant,
another part of him ready to saddle his horse and leave the greedy little jade
to her fate. And not even to himself would he admit the crushing disappointment
that had knifed through him when Ollie had returned with her answer. Secretly
he had hoped that some miracle had taken place since he rode away, that she had
discovered, child or not, that she had been too hasty in rejecting him, that
there had been another emotion besides greed that had prompted her to surrender
to him, that the same unacknowledged yearnings that had possessed him had urged
her to accept his proposal of marriage in the first place. Obviously such had
not been the case, he thought dryly, as he took another sip of his brandy. Not
once in the ensuing years had there been any hint that she had changed her
mind—Alejandro's few letters to him had been carefully empty of any but the
most mundane references to his daughter. They also, Brett reminded himself
ruefully, had not contained one hint of what Alejandro had added to his will.

God!
but he had been furious when he learned of the trick Alejandro had played upon
him, and his fury had initially deadened his pain at the news of Alejandro's
death. His first impulse had been to reject the guardianship out of hand, to
refuse to accept it or anything to do with Sabrina del Torres.

When
he had ridden away from Natchitoches that September of 1800, he had taken a
bitter contempt and cold fury for Sabrina with him. And after the pain had
lessened, after months had passed and he could look back on the situation
without an aching wrench in his gut, the unfortunate need to seek revenge had
gradually taken hold in his mind. He wanted with a ruthless intensity to teach
her a lesson that she would never forget, teach her brutally that men were not
playthings to be toyed with and then carelessly tossed aside when it suited her.
Night after night he had dreamed of ways of wreaking vengeance upon her, of
having her completely in his control, forcing her to answer to his every whim.
That his vengeance usually entailed her being bound to him for life and that
much of his punishment involved having her in his arms and making violent love
to her never quite occurred to him. But the fact that Alejandro's will made her
almost his virtual prisoner for life dawned on him within hours of hearing the
news.

His
fury against Alejandro had vanished in an instant, and even suspecting that
Alejandro had probably had far different objectives in view when he had added
that codicil to his will, Brett had been exultant that at last his moment for
revenge had come. And at present he was oddly content just to know that she was
in his power . . . that he could do with her what he wanted and that there was
no one to gainsay him.

For
months now he had savored the thought of this meeting, dreamed of it, planned
it, and he was vaguely uneasy that it wasn't going exactly as he had
envisioned. He hadn't expected to feel a stirring of those disturbing emotions
he had thought dead and forgotten—seeing her standing there travel-stained and
faintly defiant this afternoon in the courtyard, he had been assailed by a
fierce need to sweep her into his arms, to kiss those dream-fashioned features
and hold her. He had also been appalled and shaken by the wave of joy that had
swept through him at seeing her again; appalled and shaken by the knowledge
that there was no thought of revenge in his mind, only delight at the changes
in her, pleasure that she was here in his home at last. He had damned
Francisca's unwanted presence in those first bittersweet seconds, but later he
had been bleakly thankful that she had been there—at least he hadn't betrayed
himself, revealed that he was still vulnerable. . . .

Infuriated
that he would even consider such a ridiculous notion, he swallowed the
remainder of his brandy and with a jerky movement, slammed the empty snifter
down on the desk. He was not vulnerable! he snarled grimly to himself. And
certainly not vulnerable to a woman's wiles. Especially not Sabrina's! She was
just a greedy little jade who had gotten under his skin once, but she wasn't
going to get the chance to do so again. No. This time the cards were all in his
hands, and he intended to take full advantage of the situation. She would
suffer this time. Not him! And a slightly cruel smile curved his chiseled mouth
as he recalled this evening's scene after dinner.

He
hadn't planned it, but from the moment Francisca had left the dining room, he
had become intolerably aware of the intimacy of the situation, the opportunity
of the situation. Sabrina had always been overpoweringly attractive to him, but
tonight she had looked particularly fetching, the barbaric necklace of gold and
black onyx gleaming against her warm creamy skin, and he had wondered idly how
she would look with that glorious fire--red hair tumbling wildly about her
shoulders, wearing nothing except that necklace. . . .

The
argument that sprang up between them had been unpremeditated, and he had been
astonished when she had slapped him. And yet deep inside he knew he had
deliberately provoked her, wanting an excuse to take her into his arms, to kiss
her thoroughly, to taste again the sweetness of her lips. And her charms had
been ever3rthing that he had remembered, everything and more, the feel of her
against him, the warmth that had enveloped him, the perfume of her skin driving
coherent thought from his mind.

He
didn't regret what had happened—if he regretted anything it was his butler's
untimely interruption, and he smiled ruefully, imagining the scene if Andrew
had knocked just a few minutes later. And if Andrew hadn't knocked at all . . .
to his amused dismay, he felt his body harden at the thought of what might have
happened.

His
mood lifted slightly, and in a better frame of mind, he wandered aimlessly
about the library, coming to stop eventually in front of the fireplace. Putting
one polished boot on the empty grate, he stared blankly down at the shining
brass andirons, his thoughts roaming restlessly.

Who
would have imagined that years later he and Sabrina would once more be housed
under the same roof? That he would have all the powers of a husband except one,
and that that one right would be his if he chose to abuse his guardianship? An
odd expression came over his lean face. There had been a time in his life when
such an idea would never have crossed his mind, no matter what the urgings of
his body, no matter how desperately he may have wanted to do so. But then, that
had been a different time, a different man, and the years in between had
changed him, carved him into a man whose cynical view of life Alejandro
wouldn't have recognized, and Brett wondered, if Alejandro had been aware of
that, whether the codicil to the will would have been made.

Ollie
had told Sabrina that Brett had changed, and he was right. Colder, harder, more
cynical and disdainful of the rules that other men abided by, he was a law unto
himself, and regrettably, he had the fortune and charm to gain whatever he
wanted. There were few places in the world he hadn't seen, and there were few
things he hadn't done.

When
he had arrived back at Natchez after the ugly parting with Sabrina, he had
stayed only a few days and then had departed on a restless search for relief
from the agony that was with him always. In those first months he hadn't really
cared about anything but wiping out the memory of a forest nymph with
flame-colored hair and amber-gold eyes. No excess had been too much for him, no
debauchery too base, and he had drunk heavily, sometimes not drawing a sober
breath for days, spending his time trying to pave his own private road to hell.
Finally though, there had come a day when he had realized the futility of his
actions, and sickened and disgusted by himself, slowly, painfully, he had
fought his way back to cold sanity.

Unable
to settle down, he had taken to wandering again, his travels leading him all
over the world—to the wilds of South America, the mysteries of darkest Africa,
and the opulence of India. Every wild, dangerous scheme that had caught his
attention, he had thrown himself into with reckless abandon, little caring
whether he lived or died.

It
had been his ceaseless and wide-ranging travels that had first brought him to
President Jefferson's attention, and from there it had been simple enough for
the President to suggest that Brett might like to travel to Eygpt and perhaps
take in the Barbary Coast. . . .

Brett
smiled, remembering how cleverly the President had broached the subject. How
delicate had been his probings; how carefully he had aroused Brett's interest
and then magnanimously allowed Brett to spy for him.

Brett
had enjoyed his travels in Eygpt and other parts of the world that few white
men had seen, but when he had arrived home early last summer, he had known that
he was finally weary of traveling aimlessly across the face of the earth. He
wanted a home. Further than that he wouldn't think.

The
stunning disclosures of Alejandro's will had seemed to set the seal on his
plans. If he was to be a guardian, he had thought sardonically, it was only
proper to provide an adequate home for his ward.

He
had long owned the house in New Orleans, and it had always accorded him a place
to deposit his souvenirs from all over the world, as well as acting as a base
from which to plan other forays. The plantation, Fox's Lair, in lower
Louisiana, had been salvaged at no little cost, but it was now, and had been
for a number of years, productive and adding to his already sizable fortune.
The house at the plantation had been a total loss, and knowing he would seldom
be there, he'd had a smaller though quite spacious dwelling erected for his use
whenever he wished for the country life. It had been little used during the
last five years. Of course, he reflected grimly, all of that would change, now
that he had a ward. . . .