The Tiger Lily (47 page)

A
small, rueful smile curving her lips, Sabrina murmured, "It is very hard
for her, Brett."

Brett
made a wry face. "It probably is—and if she would try meeting me with just
a little politeness of her own, I could rise to the occasion and return
it."

Strangely
at ease with him, the chill that had been around her heart melting just a little,
Sabrina asked softly, "Are we really removing to your plantation by the
first of June?"

He
toyed with his wine glass a second. Then his eyes met hers and he said quietly,
"Yes, we really are. I think you'll enjoy it there. Chateau Saint-Andre
where Morgan lives is not too far away, so you will have your opportunity to
meet his beloved Leonie."

Sabrina
nodded her head slowly, bewildered and amazed that they were having this
perfectly civilized conversation. Brett was smiling faintly, a hint of warm
laughter lurking in the depths of his jade-green eyes, and she felt her heart
swell with love. It was times like this, and there had been far too few of
them, that she treasured most. His cynical, sarcastic manner was gone. He was
talking to her as he used to in Nacogdoches, beguiling her as he had then, the
careless charm washing effortlessly over her, and she almost felt that there
was hope for the future. That somehow, someway, the future would be good for
them.

They
talked enjoyably for some time, Brett explaining the changes he was making in
Fox's Lair, making Sabrina smile at his enthusiasm for the place. But then, all
too soon, as if he had just remembered the situation between them, his face
changed slightly, and he said in that sardonic tone of his, "Well, my
dear, I believe that I have bored you long enough with my tales of the trials
of a poor planter."

His
mood shift was too quick for Sabrina, and still basking in the warmth of his
charm, a teasing smile on her lips, she waved her arm around, indicating the
room, and murmured, "Surely not
poor?"

Brett
stiffened, and with dismay Sabrina knew that this friendly interlude was over.
He had withdrawn from her, and the cold, infuriating creature she so disliked
was once more in command.

His
eyes icy, he drawled, "No, certainly not poor!" His face grim, he
added deliberately, "But then, I never was poor—something you should have
discovered before you so summarily threw my marriage proposal back in my
face."

Furious
that he had given so much away, Brett stood up abruptly. "If you will
excuse me, I will leave you now."

Open-mouthed
with astonishment, Sabrina stared speechlessly as he walked quickly across the
room and disappeared through the doorway. Frowning, her thoughts in a turmoil,
she, too, rose and left the dining room.

Sleep
did not come easily to Sabrina this night. There was too much to think about,
too many confusing, contradictory things to reflect upon.

This
morning she hadn't really taken in much of what he had said beyond the
statement of wanting her for a mistress, but now, lying wide-eyed in the
darkness of her room, she slowly reviewed that unsettling confrontation. There
had been the distinct implication, now that she thought of it, that six years
ago she had found him wanting, or rather, that she had found his fortune
wanting. She frowned. But that was impossible! She had loved him, and his money
or lack of it had never entered into her emotions. But then, why was there
always that jeering note in his voice whenever he mentioned money, especially
her
money? What had he called it once—her
much-prized
fortune? And now,
tonight, again the implication that she might not have terminated their bethrothal
if she had known the true state of his financial affairs.

Her
frown deepening, she sat up in bed, knees against her chest. Oh, it was
ridiculous! He can't have thought that she was after his fortune? A guilty
flush covered her face as slyly the question crept through her brain—why not?
You thought he was after yours! She wiggled uncomfortably, shame crawling
within her. But I had good reason! she protested weakly. Good reason? her mind
jeered. What good reason could make you believe such a thing of the man you
professed to love? But Sabrina knew the answer to that question even if she
wished she didn't. Carlos and Constanza, she whispered into the darkness. And
that effectively ended her argument with herself. It was true that Brett
himself had never given any indication that her fortune held any particular
allure for him, but even if she could have brushed away Carlos's comments about
Brett being a fortune hunter as jealous barbs, there was no possible way she
could refute Constanza's far more damaging confession that terrible afternoon
in the gazebo. For just a second, she was conscious of a spurt of outrage at
the callous way Brett had apparently abandoned Constanza to her fate. But then,
sighing heavily, Sabrina lay back. What good did it do to torture herself this
way? That query was unanswerable, but there was an even more puzzling and
disturbing question to ponder—if Brett had been after her fortune as Carlos and
Constanza claimed, and she had no reason not to believe them, then why did he
appear to be laboring under the misapprehension that she had only been
interested in
his
fortune?

There
was no answer to that question either, and eventually she fell into troubled
sleep, but even her dreams gave her little comfort. All through the remainder
of the night, she was doomed to dream the same dream over and over again: her
heart so full of love it felt it would burst from her breast, she was running
joyously toward Brett where he stood by the lake, his arms outstretched to
catch her near. His face was warm and welcoming, love clearly shining out of
those jade-green eyes as she approached. But then, without warning, a heavy fog
came between them and she was enveloped by a smothering sense of foreboding.
That terrible feeling of suffocating foreboding increased when out of nowhere
Carlos and Constanza suddenly appeared and began to clutch her wrists, stopping
her progress as she fought to reach Brett. She cried out, but no sound seemed
to permeate the thick mist, and she struggled futilely to free herself. Through
the ghostly vapors, she could barely see Brett's tall figure, but she knew the
instant his face changed, knew when it became hard and contemptuous, knew when
his arms fell listlessly to his sides. Frantically she increased her efforts to
escape, but it was fruitless. Tears sliding unheeded down her cheeks, she
watched helplessly as Brett finally disappeared into the concealing mists.

Not
unnaturally, she woke tired and depressed, barely able to force herself out of
bed. The dream was still vivid, and she was unhappily conscious of a feeling of
resentment against Carlos and Constanza—if only they hadn't interfered! But
then she pushed that thought aside. Their interference didn't change
anything—Brett hadn't loved her.

Brett,
too, woke tired and depressed—a most unusual state for him. The fatigue he
could put down to the hard work he had been cramming into every spare moment of
the past few days, seeing that Fox's Lair was made ready for Sabrina's arrival.
But the depression troubled him—surely after yesterday's confrontation with
Sabrina he should be elated . . . shouldn't he? After all, he had her precisely
where he wanted, didn't he?

If
all of that was true, why did he have this nagging feeling of dissatisfaction,
this depressing feeling that something was missing, this increasingly annoying
sensation that his quest for vengeance wasn't giving him quite the pleasure he
had thought it would? He should have woken this morning with a feeling of eager
anticipation—Sabrina might not give him the answer he wanted immediately, but
there was no doubt in his mind that before too long, she would humble that
arrogant pride of hers and consent to his unscrupulous proposal.

His
face twisted. Was that the root of his depression and dissatisfaction, the
knowledge that he was acting dishonorably and unscrupulously?

With
a sort of baffled rage, he glared at the elegant furnishings of his bedroom.
Surely, having dreamed of this moment, having planned to put her in this
position, he wasn't having second thoughts . . . wasn't allowing his resolve to
weaken? Or was he?

No,
he decided coldly. He wasn't having second thoughts —Alejandro had been a
damned romantic fool to have added that codicil to his will! And if the man he
had chosen to act as his daughter's guardian took advantage of the powers given
him, it was Alejandro's own fault!

Moodily
Brett got out of bed and splashed some water in his face from the pitcher that
sat on the marble-topped washstand near his bed. Honor, he argued, had nothing
to do with the situation. She deserved to suffer at his hands—hadn't she made
him suffer? Hadn't she hurt him more deeply, more painfully, than anyone ever
had in his entire life? Heartlessly and cruelly tossed him aside simply because
his fortune hadn't been large enough to satisfy her greed? Wasn't it only
justice that he gain a certain amount of satisfaction from the handful of aces
that Alejandro had so foolishly dealt him?

Ruthlessly
he told himself that the answer to all of those questions was a resounding yes!
Unfortunately, that decision didn't help his state of mind and didn't lighten
his black mood. He suspected that some of his heaviness of spirit had to do
with the affection and respect that he had borne Alejandro—it went against the
grain to betray a man's trust . . . even a dead man's.

Alejandro's
death had hit Brett hard, almost as hard as losing his own father would have.
And to learn that Alejandro had been basely murdered had filled him with such a
vengeful fury that he had finally not been able to contain it. As Ollie had
speculated, he had gone to Nacogdoches late last summer, intent upon finding Alejandro's
killer. But by the time he had arrived in the small Spanish outpost, whatever
trail had existed was cold. Disguised by a thick beard, a slouch-brim hat, and
rough clothing, he had spent several weeks quietly, unobtrusively asking
questions, sifting through what little information was available, savagely
determined that just one tiny clue would emerge. In the end, however, he had
known his quest was hopeless, and so, with a bleak heart, he had ridden away
from Nacogdoches . . . but not before giving in to the impulse that had been
eating at him since he had first crossed the Sabine River—perhaps since he had
ridden away so furiously that summer of 1800. It had been folly, sheer madness,
to ride by the lake, to stop and look at the gazebo where he had made love to
Sabrina that moonlit night so long ago. And when, through the open arches of
the gazebo, he had seen her suddenly rising up before him, a knife-sharp sense
of pleasure had cut through him. Only for a second, only for a moment, his
guard had been down, before he had viciously throttled the powerful emotions
that had sung through him. Not ready to see her again, unwilling to trust his
own reactions, especially in this evocative place, he had sharply reined his
horse aside and stoically ridden for New Orleans, envisioning the sweet revenge
he would take upon her.

So
now, why, when everything was working out precisely as he had planned, did the
idea of victory leave him so dissatisfied and depressed? His desire to possess
her was unabated—too many nights of late, he had slept restlessly, his body
aching to know the ecstasy of hers, and he had only to conjure up her image in
his mind for physical proof of his desire to be instantly noticeable. The need
for revenge was just as strong and powerful as ever, or rather, the desire to
teach her a lesson was just as strong, but he had the unsettling conviction
that forcing her to become his mistress wasn't necessarily going to teach her
the lesson that he wanted her to learn—nor was it going to ease the incessant
pain that had been with him since she had so summarily terminated their
betrothal nearly six years ago. . . .

His
face tightened, one hand closing into a fist, the knuckles gleaming whitely. He
would just learn to live with the pain, just as he had in the past, and in the
meantime ... In the meantime, he would have her in his bed, he thought
caustically, and his body would have relief, if not his heart!

Dressing
swiftly, he left his rooms minutes later and was on his way to the stables when
Ollie, an envelope in his hand, stopped his progress. With resignation, Brett
noticed that the envelope had been opened, and dryly he asked, "Am I ever
to receive any missive that you don't peruse first?"

Ollie
grinned. "Now, guvnor, you know you can't teach an old dog new tricks! And
I've been opening your letters for so long now that I don't think I could ever
stop!" Brett snorted and quickly made himself cognizant of the facts of
the letter. It was from Morgan. It read,