The Tiger Lily (40 page)

"After
the racket we made riding through the carriage-way?" Francisca inquired
acidly. "Don't delude yourself! This is just another insult!" Her
shoulders rigid, Francisca marched angrily forward and rapped imperiously on
one of the French doors.

Except
for the lazy drone of the bees and the occasional cry of a bird, there was
silence. Francisca's lips thinned, and she turned to Sabrina, but in that
instant they both heard the opening and shutting of a door somewhere near the
top of the stairs. Francisca stepped back from the French doors and craned her
neck upward.

The
upper portion of the angling staircase was hidden from view, but hearing the
firm tread coming downward, Sabrina suddenly felt her mouth go dry. She was
conscious of a clamminess in the palms of her hands, and again she wished she
had stayed in Nacogdoches—it was far better to meet the enemy on familiar
ground, and she realized that she had inadvertently given him an advantage by
coming to New Orleans. Now the battle would be fought on his ground.

Her
eyes were fixed painfully on that flight of stairs, every nerve in her body
frozen as the sound of the footsteps came closer. A booted foot appeared first,
then another. The gleaming russet boots were of fine Spanish leather, the
workmanship exceptional, and Sabrina swallowed with difficulty. No servant
would wear boots like those.

Almost
as if he were deliberately prolonging the suspense, the man on the stairs
continued to move down the steps with an infuriating lack of speed, one booted
foot after the other. More of his body came into view, the buff pantaloons
clinging like a second skin to the powerful calves and thighs, a wide brown
leather belt encircling the lean waist. His upper body still hidden in the
shadows of the house, the man stopped, one strong, tanned hand resting lightly
on the railing. The faint hint of tobacco teased Sabrina's nose, and she
glimpsed a smoking cheroot in his other hand before he raised it to his mouth.

He
moved lower down the stairs, the white linen shirt with its flowing sleeves and
cuffed wrists hiding nothing of the muscled body it clothed. It was open at the
neck, the strong column of his throat appearing dark against the whiteness of
his shirt. Indolently he continued on his way downward, the obstinate chin, the
hard jawline, and that chiseled mouth instantly recognizable to Sabrina.

Her
heart was beating so frantically she thought she was going to choke, and when
at last the sunlight fell full upon those handsome, arrogant features, she was
almost relieved. The worst, in a way, was over; they were face to face.

The
past six years were distinctly stamped on that strong, masculine face:
attractive creases radiated out faintly from the corners of the jade-green
eyes, and cynical grooves were apparent in the lean cheeks. With a start
Sabrina realized that he would be thirty-four now. The thick blue-black hair
gleamed in the sunlight. A light, very elegant dusting of silver could be seen
near his temples, and startling her by its intensity, she knew an impulse to
reach out and touch, to caress those few silvery hairs that grew there.

With
his predatory grace, he came down the few remaining stairs, the expression on
his face unfathomable as he took another drag on the cheroot, the emotion in
those hooded jade-green eyes hidden by his ridiculously long eyelashes. Reaching
the bottom of the staircase, he stepped onto the flagstone courtyard and
stopped just a few yards from Sabrina.

Slowly,
insolently, those dark green eyes moved over her, and she was instantly aware
of her dusty, travel-stained riding habit, of her hair that had been plaited
into one long braid that lay across her left shoulder. A slightly worn beaver
hat with a very narrow brim protected her head from the hot sun, her boots were
scuffed and dirty from the journey, and she was miserably conscious of her
untidy state. Suddenly annoyed with the situation, she tightened her grip on
the small leather quirt she carried, and she lifted her chin pugnaciously.

Brett
noted the movements, and he smiled sardonically. Walking closer, he reached out
and touched the bright braid of fiery hair. In a motion that was both a caress
and a threat, he tugged at the braid and murmured with an odd note in his
voice, "My ward. My sweet, obedient ward come to visit her wicked
guardian."

Sabrina
glanced at him sharply, the angry retort dying on her lips at the cold
indifference in those hard green eyes. She started to jerk away, but his hand
tightened on her braid. In a silent battle of wills, they stared at one
another, Sabrina's eyes full of defiance, Brett's enigmatic. He smiled again,
not a nice smile, a smile that never reached those expressionless dark green
eyes. "My win this time, tiger lily," he said dryly.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

Hours
later, comfortably situated in a set of elegantly appointed rooms, Sabrina
wondered how she had kept from striking him with her quirt. Maybe it had been
the knowledge that Francisca was there behind her; maybe it had been the cold
promise in those dark green eyes. She didn't know; she only knew that she was
still angry and seething with resentment.

She
might have held her tongue, but Francisca certainly hadn't, and remembering her
aunt's furious tirade, she half-smiled. Brett was definitely not going to find
things ail his way, if her aunt had any say in the matter. And Francisca had
made that very clear. Not only that, but her displeasure with Alejandro's
infamous will, Brett's total unsuitability as a guardian of her niece, and
finally, the completely unacceptable way he ran his household. Brett had
listened to Francisca's scathing commentary impassively, but there had been the
icy edge of steel to his voice when he had said, "May I remind you that
you are my guest? That whether you like it or not—whether you approve or
not—Sabrina is my ward, and that if I so choose, my house will be closed to
you?"

Francisca
had gasped with outrage, but she had read the threat in those dark green eyes
and had subsided ... for the moment. Brett had turned away, calling for
servants, and from there events had moved rapidly. Two Negro women had
instantly appeared, almost as if they had been waiting just out of sight for
his command, and had immediately ushered Sabrina and Francisca up the staircase
that Brett had descended only moments earlier.

The
suite of rooms that Sabrina had been given overlooked the courtyard and
possessed an ironwork balcony like those she had noticed initially. A pair of
French doors led to the balcony, and with an irritated motion, she flung them
wide.

It
was early evening now, and the courtyard below her was in pale shadows, the
glory of the vivid colors dimmed by the falling darkness. But it didn't matter
to Sabrina that all was shadows below her; she was too busy prowling the small
confines of the balcony, thinking of seeing Brett again, dreading yet eager for
that next meeting.

She
felt better able to deal with his unsettling presence now that the difficult
hurdle of that first meeting was behind her. A long, soothing bath had somewhat
calmed her disordered emotions, and attired in a sophisticated gown, a low-cut,
bosom-clinging creation of black silk with charming bell-shaped sleeves that
ended at the elbow, she was now ready to open the next salvo.

If
Brett's features revealed the changes that six years had wrought, so did
Sabrina's, and in many respects those changes were far more noticeable on her
than they had been on him. She had been a child-woman when last they had met;
now the arresting face that Sofia had once thought Sabrina would possess was
fully evident. And it was an arresting face, just missing being truly
beautiful. Her jawline was a trifle too strong for the soft, ethereal features
so admired by the poets, and her mouth was just a little too full, too wide, to
be perfect, but her nose was classical, and the high cheekbones lent a
patrician cast to her features. With that glorious hair and those striking dark
eyebrows and incredible amber-gold eyes, Sabrina would always cause a stir.

Always
tall, fully grown she stood just an inch under six feet, and she had all the
physical grace and the full-figured body of a Valkyrie as well as the fierce
spirit that went with those mythical maidens of Odin, the Norse god of war. Yet
despite her almost voluptuous shape, there was a deceptive slenderness about
her, the full, proud bosom and gently swelling hips complementing her shapely,
long-limbed body.

But
there were also other changes in her, not just those brought on by the maturing
of her face and figure. The pain and unhappiness that she had suffered during
the past six years were apparent to the discerning eye: the faintly vulnerable
curve to the full mouth, a mouth that had been fashioned for laughter and
loving; the shadows in the amber-gold eyes, eyes that should have been bright
and smiling; and the wall of reserve that she had carefully erected around her.

Once
the darling of a beloved father, the pride of the Rancho del Torres, she had
been full of joy, eager and confident of her future, innocent in so many ways
of the reality of life. But that was true no longer. Betrayed by the man she
loved, orphaned by her father's death, this Sabrina was a very different young
woman from the one Brett had met that long ago spring in Nacogdoches. And yet,
underneath, waiting impatiently to break free of the gloom and sadness that had
enveloped her was an entirely new Sabrina, a Sabrina who would combine the best
of the two people she had been—the girl-child who had become a woman in Brett's
arms, and the woman who had suffered the devastating loss of both father and
lover.

Sabrina
wasn't aware of all the changes in herself, but she had been conscious for some
time now of a growing feeling of impatience with her situation. Guilty
impatience that she couldn't continue to grieve as deeply as did Tia Francisca;
resigned impatience that Carlos continued to pursue her, despite all her
protestations; angry impatience with the unfair shackles put on her by
Alejandro's will; and finally, eager impatience to join the battle with Brett.

And
at the moment that last emotion was the dominant one, the need to see him
again, to make it clear that she was not going to be the obedient ward he might
have wished for, driving her off the balcony and into her room. She strode
swiftly across the large room, stopping for a moment in front of a tall cheval
glass.

Telling
herself that it was only natural to check one's appearance before leaving the
privacy of the bedchamber, she took a quick glance at herself, satisfied with
the coronet braid that circled her head primly, in direct contrast with the
generous swell of bosom that rose so temptingly above the low-cut gown. A heavy
necklace of black onyx and gold adorned her neck, and studs of the same design
and color were at each ear. The black silk of the gown was extremely effective
against the creamy whiteness of her skin, increasing her air of fragility and
vulnerability.

Staring
at herself, at the conflicting image she presented, Sabrina suddenly smiled.
The hair was prim and proper, the gown, while in the very best of taste, was
decidedly . . . sophisticated, she thought slowly, her smile mischievous. The
word wanton also had occurred to her, but she much preferred to ignore that
particular description. She supposed that unconsciously she had been striving
for just the look she had—that of a demure sybarite! Pleased with the result,
she gave a gentle twitch to the full skirts, and then, her eyes sparkling, she
left her rooms.

She
found herself in the middle of a long, wide hallway that ran the entire length
of the wing. About halfway down it was the staircase that led to the courtyard,
and a bit farther on from there was another staircase, a graceful, beautifully
designed affair that spiraled downward toward what Sabrina assumed was the main
part of the house.

She
was correct. Descending the interior staircase, she was soon standing in a
spacious foyer. The floor was of pale green marble, the walls only a few shades
lighter in color. Gilt sconces lined the entranceway, tall beeswax tapers
revealing that Brett did not stint on household requirements.

Several
doors opened off the foyer; the pair of wide, skillfully carved ones that were
at one end of the hall probably led to the street, Sabrina concluded as she
stood there indecisively, wondering behind which of the other doors she would
find Brett. Fortunately she didn't have long to wait. A second later, a door to
her right opened and a servant in black and white attire came out.

Seeing
her standing there, he bowed politely and asked kindly, "May I help you,
miss?"

Her
stomach instantly filled with butterflies, she replied breathlessly, "Yes.
I am looking for Senor Dangermond. Do you know where he is?"

"In
here, miss," the man answered, motioning to the room he had just departed.
He started to say something else, but Sabrina, not giving herself time to
consider the wisdom of what she was doing, swept regally by him. An impatient
flick of her wrist and the door swung open; two deceptively confident strides
took her beyond the door. The soft sound of it shutting behind her gave her the
unnerving impression that her one avenue of escape had just been shut off, but
wrapping her reservations in outward bravado, she continued on her way.

The
room she had just entered was obviously the library, the scent of leather that
came from the neat rows of books that lined every wall pleasantly teasing her
nostrils. A marble-manteled fireplace interrupted the flow of books in one wall
of the long room, a russet and green carpet lay upon the floor, and several
comfortable chairs of dark green velvet were scattered about the area.
Satinwood drum tables stood near the chairs, and an elegant cream and green
silk sofa divided the room in half. Beyond the sofa and the fireplace was
apparently where Brett had his office; an impressively large desk of mahogany
dominated that end of the room, a few wing chairs done in green leather faced
the desk, their backs to Sabrina, and from where she stood, she glimpsed the
top of a marble table behind the sofa.

Again
she was struck by the discreet display of wealth that met her eye, and again
she wished that Tia Francisca had not planted the ugly seed of suspicion about
the source of Brett's unexpected wealth. But before she had time to let her
thoughts wander too far, she was brought back sharply to the present by Brett's
voice saying mockingly, "Ah, Sabrina, there you are. I wondered how long
it would be before you appeared."

Her
jaw clenched, and with determined steps she approached him as he rose with
languid grace from one of the wing-backed chairs. Her approach was momentarily
halted, though, when another tall, dark-haired man rose from the other chair
and turned to face her. She stopped abruptly, a faint flush staining her
cheeks. "I didn't realize that you had a visitor," she said stiffly.
"I'll come back later."

"Don't
be silly," Brett drawled infuriatingly. "Morgan is not just any
visitor, and I would like you to meet him." The dark green eyes hard and
unfathomable, he walked up to her, and taking her hand, brought her over to
face the other gentleman. "Sabrina del Torres, I would like to present Mr.
Morgan Slade. He is one of my oldest friends, and you will find him a frequent
guest in my home. Morgan, this is my sweet ward."

Angry
and resentful at his tone of voice, Sabrina sent him a fulminating glance, but
then her gaze turned to Morgan Slade, and she muttered politely, "How do
you do. It is a pleasure to meet you."

A
pair of twinkling sapphire blue eyes met hers, and Sabrina felt some of her
annoyance with Brett's provoking introduction fading. Bending over her hand,
Morgan Slade murmured lightly, "The pleasure is all mine, Senorita del
Torres. And do not mind half of what your wicked guardian says—he delights in
being particularly aggravating upon occasion . . . and I should know, having had
the misfortune to grow up with him!"

Sabrina's
eyes widened. An enchantingly shy little smile upon her lips, she uttered
softly, "Why, I remember you! We met when I attended Tia Sofia's wedding
to Senor  Hugh. Don't you remember me?"

Morgan's
handsome face creased into a startlingly attractive smile. "I remember a
big-eyed child with red hair, but certainly not the delightful young lady you
have become."

Liking
this tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with his laughing blue eyes and easy
manners, Sabrina relaxed slightly. Morgan appeared to be much the same age as
Brett, although his black hair showed no sign of silver. He was a very handsome
man, his features perhaps more classically perfect than Brett's
uncompromisingly arrogant face, although Sabrina gained the distinct impression
that in spite of Morgan's generously curved mouth and merry eyes with their
thick, dark lashes, he could be as hard and ruthless as Brett if need be.

To
Morgan's light comment, she replied. "You are very kind, senor."

"And
very married," Brett interjected dryly. "Leonie, his wife, is at
their plantation, the Chateau Saint-Andre, awaiting the birth of their second
child."

Morgan's
face changed magically at the mention of his wife's name, his love for her
obvious. Smiling across at Sabrina, he said, "All he says is true. And Vm
afraid I must confess that beautiful as you are, my heart is firmly held by a
little honey-haired spitfire who would cheerfully have my liver for breakfast
if she ever even just thought I was looking too long at another woman."
Grinning at her, he added, "You do understand my position?"