The Tiger Lily (5 page)

Unaware
of the thoughts she aroused in the young males and not a few older ones,
Sabrina took a child's unaffected delight in the evening. She danced every
dance, her gay laughter and heart-stopping smile heard and seen continually,
and Alejandro, watching her proudly from a short distance away, was aware of a
curious mixture of pleasure and pain. If only Elena could see her, he thought,
could be with us . . .

For
just a moment he allowed the uneased agony of Elena's death to sweep over him,
and almost compulsively he fingered the unique turquoise and silver bracelet he
always wore—a bracelet that Elena had given to him to seal their betrothal. But
then, conscious that even from a distance, in spite of the whirl of gaiety
around her, Sabrina would uncannily sense his unhappy thoughts, he quelled the
pain that welled up inside him. Tonight was a joyous one—and Elena would be the
last person to want him sad, he reminded himself with a forced smile.

"They
make a lovely couple, do they not?" Francisca de la Vega said abruptly
from his side, her eyes on Sabrina and the young man with whom she was
presently dancing.

Wryly
Alejandro returned, "I agree. But don't you think we are a bit prejudiced?
After all, Sabrina is my daughter and Carlos is your son."

Francisca
gave a satisfied smile. "That is true, but they are a handsome couple
nonetheless—and it would be a wonderful alliance. The del Torres rancho and the
de la Vega
rancho
under one ownership would make them the largest and
richest landowners this side of the Sabine River."

Alejandro
remained silent. Though his sister might prefer one to think her motives were
totally altruistic, he knew the de la Vega finances were not flourishing. Luis
de la Vega, her husband, had casually intimated as much to him not a month ago,
and Carlos only last week had laughingly stated that while they had land and
cattle aplenty, he would probably have to marry an heiress if he wished to see
any amount of gold in the near future. Every landowner occasionally suffered
from lack of ready money, Alejandro admitted wryly to himself, even he did
periodically, and he assumed that this was the current situation with his
sister's family—next month, next year, things would right themselves and all
would be well. Carelessly he dismissed as unworthy the notion that there was
any desperate need for a marriage between Sabrina and Carlos. Francisca had
always wanted the marriage, and he guessed that at the moment it probably looked
even more attractive than usual to her. But to Carlos? Thoughtfully he gazed at
his nephew as that handsome, smiling young man spun Sabrina lightly around the
grand salon.

Alejandro
had no real reservations about Carlos de la Vega—certainly his lineage was
impeccable, and at twenty-six he was mature enough and hopefully wise enough to
control Sabrina. But even knowing the scheme was dear to his sister's heart,
Alejandro had for the past two years resisted her attempts to formalize a
match. There was much to be said for a marriage between Sabrina and Carlos, he
would freely concede, and yet . . .

Consideringly
he scrutinized Carlos as that young man laughed across at Sabrina. Carlos was a
handsome devil, typically Spanish in his features—thick black hair; black eyes;
a thin, aristocratic nose; and a mouth that was at once sensual and cruel. Like
so many Spaniards, he was not a tall man, and yet there was such command and
arrogance in his bearing that one immediately forgot his lack of height. His
was a slim, graceful physique, and whether on the back of a horse or on a
ballroom floor, he always gave the impression of complete control. Tonight,
attired in black velvet calzoneras, the Spanish equivalent of a pantaloon, the
borders trimmed with filigree buttons and tinsel lace; a matching
chaqueta
that ended just above the gold silk sash that tightly encircled his firm
masculine waist; and a white silk shirt that intensified his dark good looks,
Carlos was, Alejandro had to admit, an eminently eligible young man whose suit
would make most of the unmarried women there that night swoon with delight. Somehow,
though, he didn't think Carlos would make Sabrina swoon. And that, he admitted
ruefully, is the crux of my problem.

Born
into a proud Spanish family where arranged marriages were commonplace—even
when, as in the case of Alejandro's father, Don Enrique, a younger son had
chosen to seek his fortunes in the new world—Alejandro had resisted such a
fate. He had gone, as his father before him, to Spain to choose a bride, but
unlike his father, Alejandro had found no dark-eyed senorita who aroused
anything more than tepid interest within his heart. He had returned home to the
family ranch in Mexico, much to Don Enrique's disgust, unmarried. It was only
some five years later, when he was busily wresting the present Rancho del
Torres from the wilderness of East Texas and had by chance visited Natchez,
that he had met Elena Sevilla . . . met and fallen passionately in love with
her. They were married three months later, and even now, ten years after her
death, Elena lived in his heart. His marriage to her had been idyllic, filled
with laughter, love, and passion. I want that for Sabrina, he thought fiercely.
I want her to love with every fitter of her being, I demand that the man she
marries will love her beyond death, and I want him to be her very reason for
breathing. Nothing else will satisfy me ... or Sabrina.

And
yet, tonight as never before, he was aware of the fact that when he died,
Sabrina would be alone in the world without the much-needed protection of a
man. Oh, to be sure, his sisters, Francisca at his side, and the younger one,
Ysabel, in Mexico City, would see that no real harm befell her; Sofia, too,
could be counted on to care for Sabrina. But the thought of either of his
sisters or their husbands having control of his vibrant, headstrong daughter
distressed him. Sofia and Hugh Dangermond now . . .

Alejandro's
sixty-two years sat lightly on him, his carriage and bearing as straight and
proud as it had been thirty years ago. He was tall for a Spaniard, standing
nearly six feet in height. He had passed this trait on to his daughter—in her
stocking feet she was only three inches shorter than her father. His vivid red
hair was untouched by silver; the amber-gold eyes were still magnificent, the
passing years unable to dull their brilliance. But while he enjoyed the best of
health, he was conscious that someday, perhaps not too far away, Sabrina would
be alone. To have her safely married was the only way he could think of to
protect her, and yet he felt instinctively that Carlos de la Vega was not the
man to capture her heart—or the man to love her as she would need to be loved.
But how to explain that to Francisca?

Francisca
de la Vega was precisely ten months older than her brother, a fact she
constantly threw up in his face. She was also a creature endowed with few
emotions, a rigid woman to whom family and duty came before anything else. She
had been disbelieving when Alejandro had refused to marry for anything less
than love, and if he were to have explained his reservations about a match
between her son and his daughter, she would have been outraged and incredulous.
She had not loved their longtime neighbor in Mexico, Luis de la Vega, when Don
Enrique had arranged her marriage to him, but what did that matter? Luis,
though a younger son, had been wealthy enough, and he had been blue-blooded
enough to satisfy Don Enrique.

It
had been her duty to marry as her father demanded, and she had done it without
argument. It had also been her duty to follow her husband when, much to her
fury, he had decided to follow his brother-in-law's lead and remove his family
from Mexico and settle in the Nacogdoches area. Francisca absolutely hated
living in this barely civilized outpost of Spanish dominion, and through the
years she had complained bitterly about its lack of the elegance of life.
Elegance she would have enjoyed had they remained in Mexico. But it had been
her duty to stay with her husband and run his household and bear his four
children, including Carlos, the youngest, the only son and heir. Why couldn't
Sabrina do the same?

If
Francisca and Alejandro were far apart philosophically, they were also greatly
dissimilar physically. Francisca was the epitome of a highborn Spanish matron. Swathed
in bright silks and glittering, heavy gold jewelry, she was a little plump and
not very tall, with lustrous dark hair not as yet showing any sign of silver,
and possessed a pair of lovely, liquid brown eyes. She, too, carried her age
well, her aristocratic features still showing signs of the beauty she had been.
Unfortunately, neither she nor her sister, Ysabel, shared their brother's
lively sense of humor or zest for living, nor would either of them have
understood his reasons for not agreeing to a match that was so advantageous.

Which
brings me back to where I started, Alejandro sighed with frustration.

As
he remained silent, making no reply to her statement, Francisca grew impatient
and demanded sharply, "Have you nothing to say?" And when Alejandro
merely shrugged his shoulders, she added heatedly, "Why will you not admit
that their marriage would be a splendid thing? I do not understand you,
mi
hermano!
Surely you can have no objections?"

Reluctantly
Alejandro confessed, "No, I would have no objection ... if it were what
Sabrina wanted."

Francisca
looked offended at the notion that Sabrina could have any say in their plans
for her future, but deciding not to be sidetracked by such nonsense, she
pressed on. "I didn't agree with you when you suggested we postpone any
serious settlements when Sabrina was younger, but as there was no real urgency
to the matter being decided then, I held my tongue. Now, however . . ."

His
eyebrow rising sardonically, Alejandro murmured, "Do you ever hold your
tongue?" But before she could reply, he asked innocently, "You
mentioned urgency. Is there some urgency now? And as I recall, you made quite a
few objections when I wouldn't discuss a marriage between them before Sabrina
went to spend those six months with Ysabel when she was fifteen. Could it have
been that you were frightened she might have found a young caballero in Mexico
City who would have suited her better than your son? Like perhaps Ysabel's
oldest son, Domingo?"

Francisca's
opulent bosom swelled with indignation. "There is," she spat
furiously, "no one better than Carlos!"

Suddenly
enjoying himself, Alejandro said meekly, "Ah, forgive me, what you say is
perfectly true. But tell me, why are you so insistent that we decide anything
now? Nothing has changed." His tongue in cheek, he added, "Unless
Ysabel has written to say that Domingo is coming to visit?"

Francisca's
dark eyes flashed, and her full mouth tightened. Controlling her temper with an
effort, she ignored his provocative statements and said levelly, "Sabrina
is now seventeen years old. There is no reason why an engagement cannot be
agreed upon."

Annoyed
with her persistence, Alejandro finally muttered, "Francisca, cease your
machinations! Tonight is Sabrina's seventeenth birthday, and I have no
intention of making any decisions." He said inflexibly, "You were
eighteen before our father betrothed you to Luis, so why should Sabrina have
less time? She is young yet, and I will not have you or anyone else stampeding
her into a marriage she may not want."

Her
jaw clenching, Francisca inquired acidly, "Are you saying she may not want
to marry Carlos?"

Alejandro
sighed. "I don't know what her thoughts are. Rest assured that if Sabrina
wishes to marry Carlos, I will put no obstacles in their way."

"How
generous of you!" she said scathingly. "But do not be surprised if,
by the time you condescend to talk of a marriage, Carlos has already decided he
no longer wishes to marry your daughter."

"So
be it."

Making
no attempt to hide her displeasure, Francisca stalked off, and Alejandro
breathed more freely. But the conversation they had exchanged did not go away
from his mind, and much later that night, when all the guests were gone and he
and Sabrina were settled comfortably in a small, cozy, slightly shabby sitting
room at the end of the main wing of the house, he casually said, "I
noticed that you danced quite a few dances with Carlos. Do I sense a
romance?"

Sabrina,
in a very unladylike position, barefooted, her long legs dangling over the side
of a huge, high-backed chair of Cordova leather, stared at her father with
astonishment. "A romance?" she demanded incredulously. "With
Carlos?"

Alejandro
smiled, thinking of Francisca's reaction if she had heard Sabrina's answer.
Pushing the thought of Francisca's chagrin and anger from his mind, he said
idly, "Hmmm, Carlos. Do you like him?"