The Tiger Lily (56 page)

"There
is only one thing that bothers me," Morgan protested seriously. "Your
entire theory rests upon the notion that there is a treasure out there. We have
no proof."

"Yes,
we do," Jason said abruptly. And at the expression of surprise on the
other two men's faces, he stood and slowly began to roll up the sleeve of his
fine linen shirt. "I told you that Nolan had been my mentor. What I didn't
reveal was that on a horse-trading trip we made to the Palo Duro Canyon area
about fifteen years ago, we stumbled across a treasure, an Aztec treasure."
His shirt sleeve pushed up nearly to his shoulder, Jason pointed to the heavy
gold and emerald arm band that encircled his muscular upper arm. "And this
is proof that the brandy hasn't gone to my head." His face sad, Jason
muttered, "Nolan had the twin to it . . . and I think now that it was
probably what he used to convince Wilkinson the treasure existed, and I know
that it was what got him killed." He could not speak of Davalos, the
Spanish lieutenant who had once been his friend and who had killed Nolan, nor
of what Davalos had cost him and Catherine, but his voice hardening, he added,
"The treasure does exist, believe me."

Brett
whistled softly under his breath, and Morgan stared dumbly at the gold and
emerald arm band. Finally, in a contrite voice, Morgan said, "I owe you an
apology, Brett."

"Yes,
but how can we prevent Wilkinson from using his quest for the treasure to start
a war with Spain, or just as bad, to encourage Burr to invade Mexico?" As
soon as he said the words, Brett knew the answer. His jade-green eyes
narrowing, he growled, ''The map! If we get the map, Wilkinson would have no
reason to support Burr or, just as importantly, to provoke a war with Spain.
There would be nothing for him in Spanish Texas."

"I
agree," Morgan said immediately, "but it isn't going to be easy. The
instant one of us shows up nosing around, he's going to be on his guard.
Besides, where to look? He must have it well hidden."

Jason
smiled widely. "Everything you say is true, but I think, Morgan, you have
forgotten someone."

"Who?"
Morgan asked with a frown.

"Blood
Drinker!" Jason said with satisfaction. "He can get into Wilkinson's
camp, and remember, he was with me on the trip when the treasure was
discovered. He would recognize the map, and there is nowhere Wilkinson could
hide the map that he wouldn't find it!"

"Who
is Blood Drinker?" Brett demanded immediately, his eyes moving from one
man to the other.

It
was Jason who answered. "Blood Drinker," he said softly, "is a
Cherokee, a blood brother to me. We share much together, and our thoughts about
a war with Spain are the same. But more importantly, he doesn't like the idea
of anyone disturbing that treasure site. He says it is a bad place and should
remain hidden." Jason smiled slightly. "And for our purposes of
getting the map, he is perfect—who pays any attention to an Indian? And Blood
Drinker is very adept at concealing himself. No one would ever even notice him,
and I'm certain that he's the only one who could find that map for us."

They
discussed the situation for several more minutes, agreeing that Jason would see
Blood Drinker and have him strike out instantly for Wilkinson's camp.
Reluctantly Brett said, "I hate leaving it in someone else's hands, but I
think it is our wisest course."

"It
is," Jason replied seriously. "Trust me, Blood Drinker will get the
map."

They
left the dining room after that, joining the ladies in the front salon. The
decision to send Blood Drinker in search of the map lifted a weight from
Brett's mind, and he found himself relaxing completely for the first time since
news of the Spanish crossing of the Sabine River. Now if only Blood Drinker was
every bit as good as Jason implied . . .

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

C^V»
The visit at Chateau Saint-Andre proved to be so enjoyable that it was mid-August
before Brett and Sabrina returned to Fox's Lair. The place was beginning to
feel like home, and recalling all the unhappy events that had taken place at
the ranch near Nacogdoches, Sabrina realized that Fox's Lair was where she
wanted to live forever. She had found happiness here, and though the dark murky
bayous with their knobby-kneed cypress trees, knife-sharp palmettos, and
reed-lined banks, the acres of tail sugar cane and the moss-draped oaks and
leathery-leaved magnolia trees that dotted the land near the house bore no
resemblance to the area she had grown up in, Sabrina found that the region had
a charm all its own. A lazy, primeval charm that drew her and brought a strange
peacefulness. She had found happiness here, her husband was here, and her child
would be born here. . . .

The
startling thought that she might be pregnant had become a certainty within her
as the days passed, and by the time they returned home, she was positive that
already there would be outward signs. With disappointment she had looked at her
naked body in the cheval glass that was in her small dressing room, the morning
after their return from Chateau Saint-Andre. Surely her breasts would be
fuller, her waist thickening, and her stomach rounding by now? Then she giggled.
She couldn't even be two months pregnant yet, but she was impatient for the
signs of her impending motherhood to appear.

She
hadn't told Brett of her wonderful discovery, an odd sense of shyness flooding
her whenever she thought about it. What would he think? Would he be happy?
Displeased? Indifferent? She sighed. Even though they had been married for
almost two months, there were still many barriers between them.

Brett
was still a stranger to her in many respects in spite of their intimacy. He was
an ardent lover, and while they had separate bedrooms, there had been no night
since their marriage that he hadn't spent at least part of the night in her
bed. Except during Hugh and Sofia's visit and the visit at Chateau Saint-Andre,
Brett was seldom around during the daylight hours. He was often gone at
sunrise, supervising the men who worked the huge sugar cane fields, and some
days, the only time she saw him was when he came to her bed late at night.
There were days, however, when she had his undivided attention, days when he
took her over the plantation, proudly showing her the sugar mill, the
plantation gardens, the wharf he was having built at the river's edge, and the
lands that were being wrested from the swampy wilderness by a series of levees.
She treasured those days, but she was also aware that there was a part of him
that he kept aloof, a part of him that she could not share. There were times
when she would surprise an odd look on his face, a questioning look, almost as
if he didn't quite believe she was everything she appeared to be, and she
longed to reach out and touch him and ask, "What is it? Why do you look at
me so?" But she was afraid to, afraid that she would shatter the bond
between them.

There
was a deep core of reserve within her, too, and though she tried to hide it,
she was conscious that she didn't fool Brett all the time. Too often when she
had withdrawn from a particular topic of conversation, she had seen his eyes
narrow, seen speculation leaping in those jade-green depths.

Able
to look back on the past with new eyes now and armed with her new knowledge of
Carlos, Sabrina understood how effortlessly her cousin had practiced his
duplicity. He had told Brett one thing and her another, had fanned her
uncertainties, had spread vicious lies to Brett; it wasn't surprising that they
had parted as they had. But had Carlos lied about the girl in New Orleans? And
had he had anything to do with what Constanza had told her?

She
was bitterly conscious now that she should have faced Brett with what she had
been told, should have given him a chance to defend himself, instead of blindly
trusting in Carlos. And her stomach crawled with humiliation whenever she
thought about revealing how gullible, how mistrustful, she had been. But it was
one thing to want to believe that everything that had happened had been a base
plot of Carlos's and another to know it without a doubt. And it was as much
shame at her earlier crass actions as the fear buried within all the lies, that
there was some measure of truth about what had happened that kept her from
forcing a confrontation with Brett. Painfully she acknowledged that she was a
coward—if he was innocent, she didn't want him to look at her with disgust and
contempt for being so willing to condemn him unheard, and if he was guilty, she
didn't want to know that he had cravenly deserted Constanza and his own unborn
child.

The
fact .that he had never mentioned love to her also preyed on her mind. He had
never made any secret of wanting her physically, but though there were
intriguing, heart-fluttering hints in the things he said and did, he had never
said, "I love you." Was it only passion for her body that drew him to
her? It was a dismal thought, and unhappily Sabrina turned away from the cheval
glass and reached for her robe.

She
was very quiet that morning at breakfast, and Brett sent her a quizzical
glance. "Is something wrong?" he asked quietly.

She
hesitated, wondering what his reaction would be if she suddenly said baldly,
"I want you to tell me about Constanza. I want to know if you really loved
her and if you did indeed abandon your unborn child." But she didn't, and
ashamed at her own cowardice, she said the first thing that came to her mind.
"What will happen to the Rancho del Torres now that I live here with
you?"

"What
do you want to happen to it?" Brett inquired warily. A faint note of
reserve in his voice, he added, "I know that Fox's Lair isn't nearly as
grand, although I do have plans to build a larger house in the future." He
watched her face closely. "Would you prefer that we live at the
ranch?"

That
note in his voice bothered her, reminding her vividly that there were still
dangerous pitfalls in their relationship. Somewhat stiffly, she answered,
"I think that if you wish to live here, we should put a competent overseer
in charge of the
rancho
or sell it and buy more lands here in
Louisiana."

She
hadn't quite answered his question, and Brett was aware of an angry impatience
within himself. Why, because she had asked a perfectly ordinary question about
her old home, did he have to immediately assume it was because she had found
the home that he had provided wanting? Why, after all these weeks, did he still
look for some sign that material things meant more to her than he did? Because
there is a part of her that I cannot touch? Because, though I have her in my
arms, I feel that I do not have all of her? Because I don't know for certain
what she really feels for me?

Frustration
eating at his gut, he finished breakfast silently, not tasting one bite of the
spicy grillades that had been so expertly prepared for him. The fact that he
had ramrodded Sabrina into marriage with him, that he had not actually allowed
her to make a choice, had begun to take on immense significance in his mind. As
the weeks passed and he fell more and more in love with her, realized how very
much she meant to him, had always meant to him, instead of becoming more
confident and complacent about their relationship, he grew more and more tense
and intolerant of the situation.

This
morning was the first time that either one of them had mentioned Nacogdoches,
and for one moment he actually toyed with the idea of asking her bluntly why
she had broken her engagement with him six years ago. Had it been because of
lies spread by her damned cousin or had it been because she had really thought
he had no prospects at all? His fists tightened, rage billowing through him. If
he found out that Carlos had indeed been behind her actions, he really didn't
think he could deny himself the pleasure of killing the other man. But Brett
wouldn't allow himself to speculate further on this particularly painful
subject. He had told himself it didn't matter, but he had found it did, and he
knew that soon he was going to demand some answers from her. He had to know the
truth about the past; the uncertainty was tearing him apart.

During
the next few weeks, instead of the tension that had sprung up that morning
lessening, it seemed to increase. Brett was aware that something new had
entered their relationship, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Sabrina
seemed more introspective, more removed from him, and he became both angry and
concerned about it. Feeling as if she were slipping away from him, as if a
widening chasm were separating them, Brett was aware of an icy lump forming
where his heart should be. Had he come this far only to inexplicably lose her
in the end? Lose her to an enemy he couldn't see? Couldn't fight?

Sabrina
wasn't deliberately shutting Brett out, but lost in the wonder of the exciting
changes that were happening within her, she inadvertently put him at a
distance. The baby was a precious secret she hugged to herself, longing to tell
him and yet . . . What if he didn't share her joy? Babies, like the past, were
things they hadn't discussed.

September
proved to be especially hot and humid, and as the sugar cane ripened in the
fields, so did Sabrina's body. With delight she noted her fuller bosom, her
thickening waist, and at the oddest times an enchantingly satisfied little
smile would flit across her face. That smile infuriated Brett for some reason.
It was as if she had some private secret, and he found himself eaten up with
jealousy. What was she thinking when she looked like that?

As
the month waned, the sugar cane took on a purplish tinge, and Brett knew that
the crucial season was near. The Big Grass, as it was called, never fully
ripened here in Louisiana, and Brett was very aware that he could delay only so
long before harvesting—it was an annual race between the weather and the
planter's judgment. And once the order had been given, the plantation became a
hive of activity, cutters, loaders, and haulers beginning the hard,
back-breaking work of clearing the cane.

October
came and the work continued, Brett returning late at night almost exhausted,
too exhausted even to seek Sabrina's bed. She took to waiting up for him,
making certain that a hot bath awaited him no matter what the hour and that a
plate of bread, meat, and cheeses was prepared for him. The third week of
October, while there was still much to do, there was an easing of the tension
that always accompanied harvest time. The sugar mill was running almost
twenty-four hours a day, and in spite of this being a time of long hours and
little rest, there was a crackling vitality in the air. The slaves liked it—it
brought the promise of extra reward, of drinks and songs and at the end a grand
ball.

Returning
home very late one night, Brett tiredly walked up the stairs to his room, a
pleased smile on his face. He was going to sleep the day away tomorrow. One
day, at this stage, wouldn't make a difference.

Entering
his room, he was surprised to find Sabrina still waiting for him, and tossing
aside his wide-brimmed, sweat-stained white hat, he murmured, "You should
have gone to bed. I didn't think you would still be awake."

She
smiled at him, noting the lines of fatigue on his face. Softly she said,
"I never get to see you these days except for now, and I wasn't about to
be cheated."

Stripping
off his shirt, he glanced over at her as she stood by the big brass tub that
had been set up for his bath. She was wearing a gauzy nightdress and peignoir,
the candlelight on a table behind her silhouetting her body, making him
instantly aware of the soft, yielding flesh they covered and how long it had
been since they had made love. Sabrina turned just then, presenting him a side-view,
and his breath caught in his throat.

She
was four months pregnant, and the rounding of her belly that she had so
impatiently looked for two months previously was now clearly evident. Brett was
conscious of a sudden, dizzying rush of blood to his head. His voice almost a
whisper, he croaked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

For
a second Sabrina didn't know what he was talking about, but then she noticed
that his eyes were locked on her gently protruding stomach, and she said
breathlessly, "Because I didn't know how you would feel."

"How
I would feel?" he repeated dazedly as he walked toward her. Then he gave a
delighted little laugh and scooping her up in his arms, whirled her about the
room. "Oh, God!" he muttered. "I don't know how I feel—pleased,
excited, perhaps a little afraid."

"Afraid?"
she asked with surprise. "Why?"

"What
if something goes wrong?" There was naked fear in his eyes as he said
thickly, "What if something happens to you?"