The Tiger Lily (58 page)

"Do
you remember the bandits that were plaguing our area when you came to visit us?
Remember that they robbed our guests as they left from my birthday
fiesta?"

Brett
nodded his head, his eyes fixed intently on hers. "Of course. I also
remember that we killed them, although the things they had stolen were given up
for lost."

Sabrina
shook her head violently. "No, not anymore. This is one of the things that
was stolen that night."

Brett's
gaze narrowed. "Are you certain, Sabrina? Could this piece just be very
similar?"

For
a moment doubt entered her mind. Could she be mistaken? It had been a long
time, and perhaps her memory was playing her false. "I don't think
so," she finally said. "It is too much of a coincidence for two such
unusual pieces of jewelry to be made. It has to be the same one."

His
frown deepening, Brett mused slowly, "Then either we didn't kill all the
bandits ... or someone else has found their cache and is selling it off."

Deliberately
he picked up the brooch from the box and stared at it a long time. "I have
to go back to New Orleans at the end of the month," he said thoughtfully.
"I'll go to Escobar and Sons and talk with Jose Escobar. He'll tell me how
it came into his possession."

They
didn't discuss it further, but it lay heavily on both of their minds, and it
was inevitable that they both would begin to speculate if there was any
connection between this brooch and whoever had killed Alejandro. Was the
robbery in which the brooch had been stolen totally unrelated to Alejandro's
death almost five years later? It was a long time between events, but had one
lone bandit remained from the original group? A lone bandit who had later met
and murdered Alejandro?

Lying
awake in Brett's arms, her head resting on his shoulder, Sabrina trembled with
the need for vengeance.
Dios!
If only she could find her father's
killer, even now, and take her own vengeance, perhaps it would ease some of the
pain that still remained with her. The baby moved within her, and she smiled, a
bittersweet smile. How delighted her father would have been! She was married to
the man of his choice and would have been presenting him with his first
grandchild. A small tear formed at the corner of her eye and trickled down to
drop onto Brett's naked shoulder.

Feeling
it, he turned to her with obvious concern. "Sweetheart!" he whispered
softly. "What is it?"

Sending
him a watery little smile, she muttered, "I was just thinking of Alejandro
and how happy he would be about the child."

He
drew her nearer, murmuring gentle words of comfort, and her heartache
lessening, she drifted off to sleep. Not so Brett. He lay awake a long time,
mulling over the lion-shaped brooch and what its appearance in New Orleans
meant. Finally though, his speculations becoming rather wild, he, too, dropped
oft" to sleep, wondering why he kept coming back to the fact that it had
been Carlos who had shot the last bandit—at point-blank range, almost as if he
hadn't wanted there to be any survivors. . . .

Oddly
enough, Sabrina's thoughts, too, were of Carlos, but on an entirely different
matter. During the time that Brett had been gone to New Orleans, she had
dwelled a great deal on the events of that summer in Nacogdoches. She fully
realized her own part in what had happened, and even now she writhed with shame
when she thought of how easily she had accepted Carlos's words. How almost
eager she had been to believe anything vile about Brett. Just thinking about it
made her blush with despair. But there were still unanswered questions that
nagged her, and mortified at the prospect of revealing to Brett how gullible
she had been, how little faith she'd had in both her love for him and in him,
she resolved to speak with Carlos. To demand the truth from him. Wise now to
his lies, she was certain that if she met him face to face, she would be able
to sort the truth from the morass of lies that surrounded what had happened.
And she had two weapons that she hadn't possessed then—Brett may not have
spoken aloud his love and he might never do so, but she knew with a fierce
certainty that he cared something for her, that he cherished her and was very
pleased at the prospect of becoming a father. She also had the strength to
trust her own emotions, to trust her instincts, and instinct told her that
Brett bore no resemblance to the man Constanza had described.

At
first she considered going with Brett on his proposed trip to New Orleans at
the end of November, but then she hesitated. It would be almost impossible to
arrange a private meeting with her cousin in the city without Brett finding out
about it. If Carlos was even still in New Orleans, she thought grimly. He could
have left for Nacogdoches months ago. And feeling rather sneaky and
underhanded, she finally decided that the easiest way to see Carlos without
Brett finding out about it would be to have her cousin come to Fox's Lair while
Brett was gone. It was risky, and the servants were bound to talk, but if she
cautioned Carlos to come late at night ... if she arranged some signal for him,
so that he would only approach the house after the servants had gone to bed . .
.

She
didn't like it, but it was all she could think of. Meeting him privately
somewhere else was out of the question—she wasn't that foolish! And though none
of the servants slept in the house itself, their quarters were a little
distance from the main house, and a piercing scream would bring them running.
And then there was her knife. . . .Satisfied that she could hold her own if
Carlos tried anything violent, Sabrina wrote her note.

Taking
aside one of the servants, she gave him orders to deliver the note to Senor
Carlos de la Vega. "You will have to go to the Correias' house on Condi
Street first and see if my aunt is still there. She will know where he is
staying. And if by chance she is not there, the Correias themselves will know
whether he is still in the city and where he has gone." Hating herself,
she said gaily, "And remember, not a word to my husband—it is to be a
surprise!"

Guilt
made the kiss she pressed on Brett's lips some ten days later especially
fervent and yearning, and Brett looked at her with surprise. "I'm only
going to be gone for four days, sweetheart," he teased. And gently
fondling her swollen stomach, he added, "Rest and take care of our child.
I wouldn't want anjiihing to happen to either of you." His eyes darkened,
and Sabrina was suddenly breathless as he muttered, "I think it would kill
me if you weren't waiting for me when I returned."

Sabrina
hugged those words to herself. Oh, he must care and care deeply for her.

CHAPTER
THIRTY

Carlos
had been elated when Sabrina's note reached him. The intervening months since
her wedding had not been happy ones for him. He had brooded a great deal of the
time over the injustice of fate, unwilling to accept that once and for all
Sabrina was out of his reach. He had drunk heavily, gambled and lost money
foolishly—money he couldn't afford to lose—and he had fast gone through
whatever had remained of his inheritance.

Francisca
had left the city in September, taking a ship to Mexico City, where she would
live with her sister, Ysabel. There was nowhere else for her to go, and not
even Francisca would have dared return to the Rancho del Torres and boldly
commandeer the house.

Francisca's
departure had loosed whatever restraints Carlos had placed on himself, and as
his money had vanished, he had begun to seek out low company, rubbing shoulders
with smugglers, robbers, and the like. When Sabrina's note had arrived, he had
been contemplating a not-very-bright future.

But
all that was changed now. Sabrina wanted to see him clandestinely! Carlos was
deliriously confident that she had realized at last that the gringo meant
nothing to her. She must be seeking his help in escaping from her marriage.
Eagerly he laid plans for their escape to Mexico City, and he could hardly
contain his impatience for the day of his departure to rescue her. Sabrina's
instructions had been quite clear, and on the morning of December 1st, he rode
of out New Orleans toward Fox's Lair, avid for the meeting with his cousin the
following night.

Brett
had arrived in New Orleans late the previous evening, just five days after
Wilkinson had appeared on the horizon blaring out that the city must prepare
itself for an invasion by the rabble that Aaron Burr had gathered to attack the
city. Wilkinson had demanded that Governor Claiborne declare martial law, and
when the Governor had refused, he had gone about acting just as if it had been
done. Civil liberties were suspended; he had ordered a curfew; he had accepted
volunteers who were willing to repulse the rabid horde led by Burr, a horde
that was expected any day. Every craft going up or down the Mississippi River
was seized and searched. The city was panic-stricken and alarmed. All along the
Mississippi Valley, people were fearful and apprehensive. What was going to
happen next? When would Burr and his army appear?

Brett
was astounded. The General, it appeared, was burning all his bridges behind
him, and it was now obvious that Wilkinson was intent upon throwing Burr to the
wolves and presenting himself in the light of conquering hero. He, Wilkinson,
would save the city from Burr!

In
view of the circumstances, Brett conducted his business as quickly as possible,
not wishing to remain in this churning mass of fear and confusion one moment
longer than necessary. Instead of taking two days as originally planned, he did
ever3rthing that had to be done the next morning, and it was late in the
afternoon when he paid a visit to the jeweler's, Escobar and Sons.

Jose
Escobar greeted Brett genially when Brett was ushered into the little back room
that served as the old man's office. Shrewd black eyes watched as Brett set
down the box with the lion-shaped brooch in it. "Is there some
defect?" Jose asked with concern.

Brett
smiled lightly. "No,
Senor
. It is perfect. It is just that I would
like very much to know where you got it and when?"

Jose
hesitated. He was known for his discretion, having handled many delicate
transactions over the years. If it were learned that he had been indiscreet . .
.

Indolently
counting out several pieces of gold, Brett said casually, "You do realize
that it is vital for me to learn this information . . . now?"

Jose
eyed the gold. Senor  Dangermond was a wealthy man, a man to be reckoned with,
whereas . . . Cautiously he said, "It was one of several pieces I bought
from a gentleman about a month ago. Due to unfortunate circumstances, he was
forced to sell his family's possessions."

"Who?"
Brett demanded.

Jose
sighed and looked at the small pile of gold again. Resignedly he said,
"Senor Carlos de la Vega."

Brett
wasn't the least surprised. He had almost been expecting it, and his face grim,
he inquired harshly, "You said there were other pieces; may I see
them?"

Jose
shrugged and left the room, returning a moment later with a small velvet-lined
tray. "Here they are," he said. "Some of them are quite
exceptional."

Brett
didn't even notice the other jewelry that lay glittering on the black velvet; his
gaze was caught by one specific piece. Rage nearly blinding him, he reached for
the lovely silver and turquoise bracelet. "This? He sold you this?"
he got out thickly.

Jose
nodded uneasily, not liking the sudden air of violence that radiated from his visitor.
"
Si
, he said that he got it-"

Brett's
voice cut him off. "I
know
where he got it!" he snarled
softly, and then controlling himself with a visible effort, he asked, "How
much do you want for it?"

Escobar
named a price. Brett threw the money down on the table and scooped up the
brooch and the bracelet. A second later he slammed out of the little shop,
murder in his heart.
Carlos had killed Alejandro!
The words were seared
in acid across his brain, and he wondered if he could possibly control the fury
that roiled through his veins.

All
thought of leaving the city vanished, and there was only one idea in his mind.
Find Carlos and kill him with his bare hands.

It
was after midnight before Brett finally found where Carlos had been staying.
From the Correias he had learned the name of the boarding house that Carlos had
stayed in at first, and from there Brett had followed the trail that clearly
revealed Carlos's disappearing finances. The last place was a squalid little
inn in an unsavory part of the city. The slattern who called herself the
landlady was quite open. "De la Vega? Yeah. He lived here—until this
morning." Turning away, she muttered, "Said he was going to visit
that cousin of his that married a rich planter."

Brett
caught hold of her shoulder, twisting her around to face him. "Are you
certain?" he demanded urgently, unable to believe his ears.

Testily
she replied, "Of course I'm sure! I was here last week when the note
arrived from her, asking for him to come visit. He was quite pleased about
it."

It
didn't make sense! Why would Sabrina want to see Carlos? Coldly he tamped down
the ugly thoughts that crept through his brain. With far more control than he
was feeling, he asked tightly, "This morning? You said he lived here until
this morning? Is that when he left to visit his cousin?"

"I
just told you that!" the landlady answered grumpily, and jerking her arm
from his grasp, she added, "Now if you don't mind?"

Brett
left, his brain racing madly. Carlos had an eighteen hour start on him. . . .
Why had Sabrina written to her cousin? Unless Carlos had just been lying to
impress the landlady? Tiredly Brett rubbed his hand across his eyes. Well,
there was nothing for it—he would have to leave immediately for Fox's Lair. He
must see Sabrina and find out if she had written to Carlos . . . and why?

An
hour later, in the dead of the night, Brett left the city. He was astride
Firestorm, and as the big stallion's steady pace began to eat up the distance
that separated them from home, Brett was unendingly battered by the conflicting
emotions that flowed through him. His murderous rage against Carlos was
momentarily submerged in his confusion about what he had learned from the
landlady. He fought bitterly against letting doubt creep into his thoughts, but
it was impossible. Why had Sabrina written to Carlos? Had all these months
together been an illusion? Was she plotting behind his back? No! It could not
be true! He would not accept it! There had to be some explanation! But what?
And for God's sake,
why
?

The
next evening, as she waited nervously for Lupe to finish fussing around and
leave with Ollie for their own quarters several yards away, Sabrina was wondering
the same thing. Unexpectedly she was assailed with doubts about the wisdom of
what she was doing. If Brett ever found out, how could she make him understand?
Oh, dear God! Why did I ever write to Carlos? she wondered. Why didn't I leave
things alone?

But
it couldn't be undone now, and after Lupe and Ollie had bid her good night, she
prepared for the meeting with Carlos. Getting out of bed, she fumbled for her
green wool gown. Slipping it on over her nightdress in the dark room, she found
her knife where she had placed it under her pillow earlier. It took another
minute to find her shawl, and putting it around her shoulders, she slid the
knife into the hidden little pocket she had fashioned at one corner of the
shawl. There! The knife was in place and handy if she needed it.

Mindful
of her step, she carefully made her way down the staircase and into the salon.
The coals from the fire lit earlier glowed cheerfully on the hearth, and the
sight of them warmed her. The knowledge that Ollie and the other servants were
only a shout away gave her renewed confidence in what she was doing. Brett
shouldn't be involved—this was between her and Carlos! It was her battle!

Her
heart beating swiftly, she gave the signal she had written in her note—the oil
lamp suddenly shining brightly then dimming. Then the same thing again.

Three
minutes after she gave her signal, there was a furtive tap on the side door,
and with a dry mouth, Sabrina walked over and opened the door. A pleased smile
on his face, Carlos stepped inside. His smile vanished the instant his gaze
fell upon her swollen stomach. "You're pregnant!" he said accusingly.

"Well,
yes, I am," Sabrina replied defensively, "but I don't see what it has
to do with you!"

It
wasn't how either one of them had intended to greet the other, and trying for a
lighter note, Sabrina said with forced politeness, "How was your journey?
Did you have any trouble finding the house?"

Petulantly
Carlos answered, "Your directions were adequate, but the inn you suggested
I stay at last night was not particularly restful. And now I've had to spend
the afternoon and evening lurking about like some thief !" Her pregnancy
had both dumbfounded and enraged him. He might want Sabrina, but he wasn't
about to be saddled with the gringo's bastard!

"Did
anyone see you?" she asked sharply.

Carlos
shrugged. "No. I did have a scare a few moments before your signal—I
thought I heard a horseman coming down the road, but whoever it was must have
gone on by."

Whoever
it was hadn't gone by. The horseman had been Brett, and seeing the darkened
house, he had stopped the sweat-flecked Firestorm, suddenly reluctant to face
Sabrina with his suspicions. What if he were entirely wrong?

The
signal that had shone out into the darkness a second later had given him his
answer, and he had watched almost indifferently as a shadowy form had appeared
from the underbrush near the house and had stealthily made its way to the side
of the house. There was a curious numbness within him, and he was almost
grateful for it—at least it held at bay the gut-wrenching pain he knew would
follow later. There was no doubt in his mind now that Sabrina had written to
Carlos or that the person he had just seen enter the house had been Carlos.

Brett
was completely drained. He had been riding steadily for almost seventeen hours,
driven by an increasingly urgent need to reach Fox's Lair. There were times he
had been afraid that he was pushing Firestorm too hard, but the big stallion
hadn't failed him. Unlike his wife, he thought with a bitter twist to his
mouth.

He
nearly turned away, going where he had no idea, but something stopped him. He
couldn't. Everything he had ever wanted was wrapped up in one slim body,
Sabrina's, and he had to see proof of all his dark demons with his own eyes.
Silently he dismounted and wearily began to walk toward the front of the house.
Just as silently, he opened the front door and walked into the foyer, Sabrina's
voice carrying clearly to him.

The
meeting between the two cousins was going badly. They had wasted several
minutes with polite chatter, acting almost like strangers. But then Carlos was
a stranger to Sabrina these days, and with surprise she noted the cruel curve
to his mouth, the gleam of avarice in the black eyes as they passed around the
room. Had he always been so? Or was she seeing him for the first time as he
really was? She suspected the latter, and impatiently she listened to his idle
conversation, wanting desperately to have this distasteful meeting behind her.