Guiltily Sabrina's eyes went to his injured arm, her stomach lurching as she took in the bloodstained calico shirt. "I . . . I . . . I'm s . . . s . . . sorry," she stammered unhappily. "I wouldn't have struck if I'd known it was you! I thought you were an outlaw."
He laughed mirthlessly, his gaze on her soft mouth. "Perhaps I am, spitfire, perhaps I am."
Suddenly aware of the way they were sitting, her full breasts crushed up against his hard chest, her hip pressed intimately into his groin, she moved slightly away from him. Almost primly she said, "Well, you certainly gave a good imitation of one, the way you attacked me just now."
"Attacked?" he questioned sharply. "I was under the impression that I was saving you from a runaway!"
Sabrina stared at him open-mouthed. "Sirocco? You thought she was running away with me? Is that why you grabbed at the bridle?"
"Of course it was!" Brett returned testily, her astonishment making it abundantly clear that he had mistaken the situation, which didn't soothe his temper any. His injured arm was aching like the very devil, adding to his discomfort, and he was much too conscious for his liking of the slender body so close to his own. Brusquely he said, "If I erred, I apologize. However," he went on harshly, "if that sample I just saw was any indication of your usual riding habits, I won't be at all astounded to hear shortly that you've broken your bloody neck!"
Not unnaturally Sabrina bristled at his comments, but before she could make a spirited rejoinder, Brett said sarcastically, "And if this is a sample of the hospitality your father wrote me about, I'd just as soon forgo it, if you don't mind."
"My father?" she repeated stupidly. "My father wrote to you?"
Brett smiled at her unkindly, and as if speaking to an imbecile, he said, "Why else would I be here? Surely you don't think I just happened to be here, do you?"
Shooting him a glance of dislike, she replied heatedly, "I haven't had time to think of anything yet!"
Infuriatingly Brett murmured, "I have found over the years that thinking isn't something that women do very often ... or well."
Smothering an urge to slap his mocking mouth, Sabrina contented herself with returning sweetly, "Perhaps not, but then neither do they attempt acts of such foolish bravado, as you just did!"
Surprisingly, an appreciative grin curved Brett's full mouth. "Very good, infant, very good!"
"I am not an infant!" Sabrina gritted out, for some unknown reason wanting that fact to be made very clear to Brett Dangermond.
One black eyebrow quirked upward, and insolently his green eyes traveled over her slender body. No, she definitely was not an infant any longer, he admitted slowly to himself—he'd been very aware of that disturbing fact from the moment he'd realized who she was. But if the change ten years had wrought had escaped his initial notice, the soft white linen shirt that clung lovingly to the firm breasts and the delicate shape of the long legs revealed by the tight-fitting calzoneras would have made it evident to anyone but a blind man. And Brett was not blind. Quite the contrary, as his eyes lingered on the rise and fall of her bosom before his gaze was drawn irresistibly to the innocently provocative mouth.
His eyes locked on her lips, he murmured teasingly, "I stand corrected, sweet cuz—you are definitely not an infant."
His words should have given her satisfaction, but instead they caused her throat to go suddenly dry and a curious breathlessness to assail her. Swallowing nervously—and Sabrina was never nervous—she muttered, "I'm not your cousin either."
"You might add," Brett drawled with a derisive gleam in his eyes, "not very welcoming in the bargain! And while ordinarily I do not go around reminding my hostesses of their duties, in this case I shall make an exception and suggest that unless you wish for me to bleed to death, you set about showing me the way to your home."
Sabrina flushed, and she looked once again at his injured arm, seeing that there was a great deal more blood soaking into the calico shirt than there had been only moments before. Instantly filled with concern for him, she abandoned her belligerent tone, and her eyes shining with contrition, she murmured unhappily, "Forgive me, Senor Brett. I . . . I . . . haven't meant to be unwelcoming, and I will show you to the hacienda immediately—it isn't far, and Bonita, my maid, will see to your arm."
She started to scramble down from the horse, but despite the needles of pain that were pricking along the open wound, Brett's left hand tightened compulsively on her shoulder, halting her movements. She glanced at him questioningly, and slanting her a crooked grin, he said audaciously, "Couldn't you give me a more explicit sign of welcome? A kiss between cousins meeting for the first time in ten years wouldn't come amiss."
Her heart hammering painfully in her breast, her tongue frozen to the roof of her mouth, she could only stare at him mutely, the amber-gold eyes huge in her face. For a second Brett regarded her, and then with something between a curse and an imprecation, he bent his head and his hard mouth claimed hers.
Besides the paternal salutations of her father, Sabrina had never experienced a man's kiss, and nothing in her life so far had prepared her for the jolt of sweet fire that swept through her veins as Brett's lips pressed ardently against hers. She was giddily conscious of the warmth emanating from the male body so close to hers, of the faint, pleasing odor of horses, wood smoke, and tobacco that clung to him, but most of all she was unutterably moved by the hungry longing that his touch evoked deep within her.
It was a strangely chaste kiss that they shared, but it made her aware of her body as she had never been before, made her bewilderingly aware of a pleasurable tingle in the pit of her stomach, of the tightening of her nipples, and of an insane urge to press herself closer, to cling unashamedly to him. It also, oddly enough, alarmed her, a part of her shrinking away, guessing instinctively that there was danger in feeling the way she did. Danger and a beckoning, tantalizing promise of ecstasy.
For Brett the reaction to her nearness, the soft, innocent yielding of her mouth, was far more powerful, far more violent. The second his lips touched hers, his body exploded with such a fierce surge of almost uncontrollable desire that he trembled. He had known desire before, had carelessly slaked desire before, but it had never been like this, this wild, intoxicating yearning to pleasure, to give, to share and yet possess so completely, so powerfully, that she would remember and bear the stamp of his possession forever. Stunned and shaken by the depth of his reaction to a simple kiss, he was even more appalled at how much he wanted to deepen this embrace, how very much he wanted to part her lips and explore the inner sweetness. Her mouth was achingly soft against his, and for one wild second, he almost lost his head completely and kissed Sabrina as his body prompted him to, but Ollie's voice, sharp with indignation, brought him instantly and unpleasantly back to reality.
"Well, if that don't beat the Dutch!" Ollie exclaimed hotly. ''First the bloody bitch pulls a knife on you, and then you kiss her!"
With a sigh, Brett reluctantly lifted his mouth from Sabrina's. Recovering himself quickly, a rueful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, he murmured to Sabrina, "I think I can safely say that you have welcomed me properly, sweet cuz."
Dazed by his kiss, Sabrina gazed at him blankly for a second, the world slowly coming back into focus. Belatedly she became aware of Ollie, who had ridden up pulling the two heavily laden pack horses behind him. Staring at the small, monkey-faced young man who was regarding her balefully, she asked bewilderedly, "Who is he?"
"Well you may ask," Brett said easily. "This is Ollie Fram, my, er, man." Glancing at Ollie he added, "This is my cousin, Sabrina del Torres. We will be staying at her father's house."
Assessingly, Ollie and Sabrina eyed one another. To Ollie there were only two classes of females—good women and bad women, and Sabrina looked like a bad one to Ollie. The fact that she had just stabbed his employer didn't precisely endear her to him either. As for Sabrina, Ollie's misleading youthful appearance, as well as his travel-stained clothing and sparse beard, wasn't exactly wh
at one expected in the servant of a well-bred, wealthy young man like Brett Dangermond. But then, risking a glance at Brett's own bearded face and rough clothing, she decided that they probably suited each other. Cautiously she acknowledged Ollie with a slight inclination of her head. Ollie merely sniffed disapprovingly.
Rattled by the morning's events, she wasn't quite as calm and collected as she would have liked to be, and slipping lightly off Brett's horse, she said stiltedly, "If you'll follow me, I'll lead you to the hacienda."
It took only a second to whistle up Sirocco, and within minutes, the trio was riding down the dusty red road that led to Sabrina's home. Forest pressed thickly against the road—more a path than a road—pines, black willow, redbud, and sweet gum intermixed with coral honeysuckle, wild azaleas, and cinnamon ferns.
Sabrina's home, Brett discovered a moment later when the forest stopped and they rode out into the open, was a pleasant example of rustic graciousness. The outbuildings in the distance were of adobe and rough-hewn lumber; the corrals and paddocks of split rails were unpainted, but the weather had worn the unprotected wood to a rich, warm, sienna brown that was extremely pleasing to the eye. The hacienda, the casa grande, was nestled among the encroaching forest and constructed with tiled roofs and arched walkways and windows in the Moorish fashion. It was impressive in its size and reminded Brett vividly of Spain.
Made of adobe and exposed square beams, the main portion of the house was single-storied, built long and low to the ground. The eaves of the roof had been extended, and they formed wide, welcoming corridors of shade that served as outside hallways. Jutting out at right angles to the rear of the main building was a two-storied wing; a black filigreed iron railing enclosed the narrow balcony that overlooked the front of the hacienda. A courtyard shadowed by graceful, sprawling redbud trees and orange and lemon trees led to wide double doors. As Brett gingerly dismounted, favoring his wounded arm, those doors flew open and Alejandro, a warm smile on his face, came rushing across the courtyard, saying, ''How good to see you! I have been looking for you these past weeks and had just about given up hope that you would accept my invitation." His smile faded though as his eyes took in the bloodstained shirt and Sabrina's disheveled appearance. Concern on his face, he inquired, "What has happened? Were you attacked by bandits?"
Brett grimaced. "No. Let's just say that Sabrina and I had a . . . misunderstanding."
Well aware of his daughter's volatile temper and propensity for rash action, Alejandro frowned darkly, and he threw Sabrina a look full of disapproval. "What have you been doing this time, chica?" he asked half-angrily, half-resignedly.
Sabrina's soft mouth tightened, and she was slightly indignant that she should have to explain herself to her father. But before she could formulate something less than the heated reply that trembled on her lips, Brett broke in with, "It wasn't her fault. She thought I was an outlaw intent upon, er, ravishing her, and I thought she was a boy on a runaway—my actions were somewhat abrupt and to the point. Before either of us realized our mistakes, I'm afraid she defended her honor rather effectively." A twisted grin on his mouth, he nodded in the direction of his bleeding arm and added lightly, "Don't worry about this bit of nonsense. I assure you I have suffered far worse in the past."
"I see," said Alejandro slowly. He sensed that there was more to the tale, but not one to force confidences, he turned away, and clapping his hands, he called loudly, "Bonita! Josefa! Clemente! Elias! Come quickly! We have visitors!"
The next moment the courtyard was swarming with servants and filled with the murmuring of voices as Brett was welcomed and his wound exclaimed over. With much clucking he was led away by Bonita and Josefa, Ollie following jealously behind. Clemente and Elias swiftly and competently saw that the baggage was unloaded and taken to the rooms that would be Senor Dangermond's during his stay. Another call from Alejandro brought more men running from the stables to take charge of the horses.
The courtyard deserted now except for Sabrina and her father, Alejandro sent her a thoughtful look as she stood there, her hair tumbling down to her waist, the boyish garb somehow intensifying her femininity. Just the faintest note of censure in his voice, Alejandro said slowly, "I think the time has come for you to put aside this unsuitable apparel. You are a young woman now, not a wild savage." A slight smile softening his words, he continued lightly, "Your madre would not be happy if she could see you now, chica. She would think I had done badly in raising you." He quirked an eyebrow at her, as if encouraging an answer, but there was a stubborn tilt to her chin that he knew too well, and a second later he turned away and entered the house in search of his guest.
Feeling strangely bereft and oddly resentful at the same time, Sabrina glared at the empty courtyard. Inside she was a mixture of emotions: ashamed and angry at her father's words, not precisely happy with Brett Dangermond's arrival, and yet not unhappy, more confused and a little insulted at the way he had treated her. One thing was certain though—Brett Dangermond had come back into her life with the suddenness and violence of a lightning bolt, and she was very much afraid that her world was never going to be the same again.
CHAPTER SIX
It was several hours later before Brett and Sabrina saw one another again, and the intervening time had been used to good effect by both of them. Brett's wound had been tended to by Bonita, and while she muttered that it would have to be sewn and that it was going to leave a scar, there was no real worry about it.
Bathed, shaved, and clothed in a white cotton shirt and black breeches and boots, his wounded arm resting in a sling of scarlet silk, Brett bore little resemblance to the brigand Sabrina had first thought him. Only those deep-set, cynical jade-green eyes betrayed that while he wore the trappings of a gentleman, underneath his aristocratic bearing might very well lurk a brigand.
It was true that the sudden meeting with Sabrina had thrown him momentarily off guard and that for one dangerous moment, as he had tasted the sweetness of her lips, his defenses had suffered a serious breach. But that insanity had lasted only for as long as it had taken him to realize the folly of what he was feeling, and he had cursed himself roundly for being such a fool. By the time they had arrived at the hacienda, he had convinced himself that the incident meant nothing.
Sabrina's emotions were harder to define and were certainly far more confusing. She had never known desire until he had kissed her, never before been overly curious about what went on between a man and a woman. But Brett's warm lips on hers had awakened a host of sensations that she wasn't positive she wanted to feel, suspecting that they could plunge her into treacherous waters.
After her father had left her in the front courtyard, she had wandered upstairs to her room. As she had walked past the open doorway of Brett's room she had had no inclination to linger in that vicinity. Sabrina knew she should have inquired after his wound, but she was too angry and distressed by the entire series of events to do so. She was also vaguely conscious of an uneasiness at knowing he would be situated just down the hall from her own room.
Not that she expected Brett to creep down the hall and ravish her, she thought with a contemptuous snort as she pushed aside the voluminous yards of filmy mosquito netting that ringed her bed. Flopping down on the bright yellow and green silk quilt that lay atop the mattress, she propped her chin up on her hands and stared blankly into space. Unable to help herself, once again she relived the moment she had recognized the dark-faced devil who had held her captive. She should, she realized bleakly, have been relieved. But she hadn't been then and she wasn't now. Instead she was filled with an odd mixture of resentment, bewilderment, excitement, and anger.
I don't want him here! she finally decided. He was too disturbing, too disruptive, and she just knew he was going to interfere with the even tenor of her days—completely ignoring the fact that only hours before she had been bewailing those same even-tenored days. Already his presence was making itself uncomfortably felt, she mused rebelliously—never before had her father off
ered the slightest objection to her usual riding attire ... or her boyish activities. Yet today, within moments of Brett Dangermond's arrival, he had done both, criticizing her clothes and reminding her to act like a young lady. He also, she thought moodily, had neglected to mention anything about a possible visit from Brett Dangermond.
Frowning, she considered that thought and its implications. There had never been any secrets between her and her father. While he didn't tell her everything that he did, it seemed odd that he would withhold information about a simple invitation issued to, if not a blood relative, at least a close connection to the family. Unless there was more behind Brett's visit than just a family visit? But what? And why had Brett Dangermond decided to accept that invitation?
Her brow puckered in concentration. Throughout the years that had passed since Sofia's wedding to Hugh Dangermond, quite a lot of information had come Sabrina's way about Brett, and now, as much because of her father's inexplicable, almost secret invitation as a need to understand why Brett himself should suddenly appear in the wilds of Spanish Texas, she dredged it up from memory. Brett had left home at an early age, that she knew. She also knew from Sofia's frequent letters that Hugh worried about his eldest son a great deal and even upon occasion threatened to disown him. There had been a few scattered references to gambling and duels and the wish on Hugh's part that Brett would settle down and take an interest in Riverview, but there was nothing that Sabrina could recall that would explain why he was now at the Rancho del Torres. It made no sense, she decided heavily—from Sofia's letters it was obvious he was far more at home in the sophisticated, vice-ridden capitals of Europe than in Nacogdoches. Small Nacogdoches was scarcely more than a wilderness outpost and had little to offer a man of Brett's background. So why was he here? she wondered uneasily. Had Hugh finally disowned him and thrown him penniless upon the world? Did he think to recoup his fallen fortunes from her father? Or had he been forced to flee the civilized world because of some heinous crime?
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