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 t
he 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?"
Sabrina did. It was very apparent to her that Morgan Slade adored his wife much the way Alejandro had loved Elena, and she found that knowledge comforting. Her expression teasing, she said, "I would like very much to meet this fierce lady. Do you think I could?"
"I'm certain nothing would give Leonie greater pleasure —except the healthy and speedy arrival of our child," Morgan returned promptly. "But I would suggest that we postpone that occasion until after the birth of the baby. She is in her last weeks and is very uncomfortable at times."
"Oh, of course!" Sabrina said quickly. "And I will look forward to the day when we do finally meet."
The conversation was desultory for several minutes, and when Sabrina next suggested that she leave the gentlemen to finish their conversation, Brett agreed with unflattering alacrity. His face unrevealing, he walked to a velvet rope pull in one corner, and giving it a brief tug, he said coolly, "I'll have Andrew, my butler, show you about the house. After all, it is going to be your home, too."
There was something about the way he said those seemingly innocuous words that gave Sabrina an odd shiver down her spine. Delight or fear?
Andrew turned out to be the servant who had first directed her to the library, and with an obedience that dismayed her, Sabrina found herself meekly following Brett's orders. A warm, polite smile curving her mouth, she bid Morgan good-bye and then s
wiftly preceded Andrew from the room.
There was a moment of silence after she had left, and then Morgan said thoughtfully, "I wonder if you realize what you are doing?"
Brett snorted. Walking over to the marble-topped table that Sabrina had glimpsed behind the couch, which served as a liquor cabinet, Brett poured them both a snifter of brandy. Turning back to face Morgan, he handed him one of the snifters and muttered, "Where that particular little witch is concerned, I never realize anything except that she drives me half-mad!"
"And yet you accepted the guardianship?"
A peculiar expression flitted across Brett's dark face. Not quite cruel and yet not exactly unkind. He seated himself in the wing-backed chair before answering Morgan's question. Staring at the amber liquid in his snifter, he said quietly, "Yes, I did. And even I'm not certain of either the wisdom of having done so or the reasons why I did. I know the most acceptable one is because I feel compelled, in view of the respect and affection I bore Alejandro, to carry out his final wishes, but the others . . ." His voice trailed off, that strange expression once more crossing his features.
"Revenge?" Morgan suggested softly, well aware of the bitter, disillusioned state Brett had been in upon his return from visiting Spanish Texas six years ago.
The Tiger Lily Page 33
