Sabrina, too, was ordering new gowns, shawls, shoes, bonnets, and all manner of delightful fripperies. It was such a pleasure to shop for colors after ne£u*ly two years of wearing black that she threw herself into an orgy of buying, telling herself frequently that she didn't really need to worry about expenses—after all, it was her own money! And yet there were times when she was distinctly uncomfortable knowing that her bills were sent directly to Brett. Buying clothing was such a personal task, and she blushed when she thought of all of the delicate, intimate bits of silk and frothy lace that she had purchased, imagining the sardonic lift of those black brows when he read the descriptions on the bills.
Brett's manner completely bewildered Sabrina. She had been prepared for him to extract a certain measure of vengeance from the situation in which they found themselves, but beyond the first evening when he had kissed her, his manner had been precisely that of a guardian . . . well, not exactly, she thought with a slight frown. There was a look in his eyes, something about the way his gaze would sometimes travel over her, that made Sabrina remember vividly what it felt like to be held in his arms. Yet at other times, times when he was being his most sarcastic and provoking, she would find it hard to believe that once his derisively curved mouth had plundered hers, that once those strong arms had been locked passionately around her, his big, hard body joined with hers.
It was peculiar, Sabrina reflected with wonder, how quickly she and Francisca had settled down to living with Brett. They had come here determined to fight him to the bitter end, but here it was already the middle of May and they were comfortably, if not ecstatically, established in his home. A faint smile crossed her lips as it occurred to her that one of the reasons for the apparent tranquillity was the fact that Brett was seldom at home—occasionally he had joined them for breakfast, and a few times he had dined with them, but for the most part, they went about their daily life as if he didn't exist.
Sabrina grimaced. Francisca might be able to pretend he didn't exist, but she herself was always very aware of him, even when he wasn't around, very aware that once he had been her love—her lover. At the strangest timesbrushing her hair in the morning or seemingly absorbed in the selection of material for a new gown—she would find herself thinking of him, visualizing the way his thick black lashes could hide the expression in those jade-green eyes, the way his mouth would quirk with sardonic amusement, and regrettably, the way her heart would plummet to her toes every time she glanced up and found his eyes upon her.
Restlessly she stirred on the stone bench where she was sitting beneath one of the magnolia trees in the courtyard. She didn't want to think about Brett, didn't want to acknowledge that the idea of challenging his guardianship was growing less and less desirable, becoming less important. . . .
Angrily she brought herself up short. Of course she was going to fight for what was hers . . . eventually. Naturally this situation couldn't be allowed to continue. After all, he was a blackguard! A conniving, scheming scoundrel who had utterly hoodwinked her father!
The truth of the matter, though, was that Sabrina was finding it harder and harder to whip up the righteous indignation she had once felt so deeply. She had forgotten nothing, not the terrible pain she had experienced when she had faced Constanza and realized the full extent of Brett's villainy, nor the fury she had known when Alejandro's will had been read. Yet it all seemed so long ago, so removed from now, that entire days would go by without her ever thinking of the guardianship or what had happened six years ago.
She sighed heavily, conscious that she no longer really even held her father's will against Brett. She might have ranted furiously at first, too stunned to think clearly, but her own sense of fairness had reasserted itself, and she was willing to admit that Alejandro's will hadn't been Brett's fault—he'd made it abundantly clear that being her guardian was the last thing in the world that he wished. No, she couldn't blame him for her father's stubborn determination to bring them together again, and she more than Brett, perhaps, was aware of precisely what Alejandro had hoped would happen if they were forced into each other's company.
A sad little smile flitted across her lips. How wrong could her father have been? But then, he hadn't known the truth, hadn't known the real reason Brett had wanted to marry her, hadn't known of Constanza. And, Sabrina admitted miserably, it wasn't just that Constanza and Brett had been lovers that had caused her to reject him. That she could have forgiven him, if he had loved her, if his affair with the other woman had been over with before he had asked her to marry him. She had known that he was no monk, knew that there were bound to have been other women in his life; she had even been aware of the affair between him and Constanza—Carlos had been so very kind to point it out—but Brett's past hadn't mattered to her—provided it was his past. To discover that after he had made love to her, had asked for her hand in marriage, he had still been seeing Constanza, still been making promises to the other woman, had in fact seduced and ruined Constanza—that type of reprehensible conduct could not be borne.
And yet . . . and yet, while she could and did, for the most part, bury the past, bury her pain and disillusionment deep in her mind, the memory of the love she had once felt for him would not be banished along with the other ugly memories. She was shamefully aware that time may have blunted her anguish and rage, but it had done nothing to lessen the shattering impact his very nearness had upon her.
Her expression bleak, Sabrina stared down at her clenched hands. How could she possibly feel anything for such a man? How dare her heart continue to long for such a wicked creature! She was no fool, no silly, naive child falling in love for the first time. She was nearly twenty-four years old, a woman who should know better. Yet she felt as foolish and deluded as any female who had ever yearned for a handsome, unscrupulous rogue, knowing full well that if she persisted upon this mad course, the future would only bring pain and humiliation.
Which was why she could not allow herself to drift any longer, she thought painfully. Coming here, seeing him again, was the most ridiculous and unwise thing she could have done. She would have been far better off if she had never seen him again, never subjected herself to his powerful lure. For a second tears stung her eyes. What a weak, maudlin creature she was! Surely she had more control over her actions than did the poor besotted moth, fascinated by fire? Or was she doomed, like the moth, to be consumed by the beckoning flame?
Her chin lifted slightly. She must speak with Brett. Must make her escape while there was still time. While she could still think clearly, still clearly see the pitfalls that lay in front of her. Things must be settled between them before her own treacherous emotions betrayed her, before they blinded her to everything but the craving need to accept him on any terms.
She started to rise, to go in search of Brett immediately, but then, with a sigh, half-impatient, half-relieved, she sank back down, remembering that he had left five days ago on business and that he wouldn't be back until evening. That would be soon enough, she reflected slowly. She would leave word that she wished to speak to him, and she would carefully plan what she would say. And pray God that she could convince Brett, the guardianship aside, that it would be best for all of them, if she returned to Nacogdoches.
It was unusual for Sabrina to find herself with this much time all her own, but today there had been nothing planned. No fittings. No shopping trips in town. No visiting with Tia Francisca's friends—her aunt was currently nursing a mild indisposition and was resting in her rooms. Tonight, too, was free—no amusements, no soiree, no opera or theater to attend. Nothing.
It was actually her first opportunity since she had arrived in New Orleans to sit down and think, to examine her own emotions and to realize how effortlessly she was falling under Brett's spell once again. The first time she'd had to speculate about him, to wonder about his actions . . .
He was a complete enigma to her. He could have made things very unpleasant, and she had every reason to believe that he would do so, but he hadn'
t. Of course, he hadn't made them precisely pleasant either, she thought with a twist to her sweet mouth. He treated her with an infuriating sort of detached, friendly contempt that she found difficult to accept or understand. But then there were times, precious few, when for long moments she would catch dizzying glimpses of the Brett who had so fascinated her, moments when he would completely disarm her Yet, a second later, almost as if realizing that he had lowered his guard, his face would close up, his smile fade, and she would be left with the caustic indifference that he usually accorded her. He did well at keeping her confused and unsettled, at never letting her totally relax in his presence. And yet, more perturbing than anything else, she had the uncomfortable sensation that behind the detachment, behind the sardonic manners, he was merely biding his time, playing with her, waiting for something. . . .
For what? she wondered uneasily. For her to lose her temper and lash out at him? Was that why he acted so provokingly at times? Because he was deliberately driving her in a direction of his own devising?
Well, what did it matter now? she asked herself wearily. She would see him tonight and convince him, somehow, that she no longer wished to remain in New Orleans. That she belonged in Nacogdoches and that, as soon as was practical, she should return to her home. It was the wisest thing to do.
What her servants and Francisca were going to think, she didn't even want to speculate on. First she had dragged them willy-nilly to New Orleans, and now, with almost as little warning, she was preparing to drag them back to Nacogdoches. She shook her head at her own folly. What a fool I am! But at least, she told herself grimly, fool or not, I know when to retreat!
Her mind made up, Sabrina would have liked to have proceeded instantly with her plans, but the arrival of a note from Brett informing his household that he would not return until well after midnight this evening delayed her meeting with him. It also gave her a long and restless night in which to struggle with her thoughts, to question her own wisdom, to speculate on what his reaction to her request would be, and to rehearse again and again in her mind the cool, mature way in which she would counter any arguments he might put her way.
She had left word with Ollie that she wished to see Brett at the first possible time the following day, but she was considerably surprised when Ollie knocked on her door at eight o'clock the next morning and said gaily, "The guvnor says that if you must see him today, now's the time. Otherwise it will have to wait indefinitely."
Sabrina muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath. She wasn't prepared to see him this early in the morning—her hair had just been brushed and was tumbling about her shoulders, and she was gowned only in a simple frock of apple-green muslin. She looked very young and innocent, certainly not the cool, collected woman she had planned to present to him. For a second she hesitated, torn between the desire to have the meeting behind her and the equally strong desire not to give him any advantage. But if it meant waiting indefinitely . . .
Swallowing her dismay, trying to gather her flying thoughts, she walked beside Ollie as they made their way to the wing where Brett's rooms were located.
Brett's voice came muffled through the doors in response to Ollie's knock. Stepping aside, he motioned her to enter. An impish grin on his face, he said, "I expect you and the guvnor want to talk private-like."
Sabrina nodded her head, and then, her heart thumping uncomfortably, she pushed open the door and entered Brett's bedchamber. She had never been in this wing of the house, much less his personal rooms, and curiously she glanced around.
She was in a spacious antechamber. A brilliant green carpet lay upon the floor, several comfortable chairs covered in a rich brown leather were attractively arranged throughout the room, heavy marble-topped tables sat here and there, and at one end a massive, intricately carved sideboard of Spanish design caught her eye. The polished top had several neatly arranged objects on it—crystal decanters and glasses and various leather-covered boxes. A huge gilt mirror hung above the sideboard.
A wide archway separated the antechamber from Brett's actual sleeping quarters, and through it Sabrina glimpsed a large satinwood armoire and a balloon-backed chair covered in velvet. Unwilling to move farther into an area she considered dangerous, she stood uncertainly just inside the double doors. Clearing her throat nervously, she called out, "Are you there?"
Even expecting his answer, she was startled by his sudden appearance in the archway. He was clad in fleshclinging nankeen breeches and calf-hugging boots of umber leather, and was in the process of slipping on a white cotton shirt. His state of undress didn't concern him in the least, but it increased Sabrina's agitation. His black hair was ruffled and damp, and she guessed that he had just come from his bath. He made no move to finish fastening his shirt, and hastily she averted her eyes from the bronzed, muscled chest.
Embarrassed and uneasy, she muttered, "I can come back later if I have arrived at an inconvenient time."
Brett shrugged. Walking farther into the room and approaching the sideboard, he lifted the lid of one of the boxes and reached for a cheroot. Lighting it, he looked at her. "Your message was that you had to talk to me right away. 'Right away' is either now or next week—take your choice."
It wasn't an auspicious beginning. Sabrina wished passionately that she weren't so aware of his potent masculinity. Her mouth dry, trying not to let her eyes stray in his disturbing direction, she stated baldly, "I want to return to Nacogdoches."
Dead silence greeted her words. She waited tensely for some reply, and when none was forthcoming, she finally risked a glance at him.
He was regarding her thoughtfully, the cheroot clamped between his teeth. He inhaled deeply, and then with a maddening slowness gently blew out a stream of smoke. Almost idly he asked, "Why?"
Sabrina had been dreading that question, unable to simply say, because I'm afraid of you, afraid you'll destroy my own self-respect, afraid you'll reduce me to pleading for whatever of yourself you could give me. Helplessly she stammered, "B . . . because it's m . . . m . . . my h . . . home."
Brett shook his dark head. "Not anymore."
"I beg your pardon?" she replied breathlessly, a little spurt of angry fear shooting up through her.
"Your home is where I decide. And I've decided it is here."
Determined not to lose her temper, Sabrina strangled back the hot retort that sprang to her lips. Clasping her hands tightly in front of her, she said distractedly, "I am unhappy here. I . . . I . . .I think it would be best, for both of us, if I returned to Nacogdoches."
A mocking smile on his handsome mouth, Brett cocked a thick black eyebrow. "Best for both of us?" he drawled. "Why, my dear ward, whatever do you mean?"
The beast was enjoying this, she thought furiously, and unable to resist his baiting manner, she burst out angrily, "Oh, stop it, damn you! This is ridiculous! You never wanted to be my guardian, and I don't wish to be your ward! The only solution is for us to have as little as possible to do with each other." When he remained unmoved, his eyes fixed on her flushed features, she said tiredly, "I don't want to fight with you, Brett—and while we've managed to brush through the last few weeks without any clashes, it is only a matter of time until . . ." She stopped, the words dying in her throat as he slowly walked toward her.
The cheroot tossed accurately into a brass spittoon nearby, he stopped inches from her. His smoky breath caressing her face, he prompted, "Until?"
Sabrina swallowed convulsively, his tantalizing nearness driving coherent thought from her mind. All she could think of was the warmth that emanated from that powerful form, the pleasure she had found in his arms, the sweet ache that was spreading irresistibly through her own body. Humiliated by the betrayal that was going on inside her, and unable to bear the intense scrutiny of his eyes, she said huskily, "Until you push me too far."
He gave a harsh little laugh. "Until I push you? Sweetheart, you are far more likely to push me!"
Still too aware of him for her own good and unwilling t
o speculate on precisely what he meant by that statement, she said with far more calmness than she felt, "Which only proves my point—it would be better if I were not here in New Orleans, if we didn't see each other very often."
As if bored of the game, Brett turned around and flung himself down in one of the leather chairs. The expression in his eyes hard to define, he asked coolly, "How badly does this guardianship bother you?"
Surprised by the question, Sabrina stared at him. "A ...a...a g... great d . . . deal," she got out almost on a whisper, wishing frantically that she knew what he was thinking.
"Only a great deal?" he questioned sardonically. "It doesn't chafe at you? Infuriate you? Madden you to know that I have complete control over you—and your much-prized fortune?"
There was a note in his voice when he mentioned her fortune that made her frown slightly. A note of contempt and distaste. Now why . . . ?
Brett's voice broke into her thoughts. "Doesn't it?" he demanded grimly.
A little angry at the whole conversation, Sabrina replied fiercely, "Yes, yes, it does! Sometimes it is intolerable!"
The Tiger Lily Page 37
