His eyes icy, he drawled, "No, certainly not poor!" His face grim, he added deliberately, "But then, I never was poor—something you should have discovered before you so summarily threw my marriage proposal back in my face."
Furious that he had given so much away, Brett stood up abruptly. "If you will excuse me, I will leave you now."
Open-mouthed with astonishment, Sabrina stared speechlessly as he walked quickly across the room and disappeared through the doorway. Frowning, her thoughts in a turmoil, she, too, rose and left the dining room.
Sleep did not come easily to Sabrina this night. There was too much to think about, too many confusing, contradictory things to reflect upon.
This morning she hadn't really taken in much of what he had said beyond the statement of wanting her for a mistress, but now, lying wide-eyed in the darkness of her room, she slowly reviewed that unsettling confrontation. There had been the distinct implication, now that she thought of it, that six years ago she had found him wanting, or rather, that she had found his fortune wanting. She frowned. But that was impossible! She had loved him, and his money or lack of it had never entered into her emotions. But then, why was there always that jeering note in his voice whenever he mentioned money, especially her money? What had he called it once—her much-prized fortune? And now, tonight, again the implication that she might not have terminated their bethrothal if she had known the true state of his financial affairs.
Her frown deepening, she sat up in bed, knees against her chest. Oh, it was ridiculous! He can't have thought that she was after his fortune? A guilty flush covered her face as slyly the question crept through her brain—why not? You thought he was after yours! She wiggled uncomfortably, shame crawling within her. But I had good reason! she protested weakly. Good reason? her mind jeered. What good reason could make you believe such a thing of the man you professed to love? But Sabrina knew the answer to that question even if she wished she didn't. Carlos and Constanza, she whispered into the darkness. And that effectively ended her argument with herself. It was true that Brett himself had never given any indication that her fortune held any particular allure for him, but even if she could have brushed away Carlos's comments about Brett being a fortune hunter as jealous barbs, there was no possible way she could refute Constanza's far more damaging confession that terrible afternoon in the gazebo. For just a second, she was conscious of a spurt of outrage at the callous way Brett had apparently abandoned Constanza to her fate. But then, sighing heavily, Sabrina lay back. What good did it do to torture herself this way? That query was unanswerable, but there was an even more puzzling and disturbing question to ponder—if Brett had been after her fortune as Carlos and Constanza claimed, and she had no reason not to believe them, then why did he appear to be laboring under the misapprehension that she had only been interested in his fortune?
There was no answer to that question either, and eventually she fell into troubled sleep, but even her dreams gave her little comfort. All through the remainder of the night, she was doomed to dream the same dream over and over again: her heart so full of love it felt it would burst from her breast, she was running joyously toward Brett where he stood by the lake, his arms outstretched to catch her near. His face was warm and welcoming, love clearly shining out of those jade-green eyes as she approached. But then, without warning, a heavy fog came between them and she was enveloped by a smothering sense of foreboding. That terrible feeling of suffocating foreboding increased when out of nowhere Carlos and Constanza suddenly appeared and began to clutch her wrists, stopping her progress as she fought to reach Brett. She cried out, but no sound seemed to permeate the thick mist, and she struggled futilely to free herself. Through the ghostly vapors, she could barely see Brett's tall figure, but she knew the instant his face changed, knew when it became hard and contemptuous, knew when his arms fell listlessly to his sides. Frantically she increased her efforts to escape, but it was fruitless. Tears sliding unheeded down her cheeks, she watched helplessly as Brett finally disappeared into the concealing mists.
Not unnaturally, she woke tired and depressed, barely able to force herself out of bed. The dream was still vivid, and she was unhappily conscious of a feeling of resentment against Carlos and Constanza—if only they hadn't interfered! But then she pushed that thought aside. Their interference didn't change anything—Brett hadn't loved her.
Brett, too, woke tired and depressed—a most unusual state for him. The fatigue he could put down to the hard work he had been cramming into every spare moment of the past few days, seeing that Fox's Lair was made ready for Sabrina's arrival. But the depression troubled him—surely after yesterday's confrontation with Sabrina he should be elated . . . shouldn't he? After all, he had her precisely where he wanted, didn't he?
If all of that was true, why did he have this nagging feeling of dissatisfaction, this depressing feeling that something was missing, this increasingly annoying sensation that his quest for vengeance wasn't giving him quite the pleasure he had thought it would? He should have woken this morning with a feeling of eager anticipation—Sabrina might not give him the answer he wanted immediately, but there was no doubt in his mind that before too long, she would humble that arrogant pride of hers and consent to his unscrupulous proposal.
His face twisted. Was that the root of his depression and dissatisfaction, the knowledge that he was acting dishonorably and unscrupulously?
With a sort of baffled rage, he glared at the elegant furnishings of his bedroom. Surely, having dreamed of this moment, having planned to put her in this position, he wasn't having second thoughts . . . wasn't allowing his resolve to weaken? Or was he?
No, he decided coldly. He wasn't having second thoughts —Alejandro had been a damned romantic fool to have added that codicil to his will! And if the man he had chosen to act as his daughter's guardian took advantage of the powers given him, it was Alejandro's own fault!
Moodily Brett got out of bed and splashed some water in his face from the pitcher that sat on the marble-topped washstand near his bed. Honor, he argued, had nothing to do with the situation. She deserved to suffer at his hands—hadn't she made him suffer? Hadn't she hurt him more deeply, more painfully, than anyone ever had in his entire life? Heartlessly and cruelly tossed him aside simply because his fortune hadn't been large enough to satisfy her greed? Wasn't it only justice that he gain a certain amount of satisfaction from the handful of aces that Alejandro had so foolishly dealt him?
Ruthlessly he told himself that the answer to all of those questions was a resounding yes! Unfortunately, that decision didn't help his state of mind and didn't lighten his black mood. He suspected that some of his heaviness of spirit had to do with the affection and respect that he had borne Alejandro—it went against the grain to betray a man's trust . . . even a dead man's.
Alejandro's death had hit Brett hard, almost as hard as losing his own father would have. And to learn that Alejandro had been basely murdered had filled him with such a vengeful fury that he had finally not been able to contain it. As Ollie had speculated, he had gone to Nacogdoches late last summer, intent upon finding Alejandro's killer. But by the time he had arrived in the small Spanish outpost, whatever trail had existed was cold. Disguised by a thick beard, a slouch-brim hat, and rough clothing, he had spent several weeks quietly, unobtrusively asking questions, sifting through what little information was available, savagely determined that just one tiny clue would emerge. In the end, however, he had known his quest was hopeless, and so, with a bleak heart, he had ridden away from Nacogdoches . . . but not before giving in to the impulse that had been eating at him since he had first crossed the Sabine River—perhaps since he had ridden away so furiously that summer of 1800. It had been folly, sheer madness, to ride by the lake, to stop and look at the gazebo where he had made love to Sabrina that moonlit night so long ago. And when, through the open arches of the gazebo, he had seen her suddenly rising up before him, a knife-sharp sense of pleasure had cut through him. Only for a second
, only for a moment, his guard had been down, before he had viciously throttled the powerful emotions that had sung through him. Not ready to see her again, unwilling to trust his own reactions, especially in this evocative place, he had sharply reined his horse aside and stoically ridden for New Orleans, envisioning the sweet revenge he would take upon her.
So now, why, when everything was working out precisely as he had planned, did the idea of victory leave him so dissatisfied and depressed? His desire to possess her was unabated—too many nights of late, he had slept restlessly, his body aching to know the ecstasy of hers, and he had only to conjure up her image in his mind for physical proof of his desire to be instantly noticeable. The need for revenge was just as strong and powerful as ever, or rather, the desire to teach her a lesson was just as strong, but he had the unsettling conviction that forcing her to become his mistress wasn't necessarily going to teach her the lesson that he wanted her to learn—nor was it going to ease the incessant pain that had been with him since she had so summarily terminated their betrothal nearly six years ago. . . .
His face tightened, one hand closing into a fist, the knuckles gleaming whitely. He would just learn to live with the pain, just as he had in the past, and in the meantime ... In the meantime, he would have her in his bed, he thought caustically, and his body would have relief, if not his heart!
Dressing swiftly, he left his rooms minutes later and was on his way to the stables when Ollie, an envelope in his hand, stopped his progress. With resignation, Brett noticed that the envelope had been opened, and dryly he asked, "Am I ever to receive any missive that you don't peruse first?"
Ollie grinned. "Now, guvnor, you know you can't teach an old dog new tricks! And I've been opening your letters for so long now that I don't think I could ever stop!" Brett snorted and quickly made himself cognizant of the facts of the letter. It was from Morgan. It read,
Dear Brett,
When I returned home, coincidentally there was a letter from Jason waiting for me. He and his family are planning to come to New Orleans in late July, early August, and so, instead of writing to him, if it meets with your approval, I suggest we simply wait until he arrives and then I shall arrange a meeting for the three of us, perhaps here at the Chateau—that way, Sabrina and Catherine can visit with Leonie while we gentlemen discuss matters to our satisfaction. Agreed?
Morgan.
Glancing at Ollie, Brett said, "Write a reply for me, telling him that I am agreeable to whatever he arranges, and have one of the servants deliver it to the Chateau Saint-Andre, please. Oh, and while I think of it—before I leave,<, I'll write a letter to my father, and I'd like you to have a servant carry it to him personally." He smiled. "Otherwise, Hugh might not get it for weeks."
Ollie nodded and started to turn away, but Brett's voice halted him. "I'm leaving you in charge of everything while I'm at Fox's Lair—I've already told Andrew and the other servants that they are to look to you for their orders," Brett said slowly. "I should be gone about a week to ten days this time. I'll write you, giving you a more definite return date later, but when I get back, I'd like the household ready for removal to Fox's Lair."
Sabrina took the news of Brett's absence rather well, almost with relief. There was time yet before she had to make her fateful decision, and she could only hope that in the pitifully short time allotted to her, some other resolution to her dilemma would present itself.
But even with the uncertainty of the future hanging over her head, despite her anger and resentment at the path he was forcing her to follow, she found that she missed Brett's vital presence dreadfully. The atmosphere within the house seemed so dull, so boring, so listless, without him, and to her horror she found herself counting the days until he would return.
Much to Francisca's delight, Carlos arrived one sunny afternoon after Brett had been gone for about five days. Sabrina, however, viewed his arrival with decidedly mixed emotions, and she discovered that she wasn't as elated to see him as she could have been. His presence was only going to complicate matters further. Her uneasiness grew when Francisca insisted that he stay the night with them and arrogantly ordered that a suite of rooms be prepared for him. The initial greetings and current news had already been exchanged, and the three of them were seated in the tree-shaded courtyard, seeking relief from the humid warmth of the day, when Francisca made her wishes known. At her aunt's brazen disregard of Brett's views on the subject, Sabrina stiffened and somewhat stiltedly said, "Tia, I don't think that would be such a good idea. Senor Dangermond— "
Haughtily Francisca interrupted. "What do I care what he thinks! He is not here; we are! Besides," she added smugly, "now that Carlos is here, things will be changed."
Her expression suspiciously meek, Sabrina asked, "Oh? How is that?" And she glanced questioningly at Carlos, who was sprawled comfortably in a cane-backed chair.
Carlos regarded her thoughtfully, aware that her greeting had not been as welcoming as it could have been. And he was very much aware that while she was willing to visit politely with him and offer refreshments, she definitely didn't want him staying here. Slyly he drawled, "Is there some reason why I shouldn't abide in the same house as my mother and dear cousin? Especially since your money probably bought it!"
"We don't know that!" Sabrina flashed back angrily. Her color heightened, she said more calmly, "And until we do, this is his home." Looking Carlos squarely in the eye, she finished with, "Senor Dangermond has expressed the wish that you not stay here with us. It is unfortunate that he feels that way, but I think it is best if you find another place to stay during your visit here in the city."
Francisca was outraged. Sending her niece a glance of scathing dislike, she spat, "And just who do you think you are to make such a decision? I am your aunt, and you will obey me! I say that my son stays here with us where he belongs! How dare you side with that gringo!"
Carlos watched Sabrina's set face carefully, wondering what she was thinking. It was obvious that these few months apart, while he had been gone to Mexico City, had badly damaged his relationship with her. She was friendly, but he sensed a barrier between them. The gringo? A jealous glitter in his black eyes, he searched her features for a clue.
Despite everything, Carlos had never given up hope that one day he would marry Sabrina and at last gain the two things that had always eluded him—the woman and the del Torres fortune. Doggedly he had pursued both, confident that one day he would win Sabrina. Alejandro's will had nearly been the death of his dreams, but during the long ride back from Mexico City, he had decided that he would make one last effort—it was foolhardy to hold his hand much longer. Bitterly he had acknowledged that after this length of time, Sabrina wasn't ever going to love him as a husband, and so he had cold-bloodedly begun to plan a way in which to force her hand in marriage. There was only one way, he had finally conceded to himself—to make her pregnant.
A slightly cruel smile had crossed his dark face. It would give him great pleasure to get her with child. It wouldn't matter that she would hate him; shame alone would force her to marry him. And once married, from the security of Mexico City, he was certain he could break Alejandro's will. After all, their common relatives in Mexico were rich and powerful, and Carlos never doubted that they would join in the battle to wrest control of Alejandro's fortune from an outsider.
He'd had it all plotted out—even the place where he would keep Sabrina prisoner until she was pregnant and had learned who was her master. He hadn't been best pleased when he had arrived at Nacogdoches and had discovered that he had left things almost until too late. But then, Constanza had warned him that might happen. . . .
For a second his eyes narrowed. Who would have thought that Constanza Morales would be in Mexico City? Or that they would meet? His mouth thinned. Or that she would be contentedly married to a wealthy Spanish grandee? A tall, handsome man who reminded him infuriatingly of Brett Dangermond. Even now he couldn't believe it. Couldn't believe that the glowing, comfortably plump woman
at the side of the visiting aristocrat at his Tia Ysabel's grand house in Mexico City was indeed Constanza Morales. Only she was now Constanza Ferrera, happily married and the doting mother of two young children—two fine sons, ages three and four. He had been thunderstruck. Not only to meet her there in Mexico, but to find her so changed, so greatly changed. Gone was the scheming, unhappy woman who would have done anything to gain her way. Marriage and security had softened her, molded her into a creature he hardly recognized.
When, at last, he had contrived a moment alone with her, when he would have re-established their intimacy, she had gently but firmly rebuffed him. Her liquid dark eyes full of pity, she had said, "You haven't changed at all, Carlos, mi amigo. " Her voice husky, she had added, "But I have—and those days of careless, selfish passion are behind me. I am shamed when I remember them." Love evident with every word she spoke, she had continued, "I am married to a good man, the kind of man I dreamed of but never expected to find! God has blessed me abundantly these past years since we parted—with my husband and my sweet babies. There isn't an hour that goes by when I don't send up a silent prayer of thankfulness for all the wonderful things that have happened to me since I met Jorge." Her eyes shadowed, she had finished with, "I don't deserve any of it . . . especially since I gained all I have at the expense of innocent people—a pair of young lovers who were separated because of me."
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