To Carlos's utter amazement, she had been sincere. It had been patently obvious, from the expression in her eyes when she spoke of her husband and children to the way she very honestly pitied him! Angrily he had snarled, "It is all good and well when one has everything one ever desired to sit in judgment on others. There was a time when you didn't feel this way—when you used every means at your disposal to get what you wanted!"
Constanza had looked away. Her voice thick with remorse she had whispered, "All of what you say is true, and if I could undo it, I would." Tears swimming in the large dark eyes, she had said painfully, "I have often thought of writing to Sabrina and explaining my part in what we did-"
''No!" Carlos had shouted, fear shooting through his body. It was imperative that Sabrina continue to trust him. Whatever plans he made for the future were pivotal upon that one fact.
Constanza had stared at him, and hastily he had improvised, "It doesn't matter anymore what we did—she never really loved the gringo. She told me so." He had forced a pleased smile on his mouth. "When I return, I have hopes of marrying her. Of late she has given me certain indications ..."
Thoughtfully Constanza had regarded him, and he had been aware that she was trying to decide if he was telling the truth. She must have decided that he was telling the truth, because a tense second later, she had murmured lightly, "Then you should not tarry here too long—your Sabrina might escape you."
How prophetic Constanza's words had been! He shot Sabrina a calculating look. His task was going to be much harder now—it was glaringly apparent that her opinion of the guardianship had altered drastically since she had arrived in the city. He noticed that there had been no outward signs of resentment against the gringo, and it was also obvious that she was a little aloof from his mother and even himself. Then there was the problem of finding a place to keep her, once he had kidnapped her. . , . Mentally Carlos shrugged. He would think of something. He always did.
PART FOUR
THE PROMISE OF LOVE
Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Thomas Moore
Lalla Rookh, Part VIII, The Light of the Haram
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Having decided that it would gain him little to insist on staying in Dangermond's house, Carlos had immediately set about soothing his mother and at the same time teasing Sabrina into relaxing. He had convinced both women, and it was true, that he had no intention of staying there. He would be nearby if they needed him, but for the time being he thought it best to find his own lodgings.
Sabrina had thrown him a grateful smile, and her parting with him was much warmer than her greeting had been. It wouldn't have been, however, if she'd had any inkling of what was going on in Carlos's mind. Upon leaving the Dangermond house, he had instantly repaired to the room he had hired at an inn near the center of the city. Dangermond's being gone was a stroke of luck, he decided thoughtfully that evening as he sat alone in his room. But he would have to work quickly if he meant to take advantage of it.
By the next afternoon, his plans were in place. He had secured a small, isolated cottage, five miles from the city. It was a dilapidated but sturdy little building that would suit his purposes. There were no neighbors nearby, and it was well concealed by the rampant undergrowth that characterized the uncultivated portions of the country. A swamp nearly surrounded the abandoned building, and Carlos had no doubt that it would be difficult to find. But even if Dangermond were eventually to track Sabrina to this place, it would be too late. Carlos smiled—it took such a little time to rape a woman. That she would be pregnant within days, if not hours, of his forced possession was a foregone conclusion in his mind.
Having found the place of captivity so quickly, Carlos was dismayed when his plans suffered a setback, in that Sabrina proved to be damnably elusive. He had come to call on Wednesday suggesting that they take a ride along the river, but Sabrina had demurred politely. She had excuses for declining every outing he proposed, almost as if she realized that her safety lay in the confines of the Dangermond house.
Sabrina didn't suspect Carlos of anything; she was just conscious of a growing feeling of unease whenever she was in his company. She knew that Brett was going to be furious when he returned and discovered that Carlos was running tame throughout his home, but that wasn't what kept her from accepting any of Carlos's invitations. It was something about the way Carlos looked at her. Something that gleamed in the back of those watchful black eyes that made her unwilling to be alone with him for longer than a few minutes. Something that made her remember his attack on her in the gazebo . . .
That and the dreams that had begin to haunt her at night. The dream of Brett at the lake came back often, but now it took an even more sinister turn, Constanza would fade away, and she was left alone with Carlos, but a Carlos she didn't recognize. Instead of the handsome, smiling visage of her childhood companion, his face changed into a malicious mask of evil. It frightened her, and while she was not superstitious, she couldn't shake the instinctive feeling that perhaps she shouldn't disregard her dreams. The memory of the gazebo, coupled with the nightmares, made her particularly skittish in his company. And then there was the fact that Brett had said that Carlos had lied. About what? she wondered frequently, but the moment to ask her cousin hadn't presented itself, and she resolved to ask him the next time Francisca left them alone for a moment.
Carlos's arrival had momentarily pushed the indecision about Brett's disgraceful proposal to the back of her mind, but by the time Carlos had been in New Orleans a few days, Sabrina knew that she could hide from it no more. She was going to accept Brett's ultimatum. Accept it and hope and pray that sometime within her six-month period of grace a miracle would occur . . . that Brett would fall in love with her.
It was a bitter decision. Made all the more so by the knowledge that she was actually aching to be in his arms, yearning to have him kiss and caress her as he had that moonlit night. She hungered for him, not just for his body, but for everything he was—arrogant, kind, cruel, generous, sardonic, fascinating, infuriating, hated, and dearly beloved, all at the same time.
Yet once the decision was made, once she had admitted that she loved him, that anything was preferable to not having him, she discovered a queer sense of confidence. That someway, somehow, she was going to make him love her—that the six months would stretch into a lifetime and that one day she would be his wife.
Perhaps it was the relief from the uncertainty that made her careless, that made her not think twice about attending the small soiree that was being held some distance from the city at the plantation of the Robleses, friends of Francisca's. Francisca was also going, so Sabrina felt no qualms that night when she stepped into the carriage with Carlos and his mother. The coach was Brett's, as were the servants who drove it, Ollie being one of them, and that, too, may have added to her feeling of security.
She enjoyed the soiree, and gowned in a sumptuous creation of icy green satin with a gauzy overslip of wispy white chiffon, her hair pulled back in an elegant chignon decorated with a fine silver net, she attracted all eyes. Her height as well as her graceful carriage made her instantly recognizable, and given those qualities and her warm smile and laughing amber-gold eyes, it wasn't surprising that there was usually a crowd of eager, flamboyant young Creole and Spanish gentlemen surrounding her.
Carlos was not one of them. Determined to take advantage of both the distance from the city and his mother's doting devotion to him, he had laid his plans accordingly. An important part of those plans was not to frighten off his quarry.
About halfway through the evening, when one of the older couples was preparing to leave, Carlos said casually to his mother, "Why don't you ride back to town with the Correias?" A coaxing note in his voice, he added, "It would give me an opportunity to be alone with Sabrina."
Francisca had looked at him and smiled fondly. "But of course, my son." She had shot him an arch glance. "You w
ill use the time to woo that silly girl, si?"
Carlos smiled. "Yes, you could say that." He dropped a light kiss on his mother's forehead. "And mama—don't worry if Sabrina doesn't come home for a few days."
Francisca was shocked at first, her eyes troubled. But then slowly she nodded her head. "I do not approve of this, but it may be the only way to force the gringo to release control of her," she said heavily.
Carlos nodded. "Exactly."
Making certain that Sabrina was occupied with her group of gallants, Carlos escorted his mother to the Correias' carriage, and once the carriage had pulled away, he walked over to the Dangermond coach. Idly he glanced around. Most of the servants were at the rear of the plantation house enjoying a little festivity of their own, and seeing that he was unobserved, he quickly wrenched loose the axle nut that held one of the rear wheels in place.
Throwing the nut over his shoulder, he smiled. There was a sharp curve in the road, about three miles away . . .and two tethered horses were waiting a short distance off the road in the underbrush. The wheel should stay in place until then, and once it came off and he had sent the servants after help . . . His smile widened as he re-entered the house.
Francisca, too, was smiling as she entered the Dangermond house a short while later. At last, she thought exultantly, her dream of seeing Carlos and Sabrina wed was going to happen. True, she wasn't pleased that it had taken this long or that it would be a runaway match, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that it didn't matter how it came about. All the insults she had put up with from the gringo would have been worth it—especially when, as she was certain would happen, the codicil to Alejandro's will was declared invalid.
She smiled happily, envisioning the things she would say to the gringo, and there was a proprietary gleam in her eyes as she glanced around the handsome foyer. Soon, all of this would be hers.
Her smile faded, though, when she suddenly spied Brett's tall form lounging in the doorway of the library. "What are you doing here?" she demanded angrily. "You were not expected until Tuesday!"
Displaying far more calmness than he felt, Brett moved away from the library door and said coolly, "I didn't realize that I had to give notice before returning to my own home."
A mottled flush stained Francisca's cheeks. Her black eyes not meeting his, she muttered, "I was surprised to see you. When did you arrive?"
"About an hour after your little party left for the Robles plantation," he drawled lightly. "It was the Robles soiree that you attended, was it not?"
"Si!" Francisca replied, thinking furiously of some way to conceal the current state of affairs. It would never do for the gringo to decide to ride out to the Robles plantation and escort Sabrina home. And certainly she must delay him until Carlos and Sabrina had made their escape. Hastily she said, "You must wonder why Sabrina is not with me?"
His eyes narrowed and watchful, Brett answered, "I think you could safely say that was the case. Where is she?"
The dark face gave nothing away, but something about the set of his jaw made Francisca decidedly uneasy. Did he know that Carlos was here in the city? That Carlos had escorted them to the soiree? And how was he going to take the news that Carlos was apparently escorting Sabrina home alone?
It was rather an awkward moment for Francisca. She would have preferred to dismiss the gringo, to refuse to answer his questions, yet on the other hand, she was aware of the need to be conciliatory—it would never do for him to go tearing out of the house in pursuit of Sabrina. She was also conscious that after the many ugly skirmishes between them, he wasn't about to be disarmed by a sudden charming manner. Quite the contrary, she thought sourly. It would far more likely alert him that something was afoot.
Brett watched her carefully, then, weary of the game, he demanded flatly, "Where is she? With that son of yours? Is he escorting her home?"
There was nothing to be gained by not admitting that much, so Francisca shrugged. "Yes. I was tired, and they were having such an amusing time, I left them and came home with the Correias."
He had expected something like that since the moment he had arrived home and had been informed that Carlos had accompanied the ladies to the soiree. And only the knowledge that Ollie was one of the servants with the coach had kept him from saddling his horse and riding to the plantation. But even suspecting that Carlos and Sabrina would take advantage of his absence for a tete-a-tete didn't lessen either the bitter disappointment that she still seemed to be dallying with her cousin or the unexpected jolt of fierce jealousy that ripped through his body. His voice clipped, he said, "You don't seem to take your duties as duenna very seriously. I would have thought it highly improper to desert your charge so far from home and this late at night."
Francisca drew herself up scornfully. "You dare to chastise me?" she asked incredulously. She flicked a disdainful glance up and down Brett's still form. "You forget yourself, gringo! Sabrina is my niece, Carlos, my son and her cousin; there is nothing the least improper in my actions!"
She had a valid point, but it did little to ease the anger and blind jealousy that was clouding his judgment. Dimly he realized that lashing out at Francisca would accomplish nothing. He gave her a mocking bow and murmured sardonically, "How kind of you to instruct me in etiquette."
Francisca glared at him, but although her hand clenched whitely over the handle of her black lutestring reticule, she said nothing. She would not let him goad her into foolish action. Stiffly she nodded her head and muttered, "If you will excuse me, I wish to seek out my bed."
"By all means," Brett returned with suspect affability. "I shall wait up for my ward alone." His eyes narrowed. "And Senor a, if she is not home here within a reasonable time . . . you and I shall have another little talk."
With an insouciance she was far from feeling, Francisca nodded her head and almost scurried up the stairs. That swine! she thought viciously as she reached the safety of her rooms. Who did he think he was? And how dare he threaten her! But she was a trifle apprehensive, especially when she remembered the look in his eye. And what, she wondered uneasily, was she going to tell him when Sabrina did not appear?
Deciding that retreat was the better part of valor, she cautiously opened her door and peered down the deserted hallway. Just as cautiously she slipped down the hallway to the staircase that led to the courtyard. She was not remaining here to be bullied and insulted by the gringo! She would take refuge with the Correias for the night. A more confident smile on her thin mouth, she hurried across the darkened courtyard toward the carriageway entrance. Ha! Let the gringo wonder where they had all disappeared to! And for a second she allowed herself the pleasure of picturing his expression when Carlos and Sabrina returned a few days from now as man and wife.
Unaware that Francisca had left the house, Brett wandered back to the library, his thoughts not pleasant ones. The situation was rather ironic, he mused a few minutes later. Like a romantic fool, he had spent the past ten days acting almost like a bridegroom preparing a bower for his bride. For a second he looked down at his calloused hands, a cynical smile curving his mouth. Even to the point of building a latticed gazebo near a secluded corner of the estate with his bare hands, so that his sweet ward would have something that reminded her of home.
A bitter growl of laughter escaped him. What folly! Extensive and expensive alterations had been made at Fox's Lair—bare walls were now silk-hung, fine carpets covered the planked floors, elegant furniture from New Orleans had been arriving by the wagonload, and he had even harried his workmen to create a small courtyard that was reminiscent of the one at Nacogdoches. The gazebo had been his own personal, private contribution, and he had taken pride and pleasure in the hard work of constructing it, trying to visualize Sabrina's reaction to it, boyishly hoping it would please her and make her more resigned to staying here in Louisiana. He could not create a lake, but he had situated the gazebo in a spot that overlooked a tranquil stretch of the Mississippi River, and he hoped that she would find it an a
cceptable substitution.
During the days he had been gone, Brett had done a lot of thinking, a lot of looking at his own emotions, and he didn't like what he saw. It was the idea of Sabrina's forced surrender that gave him the most displeasure, that caused him to turn restlessly night after night. He wanted her, but he wanted her to come to him of her own free will—for it to be like it had been the first and only time they had made love. And the thought of releasing her at the end of six months was intolerable. Just thinking about a life without her created an aching emptiness deep within him, for which he knew there was no solace. . . .
His mouth twisted. What a damning admission for a cynic like him to make! He, who prided himself on being above the emotional entanglements that made such fools of the sanest men. Slowly he poured himself another glass of brandy. Well, Sabrina would just have to be his concession to the follies that men commit over women, he thought sardonically as he drank his brandy.
He was deliberately avoiding thinking about Carlos alone with Sabrina on the long ride back to New Orleans in a closed, private coach. ... It was a futile battle, mental images of Sabrina in Carlos's arms, her mouth pressed sweetly against the Spaniard's, driving him half-mad with jealousy. With grim resolve he tried not to let that fierce jealousy burst out of control, tried with a cool desperation not to dwell on what might be happening. But as the time passed, as the decanter of brandy grew lower and lower, the tight check he kept on his emotions began to slip. . . .
The Tiger Lily Page 40
