The Tiger Lily

by Shirlee Busbee

  Almost with envy, Sabrina watched the three boys play on the floor with some wooden soldiers, and she was aware of a sudden fierce hunger for a child of her own. Catherine caught the unguarded expression and said softly, "Next year, my dear, you will probably be proudly showing us your offspring."

  "Oh, I do hope so!" Sabrina breathed, and it suddenly occurred to her that since she'd married Brett, she hadn't ... A look of delighted wonder crossed her face. Was it possible? That already?

  Leonie, with the baby, Suzette, in her arms, laughed and murmured, "Ah, but which shall it be—a handsome son, or a beautiful daughter? Now come and see my petite Suzette."

  Suzette Slade was the most exquisite little thing Sabrina had ever seen—fine, delicate features, a rosebud mouth, petal-soft skin, and a tiny head covered with wispy black curls. Nearing three months of age, Suzette was undeniably adorable, and Sabrina sighed with longing. Oh, if only her sudden suspicion were true!

  Dinner that evening was thoroughly enjoyable, and afterward, the gentlemen remained in the dining room savoring their cigars and brandy while the ladies retired to the front salon to discuss the plans for the morrow. It was then that Brett was able to have his long-awaited conversation with Jason.

  The three men talked aimlessly for several minutes, but eventually Morgan, seated at the head of the long linen-covered table, observed forthrightly, "This is a very friendly, pleasant conversation we're having, but shouldn't we be talking about the one thing that interests us the most—the current state of affairs between our country and Spain?"

  Jason grimaced, and Brett smiled ruefully. "I suppose," Brett said slowly, "we've simply been putting off the inevitable—not wishing to spoil a lovely day."

  Morgan snorted. "It won't be a lovely day for any of us if war comes!"

  Thoughtfully Jason toyed with his brandy snifter. "It is going to be very interesting when Wilkinson confronts the Spanish, I'll wager you that. The Secretary of War, Dearborn, ordered him posthaste to the Sabine River area weeks ago, but our good General seems intent upon taking his own sweet time leaving his headquarters at St. Louis." He glanced across the table at Brett. "What's your opinion? Morgan told me about your letter from Eaton." He smiled wryly and added, "And about Jefferson—remind me to tell you one day of the 'mission' the President sent me on to England a few years ago."

  Brett grinned back at him. "I'd like to hear of it—at least you went to a civilized place!" But his grin faded a little, and he said heavily, "If you gentlemen will indulge me a bit, I'd like to present a theory to you." He shot Morgan a slightly mocking look. "Morgan has heard part of it before, but I'm certain he would like to again, just so he can point out how ridiculous it is."

  Morgan raised his snifter and murmured, "Go ahead—fairy tales have always enchanted me!"

  Ignoring Morgan's comment, Brett glanced at Jason, who was watching him intently. Briefly, keeping events in as much of a sequence as he could, Brett told of the conversation between himself, Wilkinson, and Hugh on that stormy night in November of 1799. "That," he admitted with a little smile, "was when my interest was first aroused." Taking a deep breath, he plunged on, telling about Jefferson's request last year that he keep an eye on Burr and Wilkinson; of the conversation with Burr the night of Stephen Minor's ball in Natchez; and lastly, of the persistent rumors that circulated in dark places that Wilkinson had murdered Gayoso and that an important piece of paper had disappeared the night the Governor had died. . . .

  Apologetically, Brett looked at the other two. "Having bored you with all that, I'll now present my theory, and you'll see the connection with the events on the Sabine River."

  "Before you do," Morgan said with a frown, "I'd like a word with Leonie—it could have some bearing on what you have told us so far." He walked from the room, and finding Leonie with the other women, he smiled politely to Catherine and Sabrina and asked, "May I steal my wife for a few minutes?"

  In the foyer, Morgan turned to Leonie and asked softly, "Would you mind telling Brett and Jason about being at the governor's mansion the night Gayoso died?" He smiled at her warmly, a teasing glint in the dark blue eyes. "You don't have to tell them about us!"

  Leonie frowned for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. Love shining in her gaze, she murmured, "If it pleases you."

  Leonie's tale of sneaking into the Governor's mansion all those years before held Brett and Jason spellbound. An embarrassed flush staining her cheeks, she said fiercely, "You do understand that it was only to get my grandpere's gaming vowels? I am no thief!" Both men nodded instantly, neither wishing to insult her, and once the tale was told, Brett asked eagerly, "Leonie, when you were watching through the window, did you see the fat man, Wilkinson, take anything from the Governor's desk?"

  Leonie's forehead creased in thought, trying to remember an event that had happened almost seven years before. "They were angry with each other ..." Her face suddenly cleared, and she added excitedly, "Oh! I never saw Wilkinson take anything, but at one point, the Governor had a piece of paper in his hand and he thrust it toward the General. The General seemed fascinated by that paper and frightened by it at the same time, too, I think."

  "Anything else?" Morgan prompted gently.

  "There was something about a report to the Viceroy . . ." Her lip drooped. "I didn't see or hear very much because I was so terrified of being seen," she admitted forlornly.

  Brett smiled encouragingly at her and asked curiously, "But in what you did see, was there anything that struck you as strange, anything that made you wonder?"

  Leonie stiffened as if just suddenly remembering something. Her eyes widening, she muttered, ''Mon Dieu, oui! I had nearly forgotten—when I had to slip past the doorway that separated the two rooms, I risked a glance inside. The Governor was acting strangely—his face was all contorted as if in pain, but the General didn't seem to be concerned. If anything he seemed pleased. . . ."

  They all looked at each other, and Morgan said hastily, "Thank you, my love. I'll explain all," he promised with smile, "later. But for now, would you mind if we continued our speculations in private?"

  Leonie made a little face. "For now," she agreed reluctantly.

  There was silence in the room for a second after Leonie left. Then Brett said aloud the thought that was in each of their minds. "Poison! The bastard poisoned Gayoso! It had to be!"

  The other two nodded their heads in agreement, Jason saying slowly, "It certainly sounds that way."

  It was Morgan, however, who asked dryly, "But what does all that ancient history have to do with today?"

  "Since I can postpone the evil moment no longer, I'll tell you," Brett said grimly. "I believe that there was a map drawn by Nolan and meant for Wilkinson's eyes alone, only somehow it ended up in Gayoso's hands, and Wilkinson murdered him for it." He looked at the other two, and seeing their interest, he continued, "Let's say that the map led to a treasure," and when Morgan snorted, Brett added warningly, "You have to remember Wilkinson's reactions to my father's idle comment about Aztec treasure —he nearly jumped out of his skin! He and Nolan were going to go after the treasure, but before their plans were fully realized, the Spanish killed Nolan."

  Vaguely Brett was aware of the muscles tightening in Jason's face, and he had the definite impression that speaking of Nolan's death brought the other man pain. He hesitated, but Jason sent him a twisted smile and said, "Nolan was a good friend to me—a mentor in my misspent youth. But go on with your tale."

  "Theory, " Morgan said with affection.

  Brett sent him a look of friendly exasperation, but not to be sidetracked, said doggedly, "After Nolan's death in the spring of 1801, the Spanish were especially skittish—they didn't want any foreigners in their territory, and it would have been impossible, with the way they were watching the borders, for anybody to get into Spanish Texas to retrieve the treasure. Besides, if Wilkinson is in the pay of Spain, he'd have to be willing to completely sever a profitable association. He could afford no mistakes. And wi
th Nolan dead—Nolan, his most trusted tool and, incidentally, the only man who really knew the country they would have to travel through—I think Wilkinson got cold feet and decided not to risk it . . . until now."

  "Why now?" Morgan asked, his interest piqued.

  "Because now and for the past year or so, the threat of a war with Spain has been in the air. . . . And then there is Aaron Burr and the rumors that he means to invade Mexico. Burr and Wilkinson, an unholy pair if there ever was one."

  Jason nodded his head. "I think I begin to see what you're getting at—Wilkinson is never out in the open with his schemes; there is always someone for him to hide behind, first Nolan and now Burr. He'll let Burr be the figurehead, let Burr make his plans, appear to totally support whatever Burr says, but behind Burr's back, Wilkinson will be weaving his own plans. . . ."

  Thoughtfully Morgan mused, "By letting Burr be the figurehead, the good General also has the option of deserting Burr at any time things look too risky."

  "Precisely!" Brett said harshly. "If Burr can gather the men and arms he really needs to make a successful invasion of Mexico, then Wilkinson will throw his lot in with him—and seek out the treasure in the wake left behind. Or even if Burr fails in his scheme, then there is the current situation—war with Spain and the invasion of Spanish territory by United States troops. All Wilkinson has to decide is which way will benefit him the most. I think the reason he is lingering in St. Louis is simply that he's waiting to see which way to jump. Once he positions his troops along the Sabine River, he'll have no choice but to attack the Spanish, and he probably doesn't want to do that until he is absolutely certain that he can get his hands on the treasure. Then whatever relationship he has with Spain won't matter anymore."

  "There is only one thing that bothers me," Morgan protested seriously. "Your entire theory rests upon the notion that there is a treasure out there. We have no proof."

  "Yes, we do," Jason said abruptly. And at the expression of surprise on the other two men's faces, he stood and slowly began to roll up the sleeve of his fine linen shirt. "I told you that Nolan had been my mentor. What I didn't reveal was that on a horse-trading trip we made to the Palo Duro Canyon area about fifteen years ago, we stumbled across a treasure, an Aztec treasure." His shirt sleeve pushed up nearly to his shoulder, Jason pointed to the heavy gold and emerald arm band that encircled his muscular upper arm. "And this is proof that the brandy hasn't gone to my head." His face sad, Jason muttered, "Nolan had the twin to it . . . and I think now that it was probably what he used to convince Wilkinson the treasure existed, and I know that it was what got him killed." He could not speak of Davalos, the Spanish lieutenant who had once been his friend and who had killed Nolan, nor of what Davalos had cost him and Catherine, but his voice hardening, he added, "The treasure does exist, believe me."

  Brett whistled softly under his breath, and Morgan stared dumbly at the gold and emerald arm band. Finally, in a contrite voice, Morgan said, "I owe you an apology, Brett."

  "Yes, but how can we prevent Wilkinson from using his quest for the treasure to start a war with Spain, or just as bad, to encourage Burr to invade Mexico?" As soon as he said the words, Brett knew the answer. His jade-green eyes narrowing, he growled, ''The map! If we get the map, Wilkinson would have no reason to support Burr or, just as importantly, to provoke a war with Spain. There would be nothing for him in Spanish Texas."

  "I agree," Morgan said immediately, "but it isn't going to be easy. The instant one of us shows up nosing around, he's going to be on his guard. Besides, where to look? He must have it well hidden."

  Jason smiled widely. "Everything you say is true, but I think, Morgan, you have forgotten someone."

  "Who?" Morgan asked with a frown.

  "Blood Drinker!" Jason said with satisfaction. "He can get into Wilkinson's camp, and remember, he was with me on the trip when the treasure was discovered. He would recognize the map, and there is nowhere Wilkinson could hide the map that he wouldn't find it!"

  "Who is Blood Drinker?" Brett demanded immediately, his eyes moving from one man to the other.

  It was Jason who answered. "Blood Drinker," he said softly, "is a Cherokee, a blood brother to me. We share much together, and our thoughts about a war with Spain are the same. But more importantly, he doesn't like the idea of anyone disturbing that treasure site. He says it is a bad place and should remain hidden." Jason smiled slightly. "And for our purposes of getting the map, he is perfect—who pays any attention to an Indian? And Blood Drinker is very adept at concealing himself. No one would ever even notice him, and I'm certain that he's the only one who could find that map for us."

  They discussed the situation for several more minutes, agreeing that Jason would see Blood Drinker and have him strike out instantly for Wilkinson's camp. Reluctantly Brett said, "I hate leaving it in someone else's hands, but I think it is our wisest course."

  "It is," Jason replied seriously. "Trust me, Blood Drinker will get the map."

  They left the dining room after that, joining the ladies in the front salon. The decision to send Blood Drinker in search of the map lifted a weight from Brett's mind, and he found himself relaxing completely for the first time since news of the Spanish crossing of the Sabine River. Now if only Blood Drinker was every bit as good as Jason implied . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  C^V» The visit at Chateau Saint-Andre proved to be so enjoyable that it was mid-August before Brett and Sabrina returned to Fox's Lair. The place was beginning to feel like home, and recalling all the unhappy events that had taken place at the ranch near Nacogdoches, Sabrina realized that Fox's Lair was where she wanted to live forever. She had found happiness here, and though the dark murky bayous with their knobby-kneed cypress trees, knife-sharp palmettos, and reed-lined banks, the acres of tail sugar cane and the moss-draped oaks and leathery-leaved magnolia trees that dotted the land near the house bore no resemblance to the area she had grown up in, Sabrina found that the region had a charm all its own. A lazy, primeval charm that drew her and brought a strange peacefulness. She had found happiness here, her husband was here, and her child would be born here. . . .

  The startling thought that she might be pregnant had become a certainty within her as the days passed, and by the time they returned home, she was positive that already there would be outward signs. With disappointment she had looked at her naked body in the cheval glass that was in her small dressing room, the morning after their return from Chateau Saint-Andre. Surely her breasts would be fuller, her waist thickening, and her stomach rounding by now? Then she giggled. She couldn't even be two months pregnant yet, but she was impatient for the signs of her impending motherhood to appear.

  She hadn't told Brett of her wonderful discovery, an odd sense of shyness flooding her whenever she thought about it. What would he think? Would he be happy? Displeased? Indifferent? She sighed. Even though they had been married for almost two months, there were still many barriers between them.

  Brett was still a stranger to her in many respects in spite of their intimacy. He was an ardent lover, and while they had separate bedrooms, there had been no night since their marriage that he hadn't spent at least part of the night in her bed. Except during Hugh and Sofia's visit and the visit at Chateau Saint-Andre, Brett was seldom around during the daylight hours. He was often gone at sunrise, supervising the men who worked the huge sugar cane fields, and some days, the only time she saw him was when he came to her bed late at night. There were days, however, when she had his undivided attention, days when he took her over the plantation, proudly showing her the sugar mill, the plantation gardens, the wharf he was having built at the river's edge, and the lands that were being wrested from the swampy wilderness by a series of levees. She treasured those days, but she was also aware that there was a part of him that he kept aloof, a part of him that she could not share. There were times when she would surprise an odd look on his face, a questioning look, almost as if he didn't quite believe she was everything
she appeared to be, and she longed to reach out and touch him and ask, "What is it? Why do you look at me so?" But she was afraid to, afraid that she would shatter the bond between them.

  There was a deep core of reserve within her, too, and though she tried to hide it, she was conscious that she didn't fool Brett all the time. Too often when she had withdrawn from a particular topic of conversation, she had seen his eyes narrow, seen speculation leaping in those jade-green depths.

  Able to look back on the past with new eyes now and armed with her new knowledge of Carlos, Sabrina understood how effortlessly her cousin had practiced his duplicity. He had told Brett one thing and her another, had fanned her uncertainties, had spread vicious lies to Brett; it wasn't surprising that they had parted as they had. But had Carlos lied about the girl in New Orleans? And had he had anything to do with what Constanza had told her?

  She was bitterly conscious now that she should have faced Brett with what she had been told, should have given him a chance to defend himself, instead of blindly trusting in Carlos. And her stomach crawled with humiliation whenever she thought about revealing how gullible, how mistrustful, she had been. But it was one thing to want to believe that everything that had happened had been a base plot of Carlos's and another to know it without a doubt. And it was as much shame at her earlier crass actions as the fear buried within all the lies, that there was some measure of truth about what had happened that kept her from forcing a confrontation with Brett. Painfully she acknowledged that she was a coward—if he was innocent, she didn't want him to look at her with disgust and contempt for being so willing to condemn him unheard, and if he was guilty, she didn't want to know that he had cravenly deserted Constanza and his own unborn child.