The fact .that he had never mentioned love to her also preyed on her mind. He had never made any secret of wanting her physically, but though there were intriguing, heart-fluttering hints in the things he said and did, he had never said, "I love you." Was it only passion for her body that drew him to her? It was a dismal thought, and unhappily Sabrina turned away from the cheval glass and reached for her robe.
She was very quiet that morning at breakfast, and Brett sent her a quizzical glance. "Is something wrong?" he asked quietly.
She hesitated, wondering what his reaction would be if she suddenly said baldly, "I want you to tell me about Constanza. I want to know if you really loved her and if you did indeed abandon your unborn child." But she didn't, and ashamed at her own cowardice, she said the first thing that came to her mind. "What will happen to the Rancho del Torres now that I live here with you?"
"What do you want to happen to it?" Brett inquired warily. A faint note of reserve in his voice, he added, "I know that Fox's Lair isn't nearly as grand, although I do have plans to build a larger house in the future." He watched her face closely. "Would you prefer that we live at the ranch?"
That note in his voice bothered her, reminding her vividly that there were still dangerous pitfalls in their relationship. Somewhat stiffly, she answered, "I think that if you wish to live here, we should put a competent overseer in charge of the rancho or sell it and buy more lands here in Louisiana."
She hadn't quite answered his question, and Brett was aware of an angry impatience within himself. Why, because she had asked a perfectly ordinary question about her old home, did he have to immediately assume it was because she had found the home that he had provided wanting? Why, after all these weeks, did he still look for some sign that material things meant more to her than he did? Because there is a part of her that I cannot touch? Because, though I have her in my arms, I feel that I do not have all of her? Because I don't know for certain what she really feels for me?
Frustration eating at his gut, he finished breakfast silently, not tasting one bite of the spicy grillades that had been so expertly prepared for him. The fact that he had ramrodded Sabrina into marriage with him, that he had not actually allowed her to make a choice, had begun to take on immense significance in his mind. As the weeks passed and he fell more and more in love with her, realized how very much she meant to him, had always meant to him, instead of becoming more confident and complacent about their relationship, he grew more and more tense and intolerant of the situation.
This morning was the first time that either one of them had mentioned Nacogdoches, and for one moment he actually toyed with the idea of asking her bluntly why she had broken her engagement with him six years ago. Had it been because of lies spread by her damned cousin or had it been because she had really thought he had no prospects at all? His fists tightened, rage billowing through him. If he found out that Carlos had indeed been behind her actions, he really didn't think he could deny himself the pleasure of killing the other man. But Brett wouldn't allow himself to speculate further on this particularly painful subject. He had told himself it didn't matter, but he had found it did, and he knew that soon he was going to demand some answers from her. He had to know the truth about the past; the uncertainty was tearing him apart.
During the next few weeks, instead of the tension that had sprung up that morning lessening, it seemed to increase. Brett was aware that something new had entered their relationship, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Sabrina seemed more introspective, more removed from him, and he became both angry and concerned about it. Feeling as if she were slipping away from him, as if a widening chasm were separating them, Brett was aware of an icy lump forming where his heart should be. Had he come this far only to inexplicably lose her in the end? Lose her to an enemy he couldn't see? Couldn't fight?
Sabrina wasn't deliberately shutting Brett out, but lost in the wonder of the exciting changes that were happening within her, she inadvertently put him at a distance. The baby was a precious secret she hugged to herself, longing to tell him and yet . . . What if he didn't share her joy? Babies, like the past, were things they hadn't discussed.
September proved to be especially hot and humid, and as the sugar cane ripened in the fields, so did Sabrina's body. With delight she noted her fuller bosom, her thickening waist, and at the oddest times an enchantingly satisfied little smile would flit across her face. That smile infuriated Brett for some reason. It was as if she had some private secret, and he found himself eaten up with jealousy. What was she thinking when she looked like that?
As the month waned, the sugar cane took on a purplish tinge, and Brett knew that the crucial season was near. The Big Grass, as it was called, never fully ripened here in Louisiana, and Brett was very aware that he could delay only so long before harvesting—it was an annual race between the weather and the planter's judgment. And once the order had been given, the plantation became a hive of activity, cutters, loaders, and haulers beginning the hard, back-breaking work of clearing the cane.
October came and the work continued, Brett returning late at night almost exhausted, too exhausted even to seek Sabrina's bed. She took to waiting up for him, making certain that a hot bath awaited him no matter what the hour and that a plate of bread, meat, and cheeses was prepared for him. The third week of October, while there was still much to do, there was an easing of the tension that always accompanied harvest time. The sugar mill was running almost twenty-four hours a day, and in spite of this being a time of long hours and little rest, there was a crackling vitality in the air. The slaves liked it—it brought the promise of extra reward, of drinks and songs and at the end a grand ball.
Returning home very late one night, Brett tiredly walked up the stairs to his room, a pleased smile on his face. He was going to sleep the day away tomorrow. One day, at this stage, wouldn't make a difference.
Entering his room, he was surprised to find Sabrina still waiting for him, and tossing aside his wide-brimmed, sweat-stained white hat, he murmured, "You should have gone to bed. I didn't think you would still be awake."
She smiled at him, noting the lines of fatigue on his face. Softly she said, "I never get to see you these days except for now, and I wasn't about to be cheated."
Stripping off his shirt, he glanced over at her as she stood by the big brass tub that had been set up for his bath. She was wearing a gauzy nightdress and peignoir, the candlelight on a table behind her silhouetting her body, making him instantly aware of the soft, yielding flesh they covered and how long it had been since they had made love. Sabrina turned just then, presenting him a side-view, and his breath caught in his throat.
She was four months pregnant, and the rounding of her belly that she had so impatiently looked for two months previously was now clearly evident. Brett was conscious of a sudden, dizzying rush of blood to his head. His voice almost a whisper, he croaked, "Why didn't you tell me?"
For a second Sabrina didn't know what he was talking about, but then she noticed that his eyes were locked on her gently protruding stomach, and she said breathlessly, "Because I didn't know how you would feel."
"How I would feel?" he repeated dazedly as he walked toward her. Then he gave a delighted little laugh and scooping her up in his arms, whirled her about the room. "Oh, God!" he muttered. "I don't know how I feel—pleased, excited, perhaps a little afraid."
"Afraid?" she asked with surprise. "Why?"
"What if something goes wrong?" There was naked fear in his eyes as he said thickly, "What if something happens to you?"
Sabrina smiled reassuringly at him, suddenly feeling so much stronger and wiser. Her arms were about his neck, and she kissed him on his chin, the stubble of the day's whiskers pleasantly scratching her lips. "I am strong as a horse—look at Tia Sofia. There'll be no trouble, I promise you."
He hadn't said that he loved her, but his obvious fear for her safety wrapped a warm little glow around Sabrina's heart. That and his obvious delight in the news
. And he had been delighted.
Depositing her gently on his big bed, he kissed her with a sweet restraint, as if she were very fragile. Wonderingly he said, "I've never thought of being a father before, but I find the idea suddenly greatly appealing." An endearingly uncertain expression crossed his face. "Will I be a good father, do you think?"
Sabrina giggled, loving him so much. "An exemplary one," she replied gravely, a twinkle in the amber-gold eyes. It was times like this that she had no regrets, no fears for the future, times like this that banished any reservations about the past.
Lying next to her, Brett's hand moved possessively down to her stomach, gently caressing it. His eyes warm and tender, he demanded huskily, "When?"
"Late March, I think." She pulled his face down nearer hers and rained soft little kisses over his nose and mouth. "You are very potent, Senor . Our baby will be born practically nine months to the day after our wedding."
"Do you mind?" he asked with a sensuous curve to his mouth.
She shook her head. "No. My parents had to wait years and years; I am glad we do not." She smiled impishly at him. "Besides, I want many, many babies."
"Oh, God!" he breathed thickly, "I'll do my best, tiger lily, I swear I will." He kissed her with a gentle hunger, and when she moved suggestively beneath him, the bath was instantly forgotten for a long time. . . .
They entered a new state in their life together, the delight of the coming baby momentarily pushing the dark clouds away. The second week of November, Brett had to leave for a meeting with his business agent in New Orleans, and a little forlorn at being left behind, Sabrina watched him as he moved about his room making certain that Ollie had overlooked nothing in the packing. Brett caught sight of her expression, and putting his arms about her, he asked, "Are you certain you don't want to come with me?"
She looked down at her expanding stomach and said ruefully, "You will not be gone more than a few days, and I think I would be more comfortable here." The pregnancy was proving to be an easy one but the week before she had been ill with chills and a fever, and she was still not fully recovered.
Reluctantly Brett bid her good-bye and left for New Orleans. He arrived to find the city full of news. News that both relieved and alarmed him. Had he been wrong about the map and Wilkinson, after all? Wilkinson, it appeared, had finally arrived at Natchitoches with his army in late September, and instead of commencing the war that everyone had expected, on November 5th, he had signed the Neutral Ground Treaty with the Spanish. The Spaniards were to retire to Nacogdoches; the Americans to Natchitoches, and the General had been quick to trumpet his triumph. He was a hero, having "complied with my orders in proclaiming the jurisdiction of the United States here." What he failed to mention was that the jurisdiction had not been established at all, the area in question having been made neutral ground. But Wilkinson had been satisfied, and he had taken himself off to Natchez, sending his army, under Colonel Gushing, to New Orleans. It was the presence of the army that alarmed Brett. Had New Orleans been Wilkinson's target all along?
That night as he lay awake in his bed in the town house in New Orleans, he wondered about Wilkinson's action. Obviously the General had averted a war with Spain, a war everyone had expected and many people had seemed to want, A war that would have given him the excuse to invade Spanish territory and seek the treasure Jason had revealed. Why had the General not done so?
The answer to that puzzling question arrived a few hours later in the form of Blood Drinker, Jason's Cherokee Indian companion. Brett woke at dawn to the chilling sensation that someone else was in the room with him, and when he would have reached for the small pistol that was never far from his side, a deep, melodious voice halted his movements.
"My brother, Jason, sent me to you," Blood Drinker said calmly as he found an oil lamp in the dark room and swiftly lit it.
The flickering light disclosed Blood Drinker's tall form as he moved nearer the bed where Brett had been sleeping. Blood Drinker was magnificent; tall, straight, and proud, his features undeniably handsome, with chiseled lips and high cheekbones and dark, fathomless eyes. His hair was blue-black, and he wore it parted in the middle, two long, thick braids lying on his chest.
There was a mystical air about the Indian, as if he knew things of other worlds that eluded ordinary men, as if he were capable of things that other men only dreamed of, and Brett suddenly understood Jason's confidence in Blood Drinker. Blood Drinker, he soon learned, was like no one he'd ever met. There was silence as Brett quickly shrugged into a robe and threw some water on his face. He motioned Blood Drinker to follow him into the other room, and when they were there he motioned his unexpected and slightly unnerving visitor to a seat. Blood Drinker shook his head and murmured, "I shall be here but a moment." And reaching inside the buckskin shirt he wore, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "Jason thought you might like to actually hold it in your hands—he said it was yours to do with as you pleased."
Brett's hand trembled a little as he took the map from Blood Drinker. It actually existed, he thought disbelievingly with one part of his mind, his eyes roving curiously over the crude drawings and letterings. He looked at Blood Drinker. "How did you get it? When and where?"
Blood Drinker smiled faintly. "The General did indeed have it—he has carried it all this time in a thin packet about his waist. The only time it wasn't in his possession was when he bathed, and then he had it in his sight."
"But how did you get it?"
Blood Drinker shrugged. Almost apologetically he said, "It took me longer than I expected to discover where the map was, but once I had decided the General must keep it on him, it was easy enough to wait for a night when he had imbibed too freely and sneak into his tent and take it from him." A little gleam of amusement suddenly lit those opaque black eyes. "The General sleeps rather heavily," he murmured softly, as if that explained everything. Turning away. Blood Drinker began to walk back toward Brett's bedroom. "I will go now the way I came."
Reluctantly Brett followed him, watching as the Indian swung a leg over the balcony and prepared to make his way to the courtyard below. A grin tugged at the corners of Brett's mouth. "A bit unorthodox, wouldn't you say?"
"True, and Jason has often accused me of doing these things for effect—sometimes I think he is right." Blood Drinker looked back at Brett. "He will wish to see you when he arrives in the city on Wednesday. Will you remain that long?"
Brett nodded. "I can delay my return home for a few days longer." He stared intently at Blood Drinker and asked suddenly, "How long ago did you obtain this?"
Blood Drinker swung the rest of his body over the side, and just as he dropped from sight, he said, "Eight days ago."
Opened-mouthed, Brett stared at the place where Blood Drinker had been. Eight days ago would have been November 4th, the day before Wilkinson had struck the Neutral Ground Treaty. He laughed a breathless, pleased little laugh and stared at the scrap of paper in his hands. Had they altered history? Would a war with Spain have come about except for this one piece of paper? He didn't know, no one would ever know, but Brett liked to think that the disappearance of the map had completely changed Wilkinson's plans.
Seated on the edge of the bed, he stared at the map for a long time, and then slowly, deliberately, he reached over and brought the oil lamp closer. If all his suspicions were correct, the map had already cost men their lives, it had nearly been the cause of a war, and all for greed. Not a greedy man himself, content with his own life, with deft, sure movements, Brett fashioned the map into a spindle and then, very calmly, fed it to the flames of the oil lamp. A moment later, there were only a few blackened particles floating through the air. Nolan's map was gone forever, and the Aztec treasure was safe until some other adventuring man discovered it.
Brett spent the next two days finishing up his business and also buying gifts for Sabrina. He wanted something special, something she would have always, and consequently he sought out a jeweler he knew in the city. Escobar and Son
s had long been established in New Orleans. Their own work was superb, and they occasionally bought private collections, too. They would have the very best selection of anyone. Brett found several pieces that pleased him, and in an extravagant mood he bought them all.
His meeting with Jason on Friday was brief, but it confirmed their suspicions that the map must have been pivotal to Wilkinson's plans. Seated in the library of Brett's house, Jason said bluntly, "I've just come from a social call at Governor Claiborne's, and he had just received a letter from Wilkinson. A very interesting letter, I might add. It has the Governor rather concerned, for Wilkinson writes that Claiborne is surrounded by dangers and that the American government is seriously menaced. Wilkinson claims that there are spies everywhere and that within six days the President will be apprised of a plot that will implicate thousands." Jason grinned. "Much of it we can put down to Wilkinson's flare for the melodramatic, and of course he swore Claiborne to secrecy."
The Tiger Lily Page 47
