The Tiger Lily Read online

  It had been shortly after that incident that he had won the decayed indigo plantation in Louisiana and had considered the possibility of a more sedate life. For about a year he had thrown himself into the challenge of bringing back from the brink of disaster the land he had won, and like everything he turned his hand to, he had succeeded. But he had also grown bored with it. He had put a manager in charge of the acreage and had again let his fancy wander where it would, his curiosity aroused by the continuing war between France and England. However, he had discovered to his dismay that danger simply for the sake of danger no longer held the appeal it once had, and driven by a boredom he couldn't dispel, he had returned to Natchez in the fall of 1799 to consider his future.

  Danger for danger's sake might have lost its allure for him, but one thing that had not changed was his deep, abiding contempt and distrust for women. And, unfortunately, in the intervening years there had been certain incidents that had only hardened his beliefs. With all the arrogance of a handsome, much-sought-after youth of twenty-one, he had thought himself immune to Cupid's arrows, but such had not been the case. Returning to England from a turbulent, revolution-torn France in the spring of 1792, he had met Miss Diana Pardee at Almack's one evening. He and two friends, on a dare, had entered those sacred portals to add a bottle or two of fine French wine to the innocuous punch that was always served. They had succeeded in their plot and had settled back to watch the results when Brett had been caught by a pair of wide blue eyes set in the most beautiful face he had ever seen.

  Curly dark hair framed those wondrous features, and like a man in a daze, instantly forgetting his fierce vow never to be trapped by a woman, he had found himself fervently courting the beautiful Miss Pardee. He had fallen rapturously, blindly in love, and deaf to the warnings of his friends that it was well known that nothing less than a duke would do for Miss Pardee, he had continued for weeks to ply his ardent suit. He had been captivated by her—and it had been clear that she returned those passionate feelings. She had encouraged his advances at every opportunity.

  It had come as a particularly painful and distasteful surprise when her betrothal to the Duke of Alward was announced . . . especially since two days previously she had met Brett clandestinely in Hyde Park and had responded enthusiastically to the sweetly urgent kisses he had rained over her upturned face.

  Stunned, disbelieving, humiliated, Brett had descended upon the Pardee town house on Half-Moon Street. Lord Pardee, Diana's father, had looked him up and down with pity, and deciding cynically that his daughter could best rout this romantic young firebrand, he had allowed Brett to speak privately with Miss Pardee. It was a shattering blow to hear from his love's lips that she had never had any intention of accepting his suit—he was handsome, much handsomer and younger than the Duke, and she had thought to enjoy herself before she settled down to boring domesticity with a man old enough to be her grandfather. Besides, she couldn't marry an untitled nobody, no matter how rich and eligible he was. And of course, everybody knew the Duke of Alward was much, much richer than Mr. Dangermond.

  Pride had come to his rescue, and cloaking his anguished hurt, his bitter disillusionment, Brett had regarded her contemptuously across the long, handsomely furnished room where they stood. His heart feeling as if it were ripping in two, his face hard and cold, he had taken his leave of Miss Pardee. How blind he had been, he viciously berated himself, living in a fool's paradise, believing even for an instant that there was one woman who was different! And how unwise of him to forget the lesson first taught to him by his own mother: a woman meant only pain and betrayal.

  If the lesson had needed any strengthening, regrettably, that had been provided in the summer of 1797, when, returning to Natchez for one of his infrequent visits at Riverview, he had accompanied Morgan Slade on that young man's tragic pursuit of his runaway wife. Morgan's faithless wife had taken their child with her as she fled with her lover, and Brett had been with Morgan when they had discovered their bodies on the Natchez Trace. Brett didn't think he would ever forget the expression of stark anguish on his friend's face when Morgan had looked upon his son's little body. Brett had vowed then and there that he would never allow any woman to be in a position to hurt him that way, that a woman would never slip under the cold steel guard he would keep around his heart.

  And yet, over the years, as he grew older, there were times when he questioned his own beliefs, times when he saw the love and joy that his father shared with Sofia that caused him to wonder. . . . Perhaps, he had mused one night not too long ago, perhaps once in a great while there occurred a rare and precious jewel among females—a warm, beautiful woman who was loving and loyal, whose heart was true and steadfast. He didn't really believe it, but Hugh's happy marriage gave him pause every time he came home to visit.

  The marriage was definitely a resounding success, the huge house now ringing with the laughter of children, a feeling of warmth and love immediately recognizable the moment one stepped into the elegant marble-floored hallway. Even Brett, steeped in his own bitter cynicism, recognized it, and that might have been why he had grudgingly begun to think that just maybe Sofia was as adoring and caring as she appeared to be. Reluctantly he had to admit that his father was ecstatic with his wife and young, growing family, Hugh's face more relaxed and smiling than Brett could ever remember it.

  Sofia, to her delight, after a first childless marriage, had proved to be remarkably fertile. A boy, Gordon, had been born in 1790, in 1794 there had been a girl, Roxanne, and another girl, Elisa, had appeared barely a year later, in 1795.

  Of Martin one seldom spoke—he had continued his disagreeable ways, making himself thoroughly disliked during his short life. When he had died unexpectedly of yellow fever at the tender age of nineteen, there were those in Natchez who had whispered that it was a profound blessing for the family.

  Though Brett had never had a warm relationship with Martin, he viewed his younger siblings with a tolerant affection, and they in turn were comically slavish in their love of the tall, handsome giant who appeared and disappeared with such puzzling irregularity. Brett had once laughingly accused them of cupboard love, since no matter where he had been, or under what circumstances, there always seemed to be an intriguing and dazzling gift for each of them.

  Whether it was the children's innocent charm or his father's blatant happiness Brett didn't know, but he had become increasingly aware of an emptiness within himself—an emptiness that danger and excitement no longer seemed to fill. Staring blindly at the dancing fire, he wondered uncomfortably if he didn't envy his father's joy, if deep in his heart, he didn't long for that same happiness. Which made him decidedly uneasy and suspicious about the reasons behind his sudden certainty that he was going to accept Alejandro's unexpected invitation.

  Was he going to Nacogdoches because he wanted to help Alejandro and wished to renew his acquaintance with a distant member of the family ... or was he going because he had never quite forgotten the emotions a child of seven had aroused in him?

  Furious with himself for considering for even a moment such a possibility, he almost dashed off a curt refusal of the invitation. But he didn't. Instead, cursing himself for a fool and muttering under his breath something about "mawkish, maudlin, midnight thoughts" he stalked out of the salon and sought his bed.

  Ollie found Brett somewhat surly and bad-tempered during the weeks that followed, and even though this unusual state of affairs lasted clear into the new year, he paid it no mind—it would pass. Morgan Slade, arriving the following Wednesday for an evening of drink and cards, wasn't quite so amiable about it.

  Watching his friend as Brett scowled at the cards he held in his hand, Morgan asked bluntly, "Is something biting you? You've been like a sore-headed bear all evening."

  Brett grimaced. Throwing down the cards on the oak table, he admitted, "Nothing I'm certain of. I think it must be this bloody weather. God, how I hate rain!"

  Morgan grinned in commiseration. It was true that the pa
st several days had been unpleasant, but knowing it was unlike Brett to let something as mundane as the weather disturb him, he probed lightly. "Is just the weather making you such disagreeable company?"

  Rising to his feet, Brett approached the sideboard and poured them both a snifter of brandy. He handed one to Morgan and reseated himself. Staring at the amber-colored liquor in his snifter, Brett said somberly, "Hell, I don't know what's wrong with me! I think I've been here in Natchez too long. It's time I was moving on again, but I find that no place in particular has any lure for me."

  "But I thought you were going to visit that relative of yours in Spanish Texas," Morgan said with surprise, his vivid blue eyes puzzled.

  "Oh, I probably will," Brett admitted moodily. "It's just that . . . oh, damn and blast! I don't know what's the matter with me—I just can't seem to arouse any enthusiasm for anything these days. Not even the thought of seeing new territory pricks my interest."

  Thoughtfully Morgan said, "Have you seen Philip Nolan since his marriage last month to Fannie Lintot?"

  Surprised and showing it, Brett answered, "No. Why?"

  "Well," Morgan began slowly, "if going to visit your uncle in Nacogdoches doesn't appeal to you, why don't you consider going with Nolan later on this year when he goes to capture more wild horses west of the Sabine River?"

  "He just got married this past December and he's already thinking of leaving his bride? That doesn't speak well for the state of matrimony!" Brett said sardonically. Then he could have cursed himself for the spasm of pain that crossed Morgan's face. "Forgive me!" Brett burst out contritely. "I didn't mean to—"

  Morgan gave him a twisted smile. "It doesn't matter," he interrupted easily. "Time does heal the pain, my friend." His features suddenly hard, he added, "Time also teaches one that women are never what they seem."

  Women and their deceitfulness was one subject upon which Brett and Morgan never disagreed, and for the next hour, each reinforced the other's bitter assessment of the opposite sex. Having exhausted the sins of women they had known, Brett brought the conversation back to Philip Nolan.

  "Do you think he is really going to go horse hunting so soon after his marriage?" he asked casually.

  "I doubt he means to leave within the next few months, but he did say something to me last Tuesday that made me think he might be going west this fall some time. With Nolan, you never know what he is going to do. Although, like you, I find it peculiar that with a new bride and after his last brush with the Spanish . . ." At Brett's expression of interest, Morgan explained, "He almost didn't make it back to Natchez; the Dons apparently wanted his hide rather badly. And of course he asked for it, telling them he had papers to hunt horses in one place and then being detected in another part of Texas where he had no business. You know how suspicious the Spaniards are, they're so certain we're going to steal their land from them."

  "And we aren't?" Brett interjected sardonically.

  Morgan shrugged his shoulders. "As long as they let us use the Mississippi and the Port of New Orleans unhampered, I doubt there will be any trouble on that score!"

  Brett grunted and then inquired, "You seem to know a great deal about Nolan's plans. Are you going to go with him?"

  "I might," Morgan admitted slowly. "Like you, since I returned home from New Orleans last fall, I've found myself growing more and more restless. There is nothing to hold me to Natchez—I very well might just throw my lot in with Nolan if he does leave."

  "It sounds interesting, but I doubt I can control my boredom until, and if, Nolan goes horse-hunting again," Brett said dryly. "I suspect that before spring arrives, I'll have shaken the dust of Natchez from my feet and wandered God knows where."

  "Well, if you do go to Nacogdoches, ' it doesn't entirely preclude the trip with Nolan. He had friends in that area, and I believe he frequently stops there, so it's possible you might meet up with us."

  Brett nodded his dark head in agreement. "That may well be. We'll just have to see how things develop. But in the meantime, I believe I won the last hand. . . ."

  They played cards for hours, but despite his late night and the consumption of a prodigious amount of brandy and wine, Brett woke the next morning feeling more satisfied than he had in days. He supposed it was because at last he had settled in his own mind the question of the trip to Nacogdoches. He was definitely going, even if the true reasons behind his decision were obscure. He told himself he was bored, he'd never been to Nacogdoches; he liked Alejandro and he'd once held Sabrina in affection, so why not go visit them? That he was oddly eager to see his young stepcousin he stubbornly pushed to the back of his mind. Besides, he reminded himself forcibly, at seventeen she was still a child.

  Having settled that point to his satisfaction, in the following days Brett found himself impatient to begin the journey to Nacogdoches and the Rancho del Torres. Sofia was delighted with his decision, and for one awful moment he was afraid she might decide to accompany him. Sofia took an amused, knowing look at his carefully controlled features and burst into laughter. "No, I don't intend to come with you. Of course, if Sabrina would like to return with you and visit with us awhile, would you mind acting as her escort?"

  "It would be my pleasure," he muttered politely.

  Bad weather conspired to delay his departure, but it also gave him time for reflection, and for the first time in his life he seriously considered his future. Certainly, he admitted wryly, he could not continue as he was—gaming and whoring, living with his past reckless abandon. Ideally he should settle down at Riverview and prepare himself for the day the plantation would be his. But with a twisted smile he finally conceded within himself that he would never live comfortably at home for very long—within six months the small tight—knit community of "Upper Natchez" would stifle him and the smooth running of Riverview would leave him with too much time on his hands.

  Having admitted that much, he suddenly realized that he never would be happy living at Riverview, and his jaw tightening, he came to a decision. He gave it careful consideration, and then, his mind made up, he sought out his father.

  Brett found Hugh going over the account books, and Hugh looked up with delight when Brett walked into the study the next evening. Laying aside his quill, he smiled warmly and said, "This is a pleasure! I wanted an excuse to escape these dull books!"

  The two men talked desultorily for some minutes, Brett sprawling lazily in a crimson channel-backed chair near his father's walnut desk. They had served themselves snifters of brandy from the crystal decanter that always sat on the marble-topped table near Hugh's desk, and eventually Brett said quietly, "I had a specific reason for calling upon you tonight."

  "Oh?"

  Bluntly Brett said, "Before I leave on this trip to Nacogdoches, I would like you to have the papers drawn that dispose of my interest in Riverview. Gordon should have it. It is his home now, and God knows I've fortune enough without it."

  Hugh was stunned. Blankly he murmured, "Gordon will not be penniless, you know. Sofia had money of her own, and I have also added to it." His voice deepening with emotion, he added, "You are my eldest son, my heir. Riverview has always gone to the eldest son."

  A curiously gentle expression on his hard features, Brett said softly, "Father, just because I was born first is no reason to leave Riverview's fate in my hands." His lips twisted into a derisive smile. "On the turn of a card I have lost and won a fortune equal to Riverview. Would you want it in the hands of a wastrel and a gambler? Doesn't everything you have worked for deserve a better caretaker? I want Gordon to have it."

  Brett's startling announcement had shaken Hugh, reminding him miserably that Brett's memories of Riverview could never be happy ones, that while now the house rang with laughter and joy, it had not always been so. His son might claim he was renouncing the plantation because he was satisfied with his fortune, but Hugh suspected that there was a deeper reason.

  They never spoke of the early unhappy years at Riverview, years in which they both had li
ved in the hell created by Gillian, but Hugh was sadly aware that those years had much to do with Brett's rejection of the estate. His comments about being a wastrel and a gambler Hugh dismissed without further thought—he had no doubts that his son would do the very best by Riverview should it come into his possession. But would Riverview, with all its bitter memories, be best for Brett? Inwardly Hugh sighed and candidly admitted to himself that there was much to be said for Gordon's being the next owner of Riverview. But it had always been understood that Brett was the heir, and Hugh was reluctant to change that fact. Out loud he asked, "What about your own heirs? Someday you may marry, and when you have children you may feel differently about it."

  Brett looked cynical. "Father, marriage is the last thing you can expect from me!"

  Staring at the scornful young face, Hugh was reminded vividly of himself during the painful, ugly years following Gillian's defection. Then he had been full of hatred and contempt for women, believing there wasn't a woman alive who didn't practice deceit as easily as she breathed.

  How bitter I was then, Hugh thought with surprise, as bitter and cynical as Brett is now. As bitter and cynical as I would be now except for Sofia. . . .