The Tiger Lily Page 7

  With a wrench he brought his mind back to the question of Riverview. His expression troubled, Hugh asked heavily, "Are you positive about this?"

  A slightly quizzical smile on his lips, Brett inquired wryly, "Have you ever known me to change ray mind? I believe you once said that my stubbornness was either my greatest vice or my greatest virtue—you hadn't at the time decided which."

  An unwilling smile tugged at the corners of Hugh's mouth. "I still haven't," he replied dryly. The smile faded, and sending Brett a searching look, he asked again, "You're certain? There is nothing of Riverview that you want for yourself?"

  Thoughtfully Brett admitted, "I wouldn't mind having the house I'm living in now and some acreage to go with it." An impish grin flashing across his dark face, he added dulcetly, "For my decrepit old age."

  A week later, Brett was once again sitting in his father's study. Giving his son an unsmiling look as Brett sat across the desk from him, Hugh said testily, "I've done as you wished. When you sign these documents you sign away all claim to Riverview—it will all go to Gordon."

  Brett reached for the quill, but his father's hand stopped him.

  "I don't like this!" Hugh burst out explosively. "Riverview should be yours! What if you lose that blasted fortune you have now? Then where would you be?"

  "I would be precisely where I deserved to be!" Brett answered swiftly. Conscious of his father's distress, he said seriously, "Father, have you forgotten the plantation in Louisiana? The money and houses in New Orleans? The lands in England? The funds in the bank in London? Good God! I have no need of more!"

  Hugh gave a sigh, lifting his hand from Brett's. "I suppose you're right." A brief smile flitted across his face. "I deeded you that house and a hundred acres—for your decrepit old age, of course."

  The weather had begun to clear, and it appeared that the worst of the winter storms were over. Two days after the meeting with Hugh, weighted down with messages and gifts, Brett and Ollie rode eagerly away from Natchez, heading for the Sabine River and Nacogdoches.

  It wasn't an easy trip. They were starting out early in the year, and all the rivers and streams were swollen and rampaging. The trail they followed—and often there was no trail—was first through gloomy, swampy wastelands inhabited only by alligators and other wildlife. Eventually the countryside improved in appearance despite being trackless and virtually uninhabited. There was thick vegetation that nourished teeming game—bear, panther, and deer—and Brett enjoyed the hunting; Ollie did not. Huddled next to a smoking camp fire and being bitten to death by the hordes of mosquitoes that were just hatching as the weather warmed, he was heard to grumble, "And to think I thought this would be exciting!"

  Brett merely grinned, aware that while Ollie was ever ready for adventure, he had never been introduced to the vast and varied wilderness that comprised the largely unexplored American continent. He was perfectly suited to life in the dens of iniquity to be found in the major cities of Europe, but nothing in his young life so far had quite prepared him for living so close to nature.

  And while the same could probably have been said of Brett, he discovered that he was enthralled by the varied countryside. The wild, untamed land appealed to him; the savage joy of the hunt sung in his veins; the green solitude of swamps and forest insidiously wrapped itself around him, making him more relaxed and carefree than he had been in years.

  Eagerly Brett embraced the hardships of the trail: the unyielding ground for a bed at night, the smoky camp fires, the need to secure their own fresh meat, and the inherent dangers that were ever present along their journey —predatory animals . . . and men.

  The Sabine River area was gaining a reputation as a haunt for desperate hunted men, and twice they had been accosted by strangers whose demeanor and manner had made Brett reach carelessly for the pistols he kept tucked in the wide leather belt at his waist. And twice those same strangers had taken a long look at Brett's shoulders, the cool green eyes, and the pistols held so expertly in his lean hands and had ridden on.

  Ironically, by the time their last night on the trail arrived, Brett very closely resembled those hard-featured desperadoes they had outfaced. His raven hair was long, brushing the collar of his shirt; a half-grown black beard partially disguised his features; and the rough clothing he wore was definitely not that of a man of wealth. Attired in an open-necked red calico shirt, a wide brown leather belt, buckskin breeches, and boots, he bore little similarity to the elegant rakehell who had graced some of the wealthiest homes in Europe. And with his bearded face and a practical wide-brimmed brown hat pulled low across his forehead, it wasn't surprising that when Sabrina saw him, she thought she had fallen into the hands of a desperado.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sabrina, unaware of Alejandro's invitation to Brett Dangermond, had found the months following her seventeenth birthday fiesta uneventful. No, that wasn't quite true, she admitted with a frown one sunny morning in early April. There were subtle differences within herself, and she was conscious of a flicker of dissatisfaction with the easy regularity of her days.

  There was nothing or anyone she could blame for her disquietude—her father was the same loving man he had always been, her home and the servants were unchanged, and she was still the darling of the Nacogdoches district. But there was something missing . . . some unnamed yearning growing inside of her made her restless and moody, uncertain and expectant at the same time. She wasn't unhappy, nor was she precisely disenchanted with her usual pursuits, it was just that . . .

  Balefully she scowled at an unoffending display of vivid pink morning glories that caught her eyes. She was sprawled comfortably in a patch of spring clover that grew under the shady branches of a beech tree, her slim body clothed in what was positively indecent attire for a young lady: a loose-fitting white linen shirt and a pair of disreputable-looking russet calzoneras. A wide-brimmed sombrero lay on the ground near her booted and spurred feet, and just a short distance away, the palomino mare that had been her sixteenth birthday gift from her father lazily cropped the lush green grass.

  This was a favorite spot of Sabrina's. It was less than a mile from the hacienda, and she often came here to sit and allow the peacefulness and beauty of the sheltering beeches, pines, flowering dogwood, and myrtles to sweep over her. She had spent many a pleasant afternoon lying here daydreaming. Unfortunately, of late, her daydreams had been vague, shadowy affairs that increased rather than diminished the growing turmoil within her.

  Still glaring at the morning glories that were attempting to twine themselves around the base of a towering pine tree, she plucked a stem of clover and idly chewed it. Maybe it is Carlos, she thought reluctantly. Or maybe it is Father.

  Her soft mouth curved ruefully. No, it wasn't anything her father had done, but she wished he had never brought up the subject of marriage to Carlos.

  Sabrina had never thought too deeply about the man she would one day marry, but marriage was something she had always accepted as inevitable. Until the night of her seventeenth birthday. Or rather, until the weeks following it.

  Meeting the sons of the neighboring ranchers, dancing with them at other fiestas, dining at their homes with her father, she discovered with surprise that there wasn't one she would want to marry. Not even dear Carlos, she conceded wryly.

  Since the conversation with her father she had begun to look at the men of her acquaintance with new eyes, particularly her cousin Carlos. And while she still found him delightful to dance with, to laugh with, and to ride with, she was becoming increasingly aware that she definitely did not want to marry him—or any man she had met so far.

  As if to give lie to that thought, a dark young face with jade-green eyes danced before her, and with an exclamation of disgust, she tossed the mangled clover stem away and rolled over onto her stomach. Brett Dangermond was certainly the last man she'd ever think of marrying! And right behind him came Carlos, she decided grimly.

  If she had begun to look at Carlos with new eyes, she had
also begun to be aware of the fact that their relationship had undergone a delicate change during the months following her birthday. He seemed to call more frequently at the Rancho del Torres than he had in the past ... or was it just because she was now more conscious of him? And hadn't his hand seemed to linger longer on hers than necessary? And wasn't there a look in his dark eyes, a hungry, assessing look that hadn't been present before? She couldn't tell for certain; she only knew that the way his eyes seemed always to follow her had begun to disturb her slightly and that she didn't take quite as much enjoyment from Carlos's presence as she once had.

  Suddenly annoyed and angry with her train of thoughts, she sprang lithely to her feet and reached for her sombrero. Hurriedly twisting her red-gold hair up on top of her head, she secured the fiery mass with an ivory comb she always carried with her for just that reason, and jamming on the wide-brimmed sombrero, she whistled for the palomino mare. Sirocco. Well trained by Sabrina, Sirocco instantly trotted over to her mistress, whickering softly. Sabrina smiled, her foul mood vanishing, and gently she caressed the silken muzzle that pushed against her breasts.

  "What a fool I am. Sirocco," she said absently, "to be brooding on such a lovely morning." The mare tossed her golden head as if in agreement, and Sabrina laughed.

  Looking more like a slim youth than an heiress, she swung up lightly into the ornate silver saddle the vaqueros had given her for her seventeenth birthday. Grasping the silver inlaid bridle given at the same time, she leaned over and crooned mischievously into Sirocco's twitching ear, "Shall we see if you live up to your name? Will you run for me like the fiery wind you are named after?" And ever so gently she touched the gleaming golden hide with her spurs.

  Spiritedly Sirocco reared up on her hind legs, and then very like her name, she plunged from the green glade where they had been and raced like the wind across the wide, marshy meadow that stretched in front of them. This was familiar ground to them both, and recklessly Sabrina urged the mare on to an even faster pace, reveling in the feeling of the mare's powerful strides and the humid air rushing coolly across her face. A joyous sparkle in the amber-gold eyes, a smile on the full mouth, Sabrina felt the last remnant of her earlier dissatisfaction evaporate, and with a soft laugh she loosed her hands on the reins, giving Sirocco free rein, willing to lose herself in the sheer pleasure of this wild, mad dash.

  To Brett and Ollie, just entering the meadow to the left of where Sirocco had burst from the forest, the situation looked anything but pleasurable. The first clue they had that they were not alone in this seeming uninhabited wilderness was when, like a creature gone mad, the golden mare with her slim, boyish rider suddenly exploded into their view and began to race crazily across the meadow. Never once dreaming that anyone would deliberately ride with such a disregard for life and limb, assuming that the horse had escaped the control of her inexperienced rider, Brett tossed the reins of the pack horse he'd been leading to Ollie. With a muttered curse under his breath about the stupidity of young males, he dug his spurs into his stallion's side and shot away after the disappearing horse and rider.

  Sirocco was fleet and light-footed, and at four years of age she was just coming into her full strength, but Firestorm, Brett's stallion—a son of Flame's—was at his peak, and with his longer legs and more powerful strides, Firestorm swiftly closed the distance between them. Still unaware that he was not rescuing a young boy, as Firestorm raced alongside Sirocco, Brett leaned over in his saddle and made a desperate attempt to catch the silver bridle that dangled so uselessly against Sirocco's extended, lathered neck.

  Sabrina hadn't been conscious of anything but her own enjoyment of this wild ride, but the instant the lean brown hand made a grab for Sirocco's bridle, she was alerted that she was no longer alone. Catching only a glimpse of a hard, dark, bearded face beneath the wide brim of a hat, she took immediate evasive action, jerking the reins and causing Sirocco to swerve sharply in another direction. She heard the other rider curse furiously, and glancing over at him, she saw that his own horse had already changed direction and was once again coming up fast alongside Sirocco.

  Her heart beating painfully in her breast, certain she was about to be attacked by one of the many brigands who had been drifting into this area, Sabrina tightened her mouth, and during the following minutes she did her damnedest to escape. But it was all to no avail—the other horse was too powerful, the other rider too determined, and in an open field there was no place to do more than let Sirocco have her head and pray the mare could outmaneuver the big chestnut horse.

  It still hadn't occurred to Brett that the boy he was attempting to rescue didn't want to be rescued. The erratic movements of the mare he put down to inexcusable handling, and by the time he was again in position to attempt to stop the runaway horse, his temper, never the coolest in the best of situations, was boiling. And this time he made no move to snatch at the reins. Instead, with the suddenness of a striking snake, he reached out and roughly plucked Sabrina from Sirocco's back. With more force than necessary, he flung her facedown across the saddle in front of him.

  Sabrina was not at all grateful for her supposed rescue, and being handled like a sack of meal, the breath momentarily knocked out of her, did nothing for her frame of mind. Furious that this lawless creature would dare to attack the daughter of Don Alejandro del Torres on his own land, she didn't even wait for the galloping horse to slow down before she began to fight.

  The Toledo steel blade her father had given her for her birthday was neatly sheathed in the top of her boot, and if she could only reach it . . . Quickly recovering her breath, she twisted and squirmed, trying uselessly to escape from the iron hand that pressed down so forcefully in the middle of her back as her captor gradually reined in his horse. Determined to get away, she continued her wiggling, hoping that if she couldn't use her knife, she could shift her weight to the side her feet dangled from and then slide down the side of the slowing horse and possibly make it to the protection of the nearing forest.

  Brett didn't exactly realize what his unwelcome burden was up to, but he was aware that if the confounded boy didn't stay still, the young whelp stood an excellent chance of falling to the ground and being trampled under Firestorm's hooves. Grasping the waist of the calzoneras, he ungently shifted Sabrina so that her head was now lower than her thrashing feet. Harshly Brett commanded, "Be still, you young cretin, until I stop the horse!"

  The blood rushing to her head, as much from his words as her position, Sabrina furiously began to struggle even harder. The sombrero, which had miraculously remained on her head until now, went flying, the ivory comb with it, and the red-gold hair came tumbling down around her flushed face.

  Busy with stopping the powerful stallion with only one hand on the reins, Brett saw neither the sombrero nor the ivory comb disappear. He also wasn't paying as much attention to his captive as he should have been, and just as the stallion finally came to a stop, with a burst of incredible agility, using her hands for leverage against the side of the horse, Sabrina was able to flip herself over and practically in the same movement twist herself into a sitting position in front of her captor.

  Like lightning her hand snaked to the top of her boot, and in a second her fingers closed around the blade. Before Brett even had time to assimilate that the "boy" wasn't a boy at all but a furious fire-maned young hellcat, the knife swung in a determined arc, deeply slashing him across the shoulder and down the upper portion of his muscled arm.

  Taking no notice of the almost blinding flash of pain, Brett reacted instinctively, and moving with a deadly swiftness, he captured the slender arm that wielded the knife so efficiently. Cruelly twisting the arm behind Sabrina's back, he glared down into the angry features so near his own. Astonishment held him speechless as his stunned gaze took in the disheveled mass of flaming curls rioting around the most enchanting face he had ever seen—thickly lashed amber-gold eyes fairly spitting defiance and fury were set under haughty dark brows, a delicate straight nose with a
delightful tilt at the tip was thrust arrogantly into the air, and below it was a generously curved mouth that fairly challenged any man to taste its sweetness.

  It was that glorious hair and those unforgettable eyes that brought recognition to him almost instantaneously, and on a note of incredulity, he breathed, ''Sabrina?"

  At the sound of her name, Sabrina froze, and suddenly oblivious to the brutal hold on her arm, she stared up into the dark bearded face so near her own. It wasn't precisely reassuring. Heavy black eyebrows curved sardonically over deep-set, cynical, jade-green eyes ringed by remarkably long, thick, black lashes—the impact of those eyes was mesmerizing. With an effort she tore her gaze away from his and swiftly took in the arrogant nose, the slightly flaring nostrils, and the full, mobile mouth with its mocking slant. The half-grown beard hid most of his face, but with her heart unexpectedly racing in her breast, her gaze once more fastened on the hard green eyes—green eyes that she had never quite forgotten. "Senor Brett?" she got out huskily, unable to believe that it was really he.

  The chiseled mouth curved into a wry smile, and slowly he loosened his cruel grip on her arm. "Yes, Fm afraid it is, sweetheart," he said dryly. The pain from the knife wound making itself felt, he winced as he dropped his right arm and muttered, "I could have wished for a less violent welcome, but considering how we last parted, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at being met with naked steel!"