The Tiger Lily (4 page)

It
was the final straw. Enraged as much because she could arouse emotions within
him that he didn't understand as by her actions, Brett promptly turned her over
his knee and gave her a hiding she was never to forget. His chest heaving, his
mouth thinned, moments later he stood her in front of him and snapped,
"Let that be a lesson to you, brat—don't ever cross me again!"

Furiously
Sabrina blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. The full lower lip
quivering pitifully, the amber-gold eyes a startling incandescent gold, she
spat, "I hate you, Senor Brett!
I
hate you!
I never want to
see you again!"

"Well,
that suits me just fine!" he hurled back. Watching her stalk proudly away,
he knew an urge to call her back, an urge to mend the breach between them, but
fiercely he killed that urge. What a fool he was! It was a good thing that he
had discovered her real nature before it was too late—an embryonic Jezebel,
practicing her wiles already on the unwary male; headstrong, stubborn, and not
to be trusted an inch!

PART
ONE

BITTERSWEET
AWAKENING

Nacogdoches,
Spanish Texas

Summer,
1799

   For
aught that I could ever read,

Could
ever hear by tale or history,

The
course of true love never did run

   smooth.

William
Shakespeare

A
Midsummer Night's Dream

CHAPTER
THREE

August
1, 1799, Sabrina del Torres's seventeenth birthday, dawned bright and clear. It
was one of those marvelous, lazy summer days that she so loved. Waking just as
the sun was topping the tall, pungent pine trees that grew near the sprawling,
gracious adobe house where she had lived all her life, she slid naked from her
soft featherbed and ran gracefully to the double doors that opened to the rear
of the room. Throwing them aside, she stepped out onto the small balcony that
overlooked the back of the hacienda.

She
had no fear of being observed—her rooms were upstairs at the very end of a long
wing that had been added onto the main dwelling when her father had married,
and it assured privacy. All that met her wandering gaze was the endless lush
green forest.

Flinging
her arms wide in pagan abandon, like a priestess of fire, she faced the glowing
sun, her face and slender body bathed in its golden light. The sun lit the fire
in the red-gold hair that tumbled to her waist, gilded the striking features
that were upturned eagerly for its warm touch, and wandered like a lover's hand
over the tall, slim body.

The
sunlight seemed to linger on the full, coral-tipped breasts, the flat, almost
concave stomach, the fiery curls at the junction of her thighs, and the long,
shapely legs as she stood there before it, her arms outstretched as if to
embrace a lover. The sun transformed her into a slender flame, all crimson and
gold; sighing with unashamed ecstasy she slowly pivoted, reveling in its
warmth. Her arms slowly falling to her sides, a smile of pure happiness on her
young face, she walked to the black iron railing that encircled the balcony.

Leaning
her elbows on the top of the railing, her chin cupped in her hands, contentedly
she stared out at the expanse of forest that met her eyes, the scent of
honeysuckle drifting to her. In the distance, she could just make out the
glitter of blue from the small lake where she frequently swam on days like this
one.

But
there would be no swimming today, she thought with a smile. Today was her
birthday, and today there would be other delights in store for her. As her
father's only child, and the heiress to a considerable fortune, her birthday
was an important day in the lives of everyone connected with the Rancho del
Torres. And not just the lives of those directly connected to the
ranch—families with marriageable sons, neighbors and friends who had known her
since birth would all be converging on the ranch to share in the joyous
celebration of her seventeenth birthday. A fiesta had been planned for weeks,
and for days the cooks in the kitchen had been baking and preparing foodstuffs.
The grand salon had been thrown open and aired, scrubbed, and polished until
every chandelier, every tile in the mosaic floor, every stick of furniture
shone like a newly minted doubloon.

As
she thought of the grand salon, Sabrina's face suddenly clouded. Today would be
the first time it had been used since before her mother's death nearly ten
years ago.

A
shaft of remembered pain sliced through her like a knife as she thought of her
mother's tragic death in Natchez in the summer of 1789. Such a sad and
melancholy ending to what had been, for the most part, a wonderful trip to see
Tia Sofia marry Hugh Dangermond.

Her
soft, voluptuous mouth thinned as she recalled unexpectedly and for the first
time in years her painful, disillusioned parting from Brett Dangermond. What a
beast he had been, she reminded herself fiercely. Sabrina, while generally a
sweet, generous girl, never forgot an insult or an injustice, and to her way of
thinking, Brett's treatment of her after the death of the quail had been both .
. . especially the morning she had ridden the stallion. She had suffered
dreadfully from his inexplicable rejection, but it had been nothing like the pain
and suffering she had endured when, two days before they were to leave for
home, for Nacogdoches, Elena had been killed when her horse bolted during a
morning ride and she was hit in the head by the limb of a huge oak tree.

Everyone
had been stunned. No one could believe that dear, laughing Elena was dead.
Sofia had seemed to age ten years, Alejandro had been like a man possessed, and
Sabrina had looked like a small, pale ghost, blindly refusing Brett's or
anyone's offer of comfort, unwilling to accept that her beloved mother would
never smile at her again, never hold her again.

They
had buried Elena in the Dangermond plot in Natchez—it had been impossible to
consider returning her body to Nacogdoches—and somehow that had hurt Sabrina
even more deeply. Alejandro and Sabrina had not lingered in Natchez after the
funeral. Natchez was now a place of unhappy memories for them both, and in the
intervening years, while Alejandro had occasionally visited with the
Dangermonds, Sabrina had never returned. Tia Sofia wrote regularly to her, and
Sabrina eagerly replied, yet she wanted nothing to do with Natchez or its sad,
painful memories.

She
and her father had grown extremely close after Elena's death. They were
complete with each other, neither needing nor wanting the intrusion of another
person in the warm circle of love they had created for themselves. Elena was
never forgotten, and a stranger listening to them converse would have thought
that Elena had merely gone on a journey just yesterday and would return at any
moment. Her name cropped up often between the two of them, Sabrina sometimes
coaxing her father to order a new pair of pantaloons or an embroidered
waistcoat by saying softly, "Madre would not like to see you appearing so
shabbily dressed. Padre—not when you are going to visit with the commandant in
town!" And if Sabrina's way was a trifle devious, Alejandro was just as
guilty of using Elena in bending Sabrina to his will. When all other arguments
had failed to sway her from a course he disapproved of, he would arrange his
handsome features into a mask of sorrow and murmur unscrupulously, '"'I do
not think your
madre
would like you to do this,
chico
." And
Sabrina would instantly fall in with his wishes.

Despite
Elena's untimely death, Sabrina's childhood was a happy one. She spent an
inordinate time with her father as he went about the ranch supervising and
doing the daily tasks. Her life was less restricted and confined than it would
have been if her mother had lived, but her father's unorthodox regime and the
maturity forced upon her by Elena's tragic death had not been harmful. Though
she was petted and pampered, in some ways Alejandro treated her as though she
were a son.

And
while there were some, notably Tia Francisca, Alejandro's eldest sister, who
thought it outrageous that Sabrina could not sew a straight seam, had never
fathomed the mysteries of the kitchen or instituted any of Francisca's
multitude of orders for the running of a proper household, most found
Alejandro's daughter a high-spirited, enchanting young creature. But if Sabrina
might be found lacking in some of the necessary requirements for a young lady
of her station, she most definitely made up for them with the uncommon and
questionable skills she had learned from her father and the vaqueros on the
ranch.

She
could ride like a Comanche, could shoot far better than most men, was unusually
proficient with a knife, and could boast, if she wished, of a vocabulary that
would make a drunken guttersnipe blush. Sabrina was unique; she was also, not
surprisingly, the pride and darling of the Rancho del Torres, her warmhearted,
unselfish nature making her all the more endearing. Which of course explained
why her- birthday was such a special event in the Nacogdoches area.

Conscious
that soon Bonita, her maid, would be appearing with her breakfast tray, Sabrina
ceased her profitless musing and went back into the room. She spared one last
long look at the bright sky and murmured softly, "Wish me well, Madre ...
I will think of you often today."

Splashing
some cold water into a china bowl, she swiftly completed her morning ablutions
and then, picking up her silver-backed brush, quickly brought some semblance of
order to her night-tousled curls. Crossing to her bed, she lifted up the white
linen nightdress that had been laid out the previous evening and with a wry
grimace, put it on. Too many mornings the sight of her naked body had unleashed
a torrent of displeasure from Bonita—it was not proper, it was sinful to sleep
naked. Bonita's plump face would set in determined lines. Every night with
stiff, angry movements she would lay out a fresh, clean nightgown, and, of
late, every morning Sabrina resignedly put it on—it was easier than offending
Bonita.

Sabrina
had just settled herself back in bed, several lace-edged pillows plumped up
behind her, when Bonita, a warm smile on her swarthy face, waddled into the
room carrying a large silver tray that held Sabrina's usual breakfast: hot
chocolate and a sweet cake called
pan dulce
. Different from most days,
however, was the huge bouquet of yellow roses and the small cloth-covered box
that lay in the center of a plate.

Seeing
the roses, Sabrina gave an exclamation of pleasure, and Bonita's lined face
softened. "Happy birthday, little one," she said, the affection she
felt obvious in the wise brown eyes and the crooning tones of her voice.

Bonita
had been Elena's nurse, and when her mistress had married the dashing Alejandro
del Torres, she had accompanied her from Natchez and had settled down in the
wilderness of Spanish Texas to devote herself to the houseful of babies she was
certain would be arriving in due course. But there had been only one baby,
Sabrina, and consequently Bonita had lavished all her love and not a few
scoldings on Sabrina, much like a cat with one precious kitten.

Watching
as Sabrina took a deep, delighted sniff of the fragrant roses, Bonita was
conscious of a feeling of bittersweet satisfaction. How proud Dona Elena would
have been of her daughter on this day! Then, eyeing suspiciously the uncreased
state of the demure nightgown that covered Sabrina's body, she thought how
shocked Elena would have been that her daughter could have acquired such wanton
habits.

Bonita
was old and fat, her once-dark hair liberally streaked with gray, and whatever
shape she had possessed had long ago disappeared. She had a merry face, though,
and a deep, rich chuckle that made one smile involuntarily. She ruled the del
Torres household with an iron hand; that is, all the household with the
exception of Senorita Sabrina and Don Alejandro. Don Alejandro had only to
pinch her cheek and smile whimsically at her and she instantly melted. As for
Sabrina, well, try as she might, Bonita could never resist the appeal of those
amber-gold eyes. She had been heard to mutter on more than one occasion that Senorita
Sabrina could have charmed the devil or slain him with just one glance.

As
Sabrina opened the cloth-covered box, those incredible eyes darkened with deep
emotion, and staring at the beautifully wrought gold hoop earrings that lay on
the white satin, Sabrina breathed reverently, "Oh, Bonita, you are too
good to me—you spoil me."

"
Si
,
this is true," Bonita returned with her rich chuckle, and reaching over to
tweak a strand of the curly hair, she added, "But there are days when you
deserve it, and today is one of them."

Oblivious
to the nearly spilt chocolate pot and the wobbling vase of roses, Sabrina
twisted in bed and flung her arms around Bonita's neck. "Oh, Bonita, I
love you so much! And I will always treasure these lovely earrings. I will wear
them tonight for the fiesta."

The
remainder of the day proved to be as enjoyable as its beginning. There was a
constant stream of well-wishers arriving and congratulations from everyone she
met, and from her father and relatives and the servants of the ranch there was
an almost overwhelming variety of gifts to help celebrate her birthday: a gold
hair comb from the women in the kitchen; a fine leather bridle embossed with
silver from the stablemen, a beautiful white lace mantilla from Tia Francisca
and her family, a breathtaking silver-inlaid saddle from the suddenly shy
vaqueros, and from her father a curious combination—a delicate blade of
wonderful Toledo steel and a necklace of glittering emeralds.

That
evening as she dressed for the fiesta in her honor, she managed to wear as many
gifts as possible. Bonita had piled the red-gold curls high on Sabrina's head
and secured them with the gold comb; Bonita's gift of the earrings hung from
her small ears, and around her neck were the emeralds given to her by her
father. She wore a simple gown of white silk, a profusion of lace flowing
around its deep decolletage and around the hem of the wide, full, swinging
skirt, Tia Francisca's gift of the white mantilla draped fashionably about her
bared shoulders and arms. The effect was striking, the brightness of that flame-colored
hair, the honeyed tones of her soft skin against the emeralds, and the white
silk of the gown making more than one young caballero that night think of a goddess
of fire—a goddess in whose embrace it would be heaven to burn.