The Tiger Lily (42 page)

"Does
Jefferson suspect something definite of Burr?" Morgan asked abruptly.

"I
don't know that he actually knows of any specific plot ... I gather that the
President is just mistrustful of Little Burr," Brett answered dryly.
"When Jefferson learned, last summer, that I was going to cease my
wanderings and settle here, he asked if I would mind keeping an eye out for any
suspicious activities by Wilkinson or Burr in the Territory of Orleans. What could
I say?"

It
was a rhetorical question, and Morgan made no reply, merely nodded his head in
understanding of the position. Reflectively he said, "Well, at the moment
I don't have anything to add to your information—this letter of yours from
Eaton is the first I've heard of Burr in months."

"Your
friend Jason Savage has intimated nothing?"

"Aha!"
Morgan replied dramatically, a glint of laughter in the blue eyes. "I knew
that there was some ulterior reason for you to write and request that I come by
and see you on my next visit to town."

Brett
looked at Morgan with annoyed amusement.

"That
wasn't the only reason! But I did want your opinion of Eaton's letter, and I
was curious whether Savage had written any news to you about Burr—or Wilkinson
for that matter."

"I've
not heard from Jason since last fall when he and his family came to visit us at
Chateau Saint-Andre. But I can write to him and tell him of Eaton's letter, and
ask that if he has heard of anything he write you with the information."

"I'd
appreciate it," Brett said simply. After refilling his snifter, they drank
in companionable silence for several moments, each man lost in his thoughts.

Heavily
Brett finally admitted, "I've done a lot of thinking about the situation,
or lack of it, trying to figure out what would make a man desert and betray his
country. And precisely what a man intent on doing that would need to accomplish
his task." Holding up his lean hand, finger by finger, Brett ticked off
the necessities. "It would take a desperate man, a man with nothing to
lose. Yet, in order to convince others to follow him, this man would need to
possess charm and persuasiveness. Burr seems to fit all of those requirements.
But he needs more than just desperation and charm—he would need money, men, and
arms . . .an army." Brett leaned forward, his harsh face somber. "He's
had meetings with our good General Wilkinson, highly secret meetings, and what
was discussed is at present something that can only be guessed. But whatever
Burr plans, whether it is the invasion of Mexico as is rumored, or the
establishment of a rival government in the lands west of the Allegheny
Mountains, he is going to need a large force and arms." He stopped for a
moment then added slowly, "I can't get the thought out of my head that
Wilkinson, with his penchant for intrigue, is the more dangerous of the two.
Being the Commander of the United States Army gives one all sorts of power—with
Wilkinson's help, Burr could precipitate a war with Spain without having to
wait until the situation came about naturally. And with Wilkinson's control of
the Army, if Burr did intend to take New Orleans, he would have all the men and
arms he needed to establish himself before anyone realized what they were
about."

"But
why would Wilkinson do such a thing? He's the highest officer in the
land—possibly receiving money from Spain. Why would he betray both?"

Brett
appeared faintly sheepish. "There you have me," he admitted ruefully.
"My little plot hangs together rather well until I reach that point, but
after that ..."

Morgan
snorted. "I think you spent too much time in the desert with Eaton!"
he remarked with the brutal candor of long friendship.

"Perhaps,"
Brett agreed readily. "I just wish I knew more of Wilkinson—I have reached
the place in my musings where I feel that Wilkinson more than Burr is the man
to watch. Burr may plot and plan, but Wilkinson is the one with the position
and power to make things happen.

Morgan
left shortly thereafter, promising to write Jason Savage. He also reminded Brett
to bring Sabrina to the Chateau Saint-Andre once Leonie had been delivered of
their child. Brett looked sardonic, but he agreed.

Left
alone in the library, Brett wandered aimlessly about, slowly sipping his brandy
and speculating further about Wilkinson and Burr. There were a lot of things he
knew about both men that he hadn't mentioned to Morgan, some of the information
so nebulous and unconnected to the present as to make him wonder why he even
considered it.

A
knock on the door and Andrew's information that the ladies were awaiting his
presence in the blue salon prior to dining finally ended, for the present time,
Brett's unprofitable speculation. Tossing down the remainder of his brandy, he
set the snifter down on his desk and proceeded to join Sabrina and Senora de la
Vega.

Entering
the elegant blue and gold room a few moments later, he was greeted by a frosty
Senora de la Vega, who, observing his casual dress—he was still wearing the
same clothes he'd worn when they arrived—sniffed and said disdainfully, "I
see that while you have a home worthy of a gentleman, your manners do not
match—only the lower classes do not change for dinner."

Francisca
was seated regally on a long, low sofa of pale blue velvet, her gown of black
satin spreading out like an ink stain around her plump form. A black lace
mantilla covered her dark hair, and several chains of gold rested on her
prominent bosom.

Sabrina
was standing silently near an empty fireplace, one slim hand resting on the
cream-colored mantel, and she bit her lip and turned away, uncertain whether to
applaud her aunt's speech or cringe with embarrassment. But more importantly,
she wondered how Brett was going to take her aunt's decidedly rude comment.

Brett's
eyes narrowed, and crossing to where Francisca sat, he stood before her and
said levelly, "I think we had better get one thing straight, senora. You
may be my guest, and as such I will give you hospitality and reasonable
courtesy. I will not, however, be dictated to by you, nor will I change the manner
in which I live to suit you. If you don't like it, you may leave. And continue
in the vein in which you have begun, and you won't have a choice about
leaving—I'll demand it! Now, if you will excuse me, I'll go change for
dinner." He slanted her a sardonic look and added, "I was about to do
so, but thought it only proper to first explain the reason for my
absence." Turning on his heel, he strode from the room.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

 Dinner
was not a pleasant affair, despite the fact that Brett played the polite host
to perfection. Suitably attired in a pair of black satin breeches and a jacket
of dark blue velvet, he looked very handsome and vital as he presided over the
long, gleaming mahogany table in the commodious dining room. It was a very
English room—the furniture was made by Sheraton, the carpet was a Savonnerie in
pleasing shades of gray, the walls were hung with pale gray silk, and at the
long windows that were at each end of the room hung drapes of burgundy velvet.
A huge pair of silver candelabra graced the dining room table and a magnificent
silver tea service was set on the mahogany sideboard. Their meal was served in
crystal goblets and on delicate china.

Francisca
ignored Brett as best she was able, her chagrin after their exchange in the
blue salon effectively silencing her. Sabrina had little to say, the thought of
her coming interview with him making the expertly prepared food she was eating
taste like dirt. But Brett seemed unperturbed by the uncommunicativeness of his
two guests. With a mocking light in his eyes, he inquired after their comfort.
Were their rooms adequate? Were their needs being met? Were his servants making
themselves useful? Being met by monosyllables didn't deter him in the least,
and by the end of the meal, Sabrina was positive that if he asked just one more
question in that hateful, sardonic tone about her well-being, she was going to
fling her goblet of wine at him.

The
amber-gold eyes flashing with resentment, she glared at him, wishing he didn't
look quite so damnably attractive, the starched white cravat at his neck making
his skin appear darker, the candlelight intensifying the blackness of his hair,
creating hollows and angles in his features that made him seem at once more
handsome than she remembered and yet infinitely more dangerous, too. As if
aware of her gaze, he glanced at her, their eyes meeting. The expression in
those jade-green depths suddenly made her throat feel dry, her breath freeze in
her breast.

Dios!
she thought
with furious bewilderment, how dare he look at me that way, as if he hated me,
as if I were the one beneath contempt! She had guessed that he might harbor
bitter feelings against her—after all, she had confounded his nefarious scheme
to marry her for money—but that he would view her with such hostility and scorn
had never occurred to her. And why scorn? she wondered uneasily, why that
expression of undisguised contempt?

Francisca
spoke up then, demanding Brett's attention. ''Senor , " she said bluntly,
"my son will be arriving some time within the next few weeks. He would
have come with us, but"—and she shot an annoyed look at her
niece—"Sabrina would not wait for him to return from Mexico City. I assume
that you will have room for him here when he reaches the city."

Leisurely
Brett lifted his crystal goblet and took a drink of wine. Setting the goblet
down, he looked directly at Francisca and said deliberately, "No, I'm
afraid that won't be possible. There are several inns and hotels nearby, and I
am sure he will find comfortable quarters for his stay."

Francisca
swelled up like a toad, venom in her black eyes, but prudence, for once,
stilled her tongue. She had clashed with the hated gringo twice now, and each
time she had come off the loser. But her anger was too great to be contained
easily, and rising to her feet, she threw down her linen napkin and snapped,
"If you will excuse me? I find your company less than congenial."

A
tense silence suddenly filled the air, and Sabrina wished violently that her
aunt had not deserted her so precipitously. But determined to show her mettle
and to make it plain that she wasn't the least intimidated by him, she said
forthrightly, "Surely your home is large enough to accommodate another
guest. After all, he is her son and my cousin, not a stranger."

Gently
Brett replied, "But you see, it is
my
home, and I don't wish to
have him here."

Sabrina
flushed at the deserved rebuke. It was his home, and she could understand his
position. Curiosity, however, prompted her to ask, "Why don't you want him
here?"

The
jade-green eyes hooded, he suggested lightly, "Because I don't trust
him?"

Sabrina
frowned. "Why ever not? What has he done to you that makes you think he is
untrustworthy?"

His
long fingers toyed lazily with the crystal goblet, the dark face revealing
little as he said unemotionally, "He told me lies—lies that were and are
unforgivable."

Her
frown increased, and unaware of how lovely she looked, the candlelight casting
its golden glow across her creamy bosom and arms, the red-gold of the coronet
braid on her head heightened by the flickering light, she persisted seriously,
"What lies? Are you certain? As long as I have known him, he has never
told me, or anyone I know, a lie. It would be dishonorable of him, and Carlos
is basically an honorable man."

Sabrina
might have been oblivious to her own charms, but in spite of his best
intentions, Brett was not. Against his will, his eyes strayed over her,
lingering with cynical appreciation on the slim shoulders and the smooth,
tempting flesh that rose above the black silk gown. He remembered instantly the
taste of her, the texture and scent of her skin, the feel of her soft mouth
under his, and an intense, almost painful surge of desire hit him. Cursing
himself for giving way to emotions he had thought long conquered, he stood up
abruptly, furiously willing his body not to betray the state he was in. Walking
swiftly across the room to the door, he said harshly, "I doubt that either
one of you knows the meaning of the word honor, and in any case, I don't wish
to discuss it now. If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to."

Startled
at the lightning change in manner, she stared at him from across the room, her
eyes puzzled and yet angry, too. "Wait!" she cried helplessly as he
flung open the door and prepared to leave. Standing up, she hurried around the
end of the table, crossing the room to where he stood.

She
stopped inches from him, suddenly realizing that she didn't know what she
wanted to say—she only knew she didn't want this unsatisfactory conversation to
end this way. Attacked by an unexpected wave of shyness, she dropped her eyes
from his hard face and muttered the first thing that came to her mind.
"You can't have business this time of night . . . and besides, I wish to
speak with you." She risked a glance at him, and not at all reassured by
the unyielding features, she stammered, "A ... a ... a .. .about th . . .
th . . . the guardianship."

Brett
stiffened. Flatly he said, "There is nothing to discuss—I am your
guardian, and you are my ward; those are the terms of your father's will, and I
intend to abide by them."

Angrily
Sabrina retorted, "Don't be ridiculous! You can't possibly want me for
your ward."

Insolently
the jade-green eyes wandered over her, and Sabrina felt as if she had just been
stripped naked. A curious note in his voice, he drawled, "If I find the
duties of guardianship wearing, I'm certain I shall find some other benefit
from the arrangement. ..."

Her
face pale, she demanded jerkily, "What do you mean?"

He
smiled cynically. "Oh, come now, my dear, you can't be that
unsophisticated!"

Without
conscious thought, she slapped him, hard, the sound of her palm striking his
cheek ringing out like a pistol shot in the room. A deathly silence fell, and
for a second they stared at each other, the astonishment reflected in both
faces making it clear that neither had quite expected such a violent reaction
to his provoking words.

Brett
recovered himself first, and with something between a snarl and a curse, he
slammed the door furiously behind him. His broad shoulders resting against the
panel behind him, blocking any escape, he regarded her with narrowed eyes.
"I do believe," he began silkily, "that I once warned you not to
be so quick with your hands."

Very
aware that she had crossed over into dangerous territory, Sabrina bravely tried
to hold her ground. Chin lifted belligerently, she said warily, "I don't
know what you're talking about!"

He
smiled, a smile that didn't reach those cold green eyes, and replied almost
gently, "Then I'll just have to show you, won't I?"

His
statement both thrilled and terrified her, and with one part of her mind, she
miserably acknowledged that she had known exactly what would happen the instant
she slapped him. It also, belatedly, occurred to her that Brett, too, had known
precisely what reaction his insulting words would draw from her and that he had
deliberately created their situation. She didn't have time to explore that
fascinating avenue of thought, because in that moment, his hands closed painfully
around her shoulders and she was jerked unceremoniously up against his hard
form.

A
shiver of something akin to ecstasy rippled uncontrollably through her at the
touch of that well-remembered muscled body against hers, and when his mouth
descended as she know it would, her lips were upraised, strangely eager and yet
equally unwilling for his kiss. His mouth took hers with a savage intensity,
almost as if he wanted to hurt her, his arms tightening powerfully around her,
pulling her closer to him, allowing no room for resistance or escape.

But
Sabrina was without fight. It didn't matter just then that he was kissing her
for all the wrong reasons; it didn't even matter that it was almost a brutal
kiss, a punishing kiss, his lips moving with a cruel urgency against her. All
that mattered was that she was in his strong arms again. With a soft moan of
part denial, part pleasure, her arms crept around his neck, her swelling
breasts crushed between their locked bodies, her legs straining against his.

Brett
kissed her like a man with a fierce, insatiable hunger to appease. His lips
were everywhere—her brows, her cheeks, her earlobes—but compulsively he found
her mouth again and again, his tongue plunging deeply, insistently, between her
lips, driving every thought but one from his mind. It was as if the six years
between them had never been, as if they had parted just yesterday, and only the
memory of pain and the savage hunger that ate at him were reminders that so
much time had passed since he had last held her in his arms. So much wasted
time, he thought bitterly, the arms that pressed her close constricting
possessively around her.

Sabrina
gave a breathless murmur of surprise at the power of his embrace, desire like
sun-warmed honey flowing in her veins, making her oblivious to everything but
the man kissing her. Even when his hold on her slackened and she felt a
questing, impatient hand at her breast, she couldn't bring herself to utter a
protest, couldn't make a move to break the chains of passion that bound her to
him. She could feel him forcing her gown lower, feel the warm fingers caressing
and pulling at the nipples he had freed, and she trembled with a force of
emotions those knowing fingers created. And when his head bent, his tongue
curling around those stiffened coral nipples, his hot mouth hungrily suckling
at her breast, Sabrina knew that she could deny him nothing. Nothing. She knew
then that the dark fascination she had always feared still possessed her, knew
that in spite of everything, she still wanted him. Wanted whatever he was
willing to give her —and if it was only his body for now, at this moment, she
would be willing to settle for just that.

Six
long years she had denied wanting or needing him, but it took only a moment in
his arms to know that she had lied to herself. Her body was aflame with desire;
she ached to be naked against him, to have him possess her as he had on that
warm, moonlit summer night, and feverishly she arched up against him, her hips
moving in a motion as old as the universe. Exultantly she heard his muffled
groan at her breast, and she was made unbearably conscious of the rigid staff
of his manhood standing up between them as his hands captured her hips and
guided her closer against him.

Blindly
his mouth sought hers, his hands staying on her hips, controlling her
movements, keeping her pressed tightly to him. Sensually he moved against her,
sending little shocks of pleasure exploding along her body every time the
swollen length of him brushed erotically across her stomach and upper thighs.

A
sudden knock on the door broke them apart, and his eyes fever-bright, his voice
thick, Brett snapped, "Yes, what is it?"

Andrew's
apologetic words came muffled through the door. "Oh, excuse me, sir, I
didn't realize that you were still in the dining room. I'll come back later to
clear the table."