The Tiger Lily (7 page)

Perhaps
the greatest change lay in his facial features; ten years of dangerous,
devil-may-care living were clearly stamped on the harsh, dark face. His hair
was just as black, the black eyebrows were just as forbidding, the jade-green
eyes . . . The green eyes had acquired a deeply cynical, almost insolent gleam,
and the full, mobile mouth frequently had a reckless slant to it, a derisive,
faintly contemptuous twist that strangely enough intensified his charm. There
was no doubt that Brett Dangermond had grown into an extremely handsome young
man despite his unconscious arrogance and air of weary disdain.

He
possessed everything—aristocratic breeding, fortune, and a devastating charm
and manner that, when he wished, could annihilate any obstacle that lay in his
path. And yet there was a constant driving urge within him to seek to allay the
boredom and emptiness that were his ever-present companions.

Before
he was twenty-five, with Ollie  as his eager guide, he had toured the seamy
underside of London's danger-ridden slums, had drunk blue ruin until he was nearly
blind, had gambled and whored his way to Spain, to France, to England, to
America, and back again. There had been duels and madcap pranks along the
way—he had fought bulls in Madrid, killed a man in a duel over a woman in
Paris; on a drunken wager he had played the highwayman along Hampstead
Heath—returning the ill-gotten gains undetected to the rightful owners had been
the part of the wager Brett found the most exciting; he had smuggled
aristocrats meant for the guillotine out of a France gone mad; and for a year
he had thrown his lot in with an American privateer plying the waters off the
coast of Mexico. But the escapade, if it can be called such, that had given him
the most danger and satisfaction had been the three months he had spent
infiltrating a gang of smugglers in the New Orleans area almost three years
ago.

It
had been no prank, no drunken wager, that had driven him into their notorious
ranks, but rather a thirst for vengeance—above all else, Brett was fiercely,
savagely loyal to his friends. During the year he and Ollie had sailed with the
privateer, Samuel Brown, Brett had grown to like and respect the gruff old
captain. Sam Brown had been an honorable man in his rough fashion, and
returning from one of his lightning visits at Riverview, Brett had been both
grieved and furious to hear of his death at the hands of a renegade band of
smugglers. Deliberately Brett had coolly inveigled his way into their network
and just as coolly had brought about their ruin. With the help of the Spanish
magistrate in New Orleans, he had effectively destroyed the gang from within,
watching impassively as the death sentence for Sam Brown's murder was meted out
to the guilty party.

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 past 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—"