Chapter 4

 

When Alejandro's gracious invitation to visit the Rancho del Torres to discuss planting sugar cane finally arrived in Brett Dangermond's hands, it was a wet, stormy day in late November. Brett had returned to Riverview, where he was temporarily staying at his bachelor quarters situated some distance from the main house, after a day spent in the company of his friend Morgan Slade.

Cursing the damp weather, in the narrow entry hall of the small house that had been built for his exclusive use five years earlier, he tossed aside his dripping greatcoat. Walking through a doorway to his right, he entered a large pleasant room and strode rapidly across an elegant red Turkey rug to stand before the welcoming fire that blazed on the bricked hearth.

The room where he stood served as both a salon and a dining room. There were comfortable green leather chairs scattered indiscriminately about it, a heavy oak table and sideboard were situated at one end of the room, several Louis XV chairs covered in brown velvet were nearby, and soft gold drapes hung at the rain-splattered windows. From the haphazard mixture of furniture and the hunting prints on the walls, it was obviously a room that had never known a woman's touch—which suited Brett just fine.

Having warmed his hands, he turned to face the room, and it was then that he noticed the travel-stained letter reposing on a small inlaid marquetry table near his favorite chair. Curious but frowning slightly, he reached for it. Fingering the ripped edge of the packet that contained the letter, he glanced through the doorway where his butler-cum-valet, for want of a better designation, was hanging up the discarded greatcoat. Resignation lacing his deep voice, Brett asked, "When did this arrive? And who delivered it?"

"Arrived about two hours ago, guvnor. A peddler delivered it, said he got it from a Spanish soldier in New Orleans," Ollie Fram replied, the cockney accent still obvious even after nine years in Brett's service.

Brett looked over the top of the letter at his servant. Dryly he commented, "And of course you just couldn't help opening and reading it."

A pained expression on his ugly monkey face, Ollie Fram replied indignantly, "It might 'ave been important, guvnor—I might 'ave 'ad to send for you."

Brett snorted and settling comfortably in the chair nearest the fire, quickly read the letter.

A thoughtful cast to his features, Brett stared moodily into the fire for several seconds. It was only when Ollie placed a mug of mulled wine at his elbow that he stirred. Glancing at the small, dark youth who was so completely the opposite of what a proper butler, or valet for that matter, should look like, he asked, "Well? Shall we accept Don Alejandro's invitation?"

"Don't see why not. You've been getting more and more restless since we came 'ome from England in October. Seems to me it's time we were moving on again, besides, we ain't never been west of the Sabine River," Ollie answered promptly.

If it seemed odd for a gentleman to seek his servant's opinion about anything other than his cravats and boots, it was an even odder occurrence that Ollie Fram was Brett's servant at all. By rights, as Brett had told him often enough, Ollie should have been hanged on Tyburn Hill years ago—and if the pocket that young scamp had tried to pick that day at Bartholomew Fair had been anybody else's but nineteen-year-old Brett Dangermond's, that might have been Ollie's fate. But while the fates had been unkind to Ollie most of his life, leaving him an orphan in the notorious slums of London at age six, they did not desert him completely: until he was ten, he had managed by methods best not described to survive in the cesspool of Whitefriars. Certainly the fates had smiled upon him the day he had attempted to pocket Brett's watch.

Feeling his gold watch sliding ever so slowly from his waistcoat pocket as he wandered through Bartholomew Fair, Brett had rounded on the culprit. Finding himself face to face with a small, incredibly ugly boy dressed in rags, whose mouth spat the most shocking filth imaginable, Brett had been nonplussed. To have the boy brought before a magistrate would practically have been the child's death warrant, and so, moved by compassion he couldn't explain (insanity, he said in later months), he had brought the ungrateful ragamuffin into his household in London. It had been difficult for everyone, for Ollie had not been at all thankful for his escape from possible death if it meant bathing and learning some manners as well as to read and speak the King's English. But over the years the rough edges had been shaved off, and not surprisingly, Ollie had concluded that Brett was nothing less than a god.

Brett was never quite certain how it came about, but Ollie gradually took the places of his butler and valet. He filled their departed shoes admirably, if peculiarly, and Brett was satisfied. Ollie was always a bit of a shock at first meeting, his small, wiry stature making him appear at nineteen much younger than he was—until one noticed the cynical wisdom in his brown eyes. And then, unfortunately, there was his occasional lapse from grace, when a particularly exquisite stickpin or watch sported by one of Brett's acquaintances would inexplicably find its way into Ollie's clever hands. Despite his obvious failings, Ollie was quick and intelligent, and to someone as ripe and ready for mischief and danger as Brett was, he was the perfect servant. No questions from Ollie about some of the strange goings on in which Brett had taken part; no arguments from him when Brett was leaping blindly into some harum-scarum escapade. Instead, Ollie was likely to join in the madness. Of course, Brett had been very young in those days. He had come alone to England to claim a handsome fortune left to him by a great-aunt, and the results had been entirely predictable. He had been let loose on Europe with too much money, too much time on his hands, and few restraints, so it was only natural that his high spirits would lead him along dangerous paths, paths that soon earned him the nickname "Devil" Dangermond.

There was a rapping at the outer door just then, and Ollie disappeared to answer it. He reappeared a second later, saying, "Guvnor, your father would like you to go up to the house. A General Wilkinson is staying the night, and your father would like you to join them for a brandy after dinner."

Brett grimaced, realizing that his father's invitation was actually a plea to save him from having to endure an entire evening alone with the unctuous Wilkinson. Reluctantly he said, "Very well, send word that I shall be up later."

He found his father and the General by the fire in a small, cozy room at the rear of the house when he finally arrived. After greeting both men, he poured himself a brandy and remarked, "A filthy evening to be visiting, General, isn't it?"

Wilkinson gave a hearty laugh. He was only a few years over forty, but his once-attractive features were bland and heavyset. "Indeed it is! But I was in the area and decided that I would beg a roof over my head from your father rather than spend it in some drafty inn." He smiled slyly. "Besides, your father keeps the best brandy in Natchez."

Hugh Dangermond smiled and murmured, "That may be the case now, but there was a time when it was not true. When Manuel Gayoso was our governor under the Spanish, he had the best brandy."

Hugh's fifty odd years lay sedately across his handsome face and body. There was a liberal sprinkling of silver in the black hair, a fine network of laugh lines spreading out near his eyes, and just the slightest padding of weight around his waist to show that time had left its mark on him.

The comment about Gayoso brought a frown to Wilkinson's ruddy face. His hands folded complacently over a rotund stomach, he said casually, "Such a shame about him. It seems impossible to think it was only this past summer that he died in New Orleans." The General shook his fair head. "I was there the night he died you know." He gave a long sigh. "Couldn't believe it when they told me the next morning that he was dead. Such a shock! One of my dearest friends, dead in an instant!"

Brett said nothing. His opinion of the General had never been high, and there was something about Wilkinson's manner that bothered him. He sensed hypocrisy in the words about Gayoso's death... and he wondered how friendly the General had really been with the late Manuel Gayoso de Lemos.

Wilkinson's friendship with the Spanish was well-known, and there were many, Brett and Hugh among them, who viewed it with suspicion, privately thinking that for a high ranking officer in the United States Army, Wilkinson was a little too friendly with the Spanish. There had always been rumors about Wilkinson and the Spanish, but no one had ever proved anything. Unsavory rumors seemed to follow General James Wilkinson; rumors of bribes and crooked dealings trailed behind him like dark shadows.

As the three men talked for several minutes, Brett calculated how soon he could leave without deserting his father or offending the General. But then Wilkinson said something that caught his interest.

Placing his glass of brandy on a marble-topped table near his chair, Wilkinson murmured, "I had hoped to see my young friend Philip Nolan before now, but it seems that he has not yet returned from Spanish Texas. I will wait here in Natchez a few days longer, but then I must be off." He smiled affably. "Official duties, you know."

Philip Nolan was Wilkinson's unofficial protégé; he had been Wilkinson's agent before striking off on his own, disappearing for years at a time in the vast, untracked wilderness of the Spanish lands west of the Sabine River. Why would Wilkinson want to see Nolan as soon as he returned from his latest trip in those lands? Brett wondered. Speculatively he eyed the General. What were those two planning? Certainly something that would line their pockets—Wilkinson was always notoriously short of ready money.

Hugh provided a clue. "Strange how Gayoso turned against Nolan before he died," he murmured. "I remember when they were the best of friends. I believe Gayoso actually issued a warrant for Nolan's arrest.... We hear rumors up here about the Spanish in New Orleans. It's as if they believe Nolan has discovered some marvelous treasure out there in that wilderness." Hugh shook his head. "The Spanish never seem to realize that there is no Cibola, no seven cities of gold. They probably think poor Nolan has found some hidden Aztec treasure."

The effect of Hugh's words on Wilkinson was electrifying. His entire body stiffened; a look of fury and fear flashed through his blue eyes, though he quickly hid it. Hugh had turned aside to pour himself another brandy, but Brett clearly saw Wilkinson's reaction. Incredulous, Brett stared at the pudgy features. Did the General believe such nonsense? Was that why he wanted to see Nolan? To find out first hand if Nolan had indeed found a treasure? And yet, paradoxically, there was also an air of smug satisfaction about the man, as if he already possessed some enlightening information, as if he knew something that others didn't....

Curious, Brett questioned the General, but Wilkinson, as if realizing that he had betrayed himself, replied with bland answers, turning the conversation away from Nolan and the Spanish. Reluctantly Brett allowed him to do so. But sometime, he thought, as he rode the short distance to his house later that evening, it might prove interesting to do some investigating—to discover how Gayoso had really died and why Wilkinson was so eager to see Nolan....

Unusually restless that evening, Brett roamed about the snug little house like some caged predator. He tried sleeping, but finding sleep elusive he finally donned a black silk robe and wandered downstairs to the salon. Poking at the smoldering fire, he was eventually rewarded by the flicker of flames. Staring at the dancing flames, he found himself remembering a child with hair the color of fire, and his fine mouth tightened.

When he had read Alejandro's letter, he had been aware of a reluctance to renew his acquaintance with the del Torres family, but he was also unbearably curious about the changes that were certain to have occurred in his step-cousin. I wonder what she looks like now, he mused, if she's grown into those incredible eyes and that impudent mouth....

Certainly he had changed in the ten years since they had last met. Yet in the man of nearly twenty-eight there was still a strong resemblance to the youth he had been. Barefooted he stood four inches over six feet with a lean, steel-honed body that possessed the grace and leashed power of a hunting lion. As Sofia had predicted, his shoulders had broadened and his arms swelled with hard muscle that hadn't been there ten years ago. A wide chest matched his shoulders, his waist and hips were lean and narrow, and his long, elegantly muscular legs showed to perfection in the tight pantaloons and breeches that were currently fashionable.

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 cynical, almost insolent gleam, and the full, mobile mouth 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. Intent upon revenge, 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 destroyed the gang from within, watching impassively as the death sentence for Sam Brown's murder was meted out.

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, forgetting his fierce vow never to be trapped by a woman, he had fervently courted 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 prior 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 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 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 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 no woman would ever 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 believe it, but Hugh's happy marriage gave him pause every time he came home to visit.

The marriage was 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 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 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 understanding about it.

Watching his friend as Brett scowled at the cards he held in his hand, Morgan asked, "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. 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. "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. "I didn't mean to—"

Morgan gave him a twisted smile. "It doesn't matter," he interrupted. "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.

"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?"

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 nodded, asking,"You seem to know a great deal about Nolan's plans. Are you going to go with him?"

"I might. 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. "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 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 step-cousin he pushed to the back of his mind. Besides, he reminded himself, at seventeen she was still a child.

Having settled that point to his satisfaction, in the following days Brett was 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.

Bad weather conspired to delay his departure, but it also gave him time for reflection, and for the first time in his life he 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 conceded 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 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 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 admitted, "I had a specific reason for calling upon you tonight."

"Oh?"

"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. "Gordon will not be penniless, you know," he managed to say. "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 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 lived 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 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....

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 my 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, "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. "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. Conscious of his father's distress, he asked, "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 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 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 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.

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 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.