Chapter 21

 

Hours later, comfortably situated in a set of elegantly appointed rooms, Sabrina wondered how she had kept from striking him with her quirt. Maybe it had been the knowledge that Francisca was there behind her; maybe it had been the cold promise in those dark green eyes. She didn't know; she only knew that she was still angry and seething with resentment.

She might have held her tongue, but Francisca certainly hadn't, and remembering her aunt's furious tirade, she half-smiled. Brett was not going to find things all his way, if her aunt had any say in the matter. And Francisca made that very clear. Not only that, but her displeasure with Alejandro's infamous will, Brett's total unsuitability as a guardian of her niece, and finally, the unacceptable way he ran his household. Brett listened to Francisca's scathing commentary impassively, but there had been the icy edge of steel to his voice when he said, "May I remind you that you are my guest? That whether you like it or not—whether you approve or not—Sabrina is my ward, and that if I so choose, my house will be closed to you?"

Francisca gasped with outrage, but she read the threat in those dark green eyes and subsided... for the moment. Brett turned away, calling for servants, and from there events moved rapidly. Two Negro women instantly appeared, almost as if they had been waiting just out of sight for his command, and ushered Sabrina and Francisca up the staircase that Brett had descended only moments earlier.

The suite of rooms that Sabrina had been given overlooked the courtyard and possessed an ironwork balcony like those she had noticed initially. A pair of French doors led to the balcony, and with an irritated motion, she flung them wide.

It was early evening now, and the courtyard below her was in pale shadows, the glory of the vivid colors dimmed by the falling darkness. But it didn't matter to Sabrina that all was shadows below her; she was too busy prowling the small confines of the balcony, thinking of seeing Brett again, dreading yet eager for that next meeting.

She felt better able to deal with his unsettling presence now that the difficult hurdle of that first meeting was behind her. A long, soothing bath had somewhat calmed her disordered emotions, and attired in a sophisticated gown, a low-cut, bosom-clinging creation of black silk with charming bell-shaped sleeves that ended at the elbow, she was ready to open the next salvo.

If Brett's features revealed the changes that six years had wrought, so did Sabrina's, and in many respects those changes were far more noticeable on her than they had been on him. She had been a child-woman when last they had met; now the arresting face that Sofia had once thought Sabrina would possess was fully evident. And it was an arresting face, just missing being truly beautiful. Her jawline was too strong for the soft, ethereal features so admired by the poets, and her mouth was too full, too wide, to be perfect, but her nose was classical, and the high cheekbones lent a patrician cast to her features. With that glorious hair and those striking dark eyebrows and incredible amber-gold eyes, Sabrina would always cause a stir.

Always tall, fully grown she stood just an inch under six feet, and she had all the physical grace and the full-figured body of a Valkyrie as well as the fierce spirit that went with those mythical maidens of Odin, the Norse god of war. Despite her voluptuous shape, there was a deceptive slenderness about her, the full bosom and gently swelling hips complementing her shapely, long-limbed body.

But there were other changes in her, not just those brought on by the maturing of her face and figure. The pain and unhappiness that she had suffered during the past six years were apparent to the discerning eye: the faintly vulnerable curve to the full mouth, a mouth that had been fashioned for laughter and loving; the shadows in the amber-gold eyes, eyes that should have been bright and smiling; and the wall of reserve that she had carefully erected around her.

Once the darling of a beloved father, the pride of the Rancho del Torres, she had been full of joy, eager and confident of her future, innocent in so many ways of the reality of life. But that was true no longer. Betrayed by the man she loved, orphaned by her father's death, this Sabrina was a very different young woman from the one Brett had met that long ago spring in Nacogdoches. Yet, underneath, waiting impatiently to break free of the gloom and sadness that had enveloped her was an entirely new Sabrina, a Sabrina who would combine the best of the two people she had been—the girl-child who had become a woman in Brett's arms, and the woman who had suffered the devastating loss of both father and lover.

Sabrina wasn't aware of all the changes in herself, but she had been conscious for some time now of a growing feeling of impatience with her situation. Guilty impatience that she couldn't continue to grieve as deeply as did Tia Francisca; resigned impatience that Carlos continued to pursue her, despite all her protestations; angry impatience with the unfair shackles put on her by Alejandro's will; and finally, eager impatience to join the battle with Brett.

At the moment that last emotion was the dominant one, the need to see him again, to make it clear that she was not going to be the obedient ward he might have wished for, driving her from the balcony and into her room. She strode across the large room, stopping in front of a tall cheval glass.

Telling herself that it was natural to check one's appearance before leaving the privacy of the bedchamber, she took a quick glance at herself, satisfied with the coronet braid that circled her head so primly, in direct contrast with the swell of her bosom that rose so temptingly above the low-cut gown. A heavy necklace of black onyx and gold adorned her neck, and studs of the same design and color were at each ear. The black silk of the gown was effective against the creamy whiteness of her skin, increasing her air of fragility and vulnerability.

Staring at the conflicting image she presented, Sabrina smiled. The hair was prim and proper, the gown, while in the very best of taste, was decidedly... sophisticated, she thought slowly, her smile mischievous. The word wanton had occurred to her, but she much preferred to ignore that particular description. She supposed that unconsciously she had been striving for just the look she had—that of a demure sybarite. Pleased with the result, she twitched the full skirts, and then, her eyes sparkling, she left her rooms.

She found herself in the middle of a long, wide hallway that ran the entire length of the wing. About halfway down it was the staircase that led to the courtyard, and a bit farther from there was another staircase, a graceful, beautifully designed affair that spiraled downward toward what Sabrina assumed was the main part of the house.

She was correct. Descending the interior staircase, she was soon standing in a spacious foyer. The floor was of pale green marble, the walls only a few shades lighter in color. Gilt sconces lined the entranceway, tall beeswax tapers revealing that Brett did not stint on household requirements.

Several doors opened off the foyer; the pair of wide, carved ones that were at one end of the hall probably led to the street, Sabrina concluded as she stood there, wondering behind which of the other doors she would find Brett. Fortunately she didn't have long to wait. A second later, a door to her right opened and a servant in black and white attire came out.

Seeing her standing there, he bowed and asked kindly, "May I help you, miss?"

Her stomach full of butterflies, she nodded. "Yes. I am looking for Señor Dangermond. Do you know where he is?"

"In here, miss," the man answered, motioning to the room he had just departed. He started to say something else, but Sabrina, not giving herself time to consider the wisdom of what she was doing, swept regally by him. An impatient flick of her wrist and the door swung open; two seemingly confident strides took her beyond the door. The soft sound of it shutting behind her gave her the unnerving impression that her one avenue of escape had just been shut off, but wrapping her reservations in outward bravado, she continued on her way.

The room she entered was obviously the library, the scent of leather that came from the neat rows of books that lined every wall pleasantly teasing her nostrils. A marble-manteled fireplace interrupted the flow of books in one wall of the long room, a russet and green carpet lay upon the floor, and several comfortable chairs of dark green velvet were scattered about the area. Satinwood drum tables stood near the chairs, and an elegant cream and green silk sofa divided the room in half. Beyond the sofa and the fireplace was apparently Brett's office; an impressively large desk of mahogany dominated that end of the room, a few wing chairs done in green leather faced the desk, their backs to Sabrina, and from where she stood, she glimpsed the top of a marble table behind the sofa.

Again she was struck by the discreet display of wealth that met her eye, and again she wished that Tia Francisca had not planted the ugly seed of suspicion about the source of Brett's unexpected wealth. Before she had time to let her thoughts wander too far, she was brought back sharply to the present by Brett's voice saying mockingly, "Ah, Sabrina, there you are. I wondered how long it would be before you appeared."

Her jaw clenched, and with determined steps she approached him as he rose with languid grace from one of the wing-backed chairs. Her approach was halted, when another tall, dark-haired man rose from the other chair and turned to face her. She stopped abruptly, a faint flush staining her cheeks. "I didn't realize that you had a visitor," she said stiffly. "I'll come back later."

"Don't be silly," Brett drawled. "Morgan is not just any visitor, and I would like you to meet him." The dark green eyes hard and unfathomable, he walked up to her, and taking her hand, brought her over to face the other gentleman. "Sabrina del Torres, I would like to present Mr. Morgan Slade. He is one of my oldest friends, and you will find him a frequent guest in my home. Morgan, this is my sweet ward."

Angry and resentful at his tone of voice, Sabrina sent him a fulminating glance, but then her gaze turned to Morgan Slade, and she muttered, "How do you do. It is a pleasure to meet you."

A pair of twinkling sapphire blue eyes met hers, and Sabrina felt some of her annoyance with Brett's provoking introduction fading. Bending over her hand, Morgan Slade murmured, "The pleasure is all mine, Señorita del Torres. And do not mind half of what your wicked guardian says—he delights in being aggravating... and I should know, having had the misfortune to grow up with him."

Sabrina's eyes widened. An enchantingly shy smile upon her lips, she uttered, "Why, I remember you! We met when I attended Tia Sofia's wedding to Señor Hugh. Don't you remember me?"

Morgan's handsome face creased into a startlingly attractive smile. "I remember a big-eyed child with red hair, but certainly not the delightful young lady you have become."

Liking this tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with his laughing blue eyes and easy manners, Sabrina relaxed slightly. Morgan appeared to be much the same age as Brett, although his black hair showed no sign of silver. He was a very handsome man, his features more classically perfect than Brett's uncompromisingly arrogant face, although Sabrina gained the impression that in spite of Morgan's generously curved mouth and merry eyes with their thick, dark lashes, he could be as hard and ruthless as Brett if need be.

To Morgan's comment, she replied. "You are very kind, señor."

"And very married," Brett interjected dryly. "Leonie, his wife, is at their plantation, the Château Saint-André awaiting the birth of their second child."

Morgan's face changed magically at the mention of his wife's name. Smiling at Sabrina, he said, "All he says is true. And I'm afraid I must confess that beautiful as you are, my heart is firmly held by a little honey-haired spitfire who would cheerfully have my liver for breakfast if she ever even just thought I was looking too long at another woman." Grinning at her, he added, "You do understand my position?"

Sabrina did. It was apparent that Morgan Slade adored his wife much the way Alejandro had loved Elena, and she found that knowledge comforting. Her expression teasing, she said, "I would like very much to meet this fierce lady. Do you think I could?"

"I'm certain nothing would give Leonie greater pleasure—except the healthy and speedy arrival of our child," Morgan returned promptly. "But I would suggest that we postpone that occasion until after the birth of the baby. She is in her last weeks and is very uncomfortable at times."

"Oh, of course. I will look forward to the day when we do finally meet."

The conversation was desultory for several minutes, and when Sabrina suggested that she leave the gentlemen to finish their conversation, Brett agreed with unflattering alacrity. His face unrevealing, he walked to a velvet rope pull in one corner, and giving it a brief tug, he said coolly, "I'll have Andrew, my butler, show you about the house. After all, it is going to be your home, too."

There was something about the way he said those innocuous words that gave Sabrina an odd shiver down her spine. Delight or fear?

Andrew turned out to be the servant who had first directed her to the library, and with an obedience that dismayed her, Sabrina meekly followed Brett's orders. A warm smile curving her mouth, she bid Morgan good-bye and then swiftly preceded Andrew from the room.

There was a moment of silence after she left. "I wonder" Morgan asked before the silence became uncomfortable, "if you realize what you are doing?"

Brett snorted. Walking over to the marble-topped table Sabrina had glimpsed behind the couch, which served as a liquor cabinet, Brett poured them both a snifter of brandy. Turning back to face Morgan, he handed him one of the snifters and muttered, "Where that particular little witch is concerned, I never realize anything except that she drives me half-mad."

"And yet you accepted the guardianship?"

A peculiar expression flitted across Brett's dark face. Not quite cruel and yet not exactly unkind. He seated himself in the wing-backed chair before answering Morgan's question. Staring at the amber liquid in his snifter, he said quietly, "Yes, I did. And even I'm not certain of either the wisdom of having done so or the reasons why I did. I know the most acceptable one is because I feel compelled, in view of the respect and affection I bore Alejandro, to carry out his final wishes, but the others..." His voice trailed off, that strange expression once more crossing his features.

"Revenge?" Morgan suggested softly, well aware of the bitter, disillusioned state Brett had been in upon his return from visiting Spanish Texas six years ago.

Brett looked at him, the dark green eyes suddenly hard and there was a ruthless slant to the chiseled mouth. "That, too," he admitted.

Picking his words with care, Morgan warned, "Be careful of revenge, my friend. It can harm you as well as pleasure you."

A mirthless laugh came from Brett. "Sabrina may have caught me once in her lovely claws, but never again—I know her for the greedy jade that she is."

Morgan looked at him a long time, before saying, "Brett, I'm not going to argue which one of us has suffered the most at the hands of a woman, nor am I about to suggest that you forget the past. However, I am going to say that not all women are vipers... and things are not always what they seem. Look at Leonie and me, for God's sake! I was certain she was a scheming hussy, and she was equally certain that I was a blackguard out to steal her dowry... and we were both so very wrong about the other."

Brett sent him a level glance. "And love makes fools of all of us—especially reformed misogynists!"

Morgan smiled wryly. "Perhaps." Deciding it was futile to argue further with his friend, he changed the subject. His voice taking on a more serious note, he said, "This letter you received from Eaton troubles me, Brett."

Frowning, Morgan reached across Brett's desk and picked up the letter in question.

Again he read its contents and then turned to Brett. "How well do you know him?" Brett started to reply, but Morgan held up his hand. "I already know that 'General' Eaton, as he is styled, has been made much of in powerful circles in Washington; I know that he has served our government well in the war with the Barbary pirates; but I also know that some consider him a drunkard and a braggart. Aware of all that, can what he writes in this letter about Aaron Burr, our ex-Vice-President, be trusted?"

Brett regarded the tip of his polished boot. "I can't deny that Eaton has his detractors, or claim that they are mistaken in what they say about him; I do know, however, that I trusted him enough last spring to join his ragtag crew near Arab's Tower in Egypt and that I willingly followed him across the Desert of Barca for the attack on Derna on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea." Brett sent Morgan a hard look. "It wasn't a pleasant journey, and the battle for Derna won't figure as one of my favorite memories—but we took Derna in spite of the odds against it and would have captured Tripoli if hostilities hadn't ended so abruptly. Eaton got us out of Derna alive when we learned that there was not going to be any naval support."

Diverted, Morgan asked exasperatedly, "What in the hell were you doing in Egypt anyway? Why go traipsing across the desert with a band of cutthroat Arabs and Greeks to fight in a war that meant little or nothing to you?"

"Boredom?" Brett offered, an imp of mischief flickering in the jade-green eyes.

Morgan snorted, but stopped his probing. He knew too well from past experience that seemingly guileless expression on his friend's face—Brett didn't want to talk about his adventures in northern Africa, and any further questioning would bring forth only glib, mocking replies.

His eyes strayed again to the letter under discussion "This is a wild tale," Morgan commented. "A tale one would tend to put down as the ravings of a lunatic."

"Eaton is not a lunatic," Brett said dryly. "Peculiar and given to exaggeration I'll concede—but not a madman. If Eaton writes that Burr plans to raise a force of men and invade Washington, kill President Jefferson, and seize ships to sail to New Orleans, I would believe that there is some substance to it."

"The entire thing is sheer lunacy! You met Burr last summer at Stephen Minor's ball for him in Natchez and again here—did he strike you as a maniac? An assassin?"

Brett stared at his boots, his thoughts running backward to his meeting with Aaron Burr last summer in Natchez. On the surface Burr didn't resemble the sort of man to be associated with the wild schemes that Eaton wrote of—Burr was charming and agreeable, perhaps a little too charming and agreeable. He also could be quite persuasive when he wanted to be, Brett mused with a slight smile, thinking of the conversation he'd had with the former Vice-President at Minor's house.

It had happened that he and Burr had strolled out for a moment of air, and as they walked amicably through the lantern-strung grounds next to the house, Burr said casually, "You realize, of course, that I have deliberately manipulated this private talk between us."

Brett nodded. He glanced down at his much shorter companion, noting the thin mouth, the almost voluptuous chin, and wondered what it was that drew men to Burr. The ex-Vice-President smiled at him just then, and for a second Brett basked in his charm.

"I need young men like you," Burr murmured. "Young men willing to take desperate chances... young men ripe for great adventure..."

Brett's thick brow arched. "Oh? And tell me how the innocent settling of the de Bastrop tract on the Washita River is going to do that?"

Burr waved an airy hand. "The de Bastrop tract is for those who wish to be settlers." He eyed Brett speculatively, almost as if gauging how much he could say. "But you, my friend, would never want such a mundane thing... I have heard of your adventures in Derna." When Brett remained silent, Burr had gone on. "Throw your lot with me, and I can give you adventure and riches you never dreamed of—you could be part of a new and grand empire."

Carefully Brett asked, "An empire? Where?"

Burr smiled slyly and shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps west of the Sabine River? Mexico even? If there were a war with Spain, many opportunities could await a clever man."

Brett allowed a flicker of interest to appear in his eyes, and seeing it, Burr bent forward eagerly, the dark hazel eyes flashing with intensity. "I have a plan, a great plan, and already it is taking shape." He glanced around as if making certain that no one was near. "On my way here, I met with General Wilkinson at Fort Massac on the Ohio River, and we talked of many things... things a young man seeking adventure would find interesting." That was as far as Burr would reveal himself, and Brett discovered that Burr was extremely adept at sizing up people and wooing them to his side with whatever tale he thought would appeal most. For some it was the offer of the de Bastrop lands, for others the possibility of invading Mexico, but no one heard the same tale—and now there was another tale—one of murder, betrayal, and treason....

Looking across at Morgan, Brett finally shrugged and said soberly, "An assassin? No, I don't think so, but then what does either of us really know about the man? He is a facile charmer, but there is also an odor about him. For God's sake, look at how he almost took the Presidency from Jefferson in 1800! Look at that duel with Alexander Hamilton—there were indictments for murder out on him. Not a pretty character I would say."

"All you say is true, but that doesn't mean that he plans to do anything as radical as murder the President of the United States!" Morgan said impatiently. He shot Brett a sharp look. "What is there about Burr that fascinates you so? Last summer when we met, you implied it was because of Burr that you were in the city, something about Burr and our good Commander of the Army, General James Wilkinson."

"You don't find the way Wilkinson and Burr seemed to be connected interesting?"

Morgan made a helpless gesture. "I don't know, Brett. I know Wilkinson is rumored to be in the pay of Spain, but that doesn't make a conspiracy of this magnitude. Everything seems to be conjecture; no one so far has been able to come up with anything tangible to use against either man. It's like trying to capture a handful of smoke."

Standing up and placing his empty snifter on the corner of the desk, Brett prowled between the desk and the chairs. There was silence for a few minutes, then he stopped his perambulations and asked abruptly, "Are you aware of the habit President Jefferson has of employing certain civilians to do, strictly speaking, governmental tasks for him? Using gentlemen of good family to carry private messages for him, to sometimes, in effect, spy for him?"

Morgan went still. Staring hard at Brett, he demanded, "Is that why you were in North Africa? And that's why you're so dogmatic about this Burr-Wilkinson affair—Jefferson's doing?"

Reluctantly Brett nodded. "I'm not betraying any secrets by telling you this, but yes, that's why I ended up in Derna. Jefferson wanted a report of the situation on the Barbary Coast, but he didn't want it from a government official or military man. He wanted it from someone with no political ties, but someone he could trust, who would act as his private agent."

"You?"

Brett nodded again. "He'd heard from my father, late in 1804, that I was coming home after several months in India but that I would probably be off for God knew where within a short time." Brett smiled faintly. "After that it was a foregone conclusion that I would be Jefferson's man."

"Does Jefferson suspect something definite of Burr?"

"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. "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 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 Château Saint-André. 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."

After refilling his snifter, they drank in companionable silence for several moments, each man lost in his thoughts.

"I've done a lot of thinking about the situation," Brett admitted finally, "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 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 before adding 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 looked 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. "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 Château Saint-André once Leonie had been delivered of their child. Brett looked sardonic, but he agreed.

Left alone in the library, Brett wandered aimlessly, 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 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 Señora de la Vega.

Entering the elegant blue and gold room a few moments later, he was greeted by a frosty Señora de la Vega, who, observing his casual dress—he was still wearing the same clothes he'd worn when they arrived—sniffed and said, "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 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 stood 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. More importantly, she wondered how Brett was going to take her aunt's rudeness.

Brett's eyes narrowed, and crossing to Francisca, he stood before her and said levelly, "I think we had better get one thing straight, señora. 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." Slanting her a sardonic look, he 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.