Chapter 22

 

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 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, 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 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. "Señor," 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 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, 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 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, "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, "Because I don't trust him?"

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

His long fingers toyed with the crystal goblet, the dark face revealing little as he said, "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. "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 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 the taste of her, the texture and scent of her skin, the feel of her soft mouth under his, and an intense, painful surge of desire hit him. Cursing himself for giving way to emotions he had thought long conquered, he stood up, 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! 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 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, 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. "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."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sabrina retorted angrily. "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...."

"What do you mean?"

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

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

Brett recovered 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 tried to hold her ground. Chin lifted, 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 when she slapped him. It also, belatedly, occurred to her that Brett, too, had known 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 around her shoulders and she was jerked unceremoniously up against his hard form.

A shiver of something akin to ecstasy rippled through her at the touch of that well-remembered muscled body against hers, and when his mouth descended as she knew 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 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 a brutal kiss, a punishing kiss, his lips moving with a cruel urgency against hers. 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 an 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, 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 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 felt him forcing her gown lower, felt the warm fingers caressing and pulling at the nipples he had freed, and she trembled with the force of the emotions those knowing fingers unleashed. 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, at this moment, she would be willing to settle for 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 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 across her stomach and upper thighs.

A 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."

Straightening his cravat, instantly in icy control of himself, Brett said crisply, "Come back in five minutes and the room will be yours."

There was a polite reply from Andrew and then silence. Cynically Brett stared at Sabrina's flushed features and murmured, "I trust you know now what I mean. And sweetheart, any time you want to slap me—go ahead. I have my own far more pleasurable form of retaliation."

He watched with interest as her fist clenched, and then, after bowing mockingly, he strode arrogantly from the room.

Tears of pain and rage pricking behind her lids, like a wounded animal, Sabrina sought refuge. There was no gazebo by the lake here to offer her sanctuary, but the small balcony of her room gave her the impression of protected isolation, and with relief she made her way there, thankful that she met no one as she did so.

It seemed she'd had good reason to fear the fascination Brett held for her, and woefully she stared down at the dark courtyard, wondering wretchedly how she was going to make it through the next few days.

It was useless to pretend that she felt nothing for him, that she could deal with him unemotionally. Useless to tell herself that what had happened tonight would never happen again—he had only to touch her and she was clay in his hands, willing, no eager, to be molded in whatever fashion pleased him. Angry and ashamed at how easily she had responded to him, Sabrina faced the fact that in spite of all her denials, she did still feel something for him. Not love, she told herself fiercely, but the memory of love. The memory of what she had felt for him before that horrible conversation with Constanza. The memory of what it had felt like to be in his arms, to feel he was hers and hers alone.

Somewhere behind all the arguments she presented to explain her motives, Sabrina knew she was deluding herself. That behind the anger, behind the hurt, behind even the passion, perhaps even the reason for the passion, was love. But for tonight she convinced herself that love had nothing to do with the situation between her and Brett Dangermond, that it was only desire that prompted his actions and that it was only her own foolish clinging to what had once been that allowed her to act as she had.

Ironically, Brett used the same arguments, arriving at much the same conclusion. Only in his case there was never any question of love being involved. He did not love her! he vowed furiously once he reached the privacy of the library and poured himself another snifter of brandy. He hadn't admitted to loving her six years ago when he had offered to marry her, and he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it now. It would be the height of insanity to love a woman who had made it so painfully clear that her only interest in him was the size of his fortune.

Even now, with the distance of nearly six years between the events, he could remember vividly the pain and bewilderment that had eaten at him, the black rage that had consumed him, as he had waited those nerve-racking weeks in Natchitoches, one part of him longing unbearably for her to be pregnant, another part of him ready to saddle his horse and leave the greedy little jade to her fate. Not even to himself would he admit the crushing disappointment that had knifed through him when Ollie had returned with her answer. Secretly he had hoped that some miracle had taken place since he rode away, that she had discovered, child or not, that she had been too hasty in rejecting him, that there had been another emotion besides greed that had prompted her to surrender to him, that the same unacknowledged yearnings that had possessed him had urged her to accept his proposal of marriage in the first place. Obviously such had not been the case, he thought, as he took another sip of his brandy. Not once in the ensuing years had there been any hint that she had changed her mind—Alejandro's few letters to him had been carefully empty of any but the most mundane references to his daughter. They also, Brett reminded himself, had not contained one hint of what Alejandro had added to his will.

God! but he had been furious when he learned of the trick Alejandro had played upon him, and fury had initially deadened his pain at the news of Alejandro's death. His first impulse had been to reject the guardianship out of hand, to refuse to accept it or anything to do with Sabrina del Torres.

When he had ridden away from Natchitoches that September of 1800, he had taken contempt and cold fury for Sabrina with him. After the pain had lessened, after months had passed and he could look back on the situation without an aching wrench in his gut, the unfortunate need to seek revenge had gradually taken hold. He wanted with a ruthless intensity to teach her a lesson that she would never forget, teach her brutally that men were not playthings to be toyed with and then carelessly tossed aside when it suited her. Night after night he had dreamed of ways of wreaking vengeance upon her, of having her completely in his control, forcing her to answer to his every whim. That his vengeance entailed her being bound to him for life and that much of his punishment involved having her in his arms and making violent love to her never occurred to him. But the fact that Alejandro's will made her almost his virtual prisoner for life dawned on him within hours of hearing the news.

His fury against Alejandro vanished, and even suspecting that Alejandro had probably had far different objectives in view when he had added that codicil to his will, Brett had been exultant that his moment for revenge had come. At present he was content to know that she was in his power... that he could do with her what he wanted and that there was no one to gainsay him.

For months now he had savored the thought of this meeting, dreamed of it, planned it, but he was uneasy that it wasn't going exactly as he had envisioned. He hadn't expected to feel a stirring of those disturbing emotions he had thought dead and forgotten—seeing her standing there travel-stained and defiant this afternoon in the courtyard, he had been assailed by a fierce need to sweep her into his arms, to kiss those dream-fashioned features and hold her. He had been appalled and shaken by the wave of joy that swept through him at seeing her again; appalled and shaken by the knowledge that there was no thought of revenge in his mind, only delight at the changes in her, pleasure that she was here in his home at last. He had damned Francisca's unwanted presence in those first bittersweet seconds, but later he had been bleakly thankful that she had been there—at least he hadn't betrayed himself, revealed that he was still vulnerable....

Infuriated that he would even consider such a ridiculous notion, he swallowed the remainder of his brandy and with a jerky movement, slammed the empty snifter down on the desk. He was not vulnerable! And certainly not vulnerable to a woman's wiles. Especially not Sabrina's! She was a greedy little jade who had gotten under his skin once, but she wasn't going to get the chance to do so again. No. This time the cards were all in his hands, and he intended to take full advantage of the situation. She would suffer this time. Not him. A slightly cruel smile curved his lips as he recalled this evening's scene after dinner.

He didn't plan it, but from the moment Francisca left the dining room, he'd been aware of the intimacy of the situation, the opportunity of the situation. Sabrina had always been overpoweringly attractive to him, but tonight she looked particularly fetching, the barbaric necklace of gold and black onyx gleaming against her warm skin, and he wondered idly how she would look with that glorious fire-red hair tumbling about her shoulders, wearing nothing except that necklace....

The argument that sprang up between them had been unpremeditated, and he had been astonished when she slapped him. Yet deep inside he knew he'd deliberately provoked her, wanting an excuse to take her into his arms, to kiss her thoroughly, to taste again the sweetness of her lips. And her charms had been everything that he remembered, everything and more, the feel of her against him, the warmth that enveloped him, the perfume of her skin driving coherent thought from his mind.

He didn't regret what happened—if he regretted anything it was his butler's untimely interruption, and he smiled ruefully, imagining the scene if Andrew had knocked just a few minutes later. If Andrew hadn't knocked at all... to his amused dismay, his body hardened at the thought of what might have happened.

His mood lifted, and in a better frame of mind, he wandered about the library, stopping eventually in front of the fireplace. Putting one polished boot on the empty grate, he stared down at the shining brass andirons, his thoughts roaming restlessly.

Who would have imagined that years later he and Sabrina would once more be housed under the same roof? That he would have all the powers of a husband except one, and that one right would be his if he chose to abuse his guardianship? An odd expression came over his lean face. There had been a time in his life when such an idea would never have crossed his mind, no matter what the urgings of his body, no matter how desperately he may have wanted to do so. But then, that had been a different time, a different man, and the years in between had changed him, carved him into a man whose cynical view of life Alejandro wouldn't have recognized.

Ollie had told Sabrina that Brett had changed, and he was right. Colder, harder, more cynical and disdainful of the rules that other men abided by, he was a law unto himself.

Arriving back at Natchez after the ugly parting with Sabrina, he'd stayed only a few days before departing on a restless search for relief from the agony that was with him always. In those first months he hadn't really cared about anything but wiping out the memory of a forest nymph with flame-colored hair and amber-gold eyes. No excess had been too much for him, no debauchery too base, and he had drunk heavily, sometimes not drawing a sober breath for days, spending his time trying to pave his own private road to hell. Finally though, there had come a day when he realized the futility of his actions, and sickened and disgusted by himself, slowly, painfully, he fought his way back to cold sanity. Unable to settle down, he'd taken to wandering again, his travels leading him all over the world—to the wilds of South America, the mysteries of darkest Africa, and the opulence of India. Every wild, dangerous scheme that caught his attention, he'd thrown himself into with abandon, little caring whether he lived or died.

It was his ceaseless and wide-ranging travels that first brought him to President Jefferson's attention, and from there it had been simple enough for the President to suggest that Brett might like to travel to Eygpt and perhaps take in the Barbary Coast....

Brett smiled, remembering how cleverly the President broached the subject. How delicate had been his probing; how carefully he aroused Brett's interest and then magnanimously allowed Brett to spy for him.

Brett enjoyed his travels in Egypt and other parts of the world that few white men had seen, but when he had arrived home early last summer, he'd known that he was weary of traveling aimlessly across the face of the earth. He wanted a home. Further than that he wouldn't think.

The stunning disclosures of Alejandro's will set the seal on his plans. If he was to be a guardian, he thought sardonically, it was only proper to provide an adequate home for his ward.

He had long owned the house in New Orleans, and it had always accorded him a place to deposit his souvenirs from all over the world, as well as acting as a base from which to plan other forays. The plantation, Fox's Lair, in lower Louisiana, had been salvaged at no little cost, but it was now, and had been for a number of years, productive, adding to his already sizable fortune. The house at the plantation had been a total loss, and knowing he would seldom be there, he'd had a smaller dwelling erected for his use whenever he wished for the country life. It had been little used during the last five years. Of course, he reflected grimly, all of that would change, now that he had a ward....