Chapter 29

 

The visit at Château Saint-André proved to be so enjoyable that it was mid-August before Brett and Sabrina returned to Fox's Lair. The place was beginning to feel like home, and recalling the unhappy events that had taken place at the ranch near Nacogdoches, Sabrina realized that Fox's Lair was where she wanted to live forever. She had found happiness here, and though the dark murky bayous with their knobby-kneed cypress trees, knife-sharp palmettos, and reed-lined banks, the acres of tall sugar cane and the moss-draped oaks and leathery-leaved magnolia trees that dotted the land near the house bore no resemblance to the area she had grown up in, Sabrina found that the region had a charm all its own. A lazy, primeval charm that drew her and brought a strange peacefulness. She had found happiness here, her husband was here, and her child would be born here....

The startling thought that she might be pregnant became a certainty within her as the days passed, and by the time they returned home, she was positive that already there would be outward signs. With disappointment she studied her naked body in the cheval glass that was in her small dressing room, the morning after their return from Château Saint-André. Surely her breasts would be fuller, her waist thickening, and her stomach rounding by now? Then she giggled. She couldn't even be two months pregnant yet, but she was impatient for the signs of her impending motherhood to appear.

She hadn't told Brett of her wonderful discovery, an odd sense of shyness flooding her whenever she thought about it. What would he think? Would he be happy? Displeased? Indifferent? She sighed. Even though they had been married for almost two months, there remained many barriers between them.

Brett was still a stranger to her in spite of their intimacy. He was an ardent lover, and while they had separate bedrooms, there had been no night since their marriage that he hadn't spent at least part of the night in her bed. He was seldom around during the daylight hours, except during Hugh and Sofia's visit and the visit at Château Saint-André. Often gone at sunrise, supervising the men who worked the huge sugar cane fields, Brett put in long hours. Some days, the only time she saw him was when he came to her bed late at night. There were days, however, when she had his undivided attention, days when he took her over the plantation, showing her the sugar mill, the plantation gardens, the wharf he was having built at the river's edge, and the lands that were being wrested from the swampy wilderness by a series of levees. She treasured those days, but she was aware that there was a part of him that he kept aloof, a part of him that she did not share. There were times when she would surprise an odd look on his face, a questioning look, as if he didn't quite believe she was everything she appeared to be, and she longed to reach out and touch him and ask, "What is it? Why do you look at me so?" But she was afraid to, afraid that the bond between them would shatter.

There was a deep core of reserve within her, too, and though she tried to hide it, she was conscious that she didn't fool Brett all the time. Too often when she had withdrawn from a particular topic of conversation, she had seen his eyes narrow, seen speculation leaping in those jade-green depths.

Able to look back on the past with new eyes now and armed with her new knowledge of Carlos, Sabrina understood how her cousin had practiced his duplicity. He had told Brett one thing and her another, had fanned her uncertainties, had spread vicious lies to Brett; it wasn't surprising that they had parted as they had. But had Carlos lied about the girl in New Orleans? And had he had anything to do with what Constanza had told her?

She was bitterly conscious now that she should have faced Brett with what she had been told, should have given him a chance to defend himself, instead of blindly trusting in Carlos. Her stomach crawled with humiliation whenever she thought about revealing how gullible, how mistrustful, she had been. But it was one thing to want to believe that everything that had happened had been a base plot of Carlos's and another to know it. It was as much shame at her earlier crass actions as the fear buried within all the lies, that there was some truth about what had happened that kept her from forcing a confrontation with Brett. Painfully she acknowledged that she was a coward—if he was innocent, she didn't want him to look at her with disgust and contempt for being so willing to condemn him unheard, and if he was guilty, she didn't want to know that he had cravenly deserted Constanza and his own unborn child.

That he had never mentioned love to her also preyed on her mind. He never made any secret of wanting her physically, but though there were intriguing, heart-fluttering hints in the things he said and did, he never said, "I love you." Was it only passion that drew him to her? It was a dismal thought, and unhappily Sabrina turned away from the cheval glass.

She was quiet that morning at breakfast, and Brett sent her a quizzical glance. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

She hesitated, wondering what his reaction would be if she said baldly, "I want you to tell me about Constanza. I want to know if you loved her and if you abandoned your unborn child." But she didn't, and ashamed at her own cowardice, she said the first thing that came to her mind. "What will happen to the Rancho del Torres?"

"What do you want to happen to it?" Brett inquired warily. A note of reserve in his voice, he added, "I know that Fox's Lair isn't nearly as grand, but I have plans to build a larger house in the future." He watched her. "Would you prefer that we live at the ranch?"

That note in his voice bothered her, reminding her vividly that there were still dangerous pitfalls in their relationship. "I think," she said, "that if you wish to live here, we should put a competent overseer in charge of the rancho or sell it and buy more lands here in Louisiana."

She hadn't answered his question, and Brett was aware of an angry impatience within himself. Why, because she asked a perfectly ordinary question about her old home, did he have to assume it was because she found the home that he provided wanting? Why, after all these weeks, did he continue to look for some sign that material things meant more to her than he did? Because there is a part of her that I cannot touch? Because, though I have her in my arms, I feel that I do not have all of her? Because I don't know what she really feels for me?

Frustration eating at his gut, he finished breakfast silently, not tasting one bite of the spicy grillades that had been so expertly prepared for him. That he had ramrodded Sabrina into marriage with him; that he had not allowed her to make a choice, had taken on immense significance in his mind. As the weeks passed and he fell more in love with her, realizing how much she meant to him, instead of becoming more confident and complacent about their relationship, he grew more and more tense and intolerant of the situation.

This morning was the first time that they had mentioned Nacogdoches, and he toyed with the idea of asking her bluntly why she had broken her engagement with him six years ago. Had it been because of lies spread by her damned cousin or had it been because she had thought he had no prospects at all? His fists tightened, rage billowing through him. If he found out that Carlos had indeed been behind her actions, he didn't think he could deny himself the pleasure of killing the other man. But Brett wouldn't speculate further on this painful subject. He told himself it didn't matter, but he found it did, and he knew that soon he was going to demand some answers from her. He had to know the truth about the past; the uncertainty was tearing him apart.

During the next few weeks, instead of the tension that sprang up that morning lessening, it increased. Brett was aware that something new had entered their relationship, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Sabrina seemed more introspective, more removed from him, and he became both angry and concerned about it. Feeling as if she were slipping away from him, as if a widening chasm were separating them, Brett was aware of an icy lump forming where his heart should be. Had he come this far only to lose her in the end? Lose her to an enemy he couldn't see? Couldn't fight?

Sabrina wasn't deliberately shutting Brett out, but lost in the wonder of the changes that were happening within her, she put him at a distance. The baby was a precious secret she hugged to herself, longing to tell him and yet... What if he didn't share her joy? Babies, like the past, were things they didn't discuss.

September proved to be especially hot and humid, and as the sugar cane ripened in the fields, so did Sabrina's body. With delight she noted her fuller bosom, her thickening waist, and at the oddest times a satisfied little smile flitted her face. That smile infuriated Brett. It was as if she had some private secret, and he was eaten up with jealousy. What was she thinking when she looked like that?

As the month waned, the sugar cane took on a purplish tinge, and Brett knew that the crucial season was near. The Big Grass, as it was called, never fully ripened here in Louisiana, and Brett was aware that he could delay only so long before harvesting—it was an annual race between the weather and the planter's judgment. Once the order had been given, the plantation became a hive of activity, cutters, loaders, and haulers beginning the hard, back-breaking work of clearing the cane.

October came and the work continued, Brett returning late at night exhausted, too exhausted even to seek Sabrina's bed. She took to waiting up for him, making certain that a hot bath awaited him no matter what the hour and that a plate of bread, meat, and cheeses was prepared for him. The third week of October, while there was still much to be done, there was an easing of the tension that accompanied harvest time. The sugar mill was running almost twenty-four hours a day, and in spite of this being a time of long hours and little rest, there was a crackling vitality in the air. The slaves liked it—it brought the promise of extra reward, of drinks and songs and at the end a grand ball.

Returning home very late one night, Brett tiredly walked up the stairs to his room, a pleased smile on his face. He was going to sleep the day away tomorrow. One day, at this stage, wouldn't make a difference.

Entering his room, he was surprised to find Sabrina still waiting for him, and tossing aside his wide-brimmed, sweat-stained white hat, he murmured, "You should have gone to bed. I didn't think you would still be awake."

She smiled at him, noting the lines of fatigue on his face. Softly she said, "I never get to see you these days except for now, and I wasn't about to be cheated."

Stripping off his shirt, he glanced over at her as she stood by the big brass tub that had been set up for his bath. She was wearing a gauzy nightdress and peignoir, the candlelight on a table behind her silhouetting her body, making him instantly aware of the soft, yielding flesh they covered and how long it had been since they had made love. Sabrina turned just then, presenting him a side view, and his breath caught in his throat.

She was four months pregnant, and the rounding of her belly that she had so impatiently looked for two months previously was now clearly evident. Brett was conscious of a sudden, dizzying rush of blood to his head. His voice almost a whisper, he croaked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

For a second Sabrina didn't know what he was talking about, but then she noticed that his eyes were locked on her gently protruding stomach, and she said breathlessly, "Because I didn't know how you would feel."

"How I would feel?" he repeated dazedly walking toward her. Laughing delightedly he scooped her up in his arms and whirled her about the room. "Oh, God!" he muttered. "I don't know how I feel—pleased, excited, perhaps, a little afraid."

"Afraid?" she asked, surprised. "Why?"

"What if something goes wrong?" There was naked fear in his eyes as he said thickly, "What if something happens to you?"

Sabrina smiled reassuringly at him, feeling so much stronger and wiser. Her arms were about his neck, and she kissed him on his chin, the stubble of the day's whiskers scratching her lips. "I am strong as a horse—look at Tia Sofia. There'll be no trouble, I promise you."

He hadn't said that he loved her, but his fear for her safety wrapped a warm little glow around Sabrina's heart. That and his obvious delight in the news. And he had been delighted.

Depositing her gently on his big bed, he kissed her with a sweet restraint, as if she were very fragile. "I've never thought of being a father before," he said, a note of awe in his voice, "but I find the idea greatly appealing." An endearingly uncertain expression crossed his face. "Will I be a good father, do you think?"

Sabrina giggled, loving him so much. "An exemplary one," she replied gravely, a twinkle in the amber-gold eyes. It was times like this that she had no regrets, no fears for the future, times like this that banished any reservations about the past.

Lying next to her, Brett's hand moved possessively down to her stomach, caressing it. His eyes warm and tender, he demanded huskily, "When?"

"Late March, I think." She pulled his face down nearer hers and rained soft little kisses over his nose and mouth. "You are very potent, señior. Our baby will be born practically nine months to the day after our wedding."

"Do you mind?" he asked with a sensuous curve to his mouth.

She shook her head. "No. My parents had to wait years and years; I am glad we do not." She smiled impishly at him. "Besides, I want many, many babies."

"Oh, God!" he breathed thickly, "I'll do my best, tiger lily, I swear I will." He kissed her with a gentle hunger, and when she moved suggestively beneath him, the bath was forgotten for a long time....

They entered a new state in their life together, the delight of the coming baby momentarily pushing the dark clouds away. The second week of November, Brett had to leave for a meeting with his business agent in New Orleans, and forlorn at being left behind, Sabrina watched him as he moved about his room making certain that Ollie had overlooked nothing in the packing. Brett caught sight of her expression, and putting his arms about her, he asked, "Are you certain you don't want to come with me?"

She looked down at her expanding stomach and said ruefully, "You will not be gone more than a few days, and I think I would be more comfortable here." The pregnancy was proving to be an easy one but the week before she had been ill with chills and a fever, and she was not fully recovered.

Reluctantly Brett bid her good-bye and left for New Orleans. He arrived to find the city full of news. News that both relieved and alarmed him. Had he been wrong about the map and Wilkinson, after all? Wilkinson, it appeared, had finally arrived at Natchitoches with his army in late September, and instead of commencing the war that everyone had expected, on November 5th, he had signed the Neutral Ground Treaty with the Spanish. The Spaniards were to retire to Nacogdoches; the Americans to Natchitoches, and the General had been quick to trumpet his triumph. He was a hero, having "complied with my orders in proclaiming the jurisdiction of the United States here." What he failed to mention was that the jurisdiction had not been established at all, the area in question having been made neutral ground. But Wilkinson had been satisfied, and he had taken himself off to Natchez, sending his army, under Colonel Cushing, to New Orleans. It was the presence of the army that alarmed Brett. Had New Orleans been Wilkinson's target all along?

That night as he lay awake in his bed in the town house in New Orleans, he wondered about Wilkinson's action. The General had averted a war with Spain, a war everyone had expected and many people had seemed to want. A war that would have given him the excuse to invade Spanish territory and seek the treasure Jason had revealed. Why had the General not done so?

The answer to that puzzling question arrived a few hours later in the form of Blood Drinker, Jason's Cherokee Indian companion. Brett woke at dawn to the sensation that someone else was in the room with him, and when he would have reached for the small pistol that was never far from his side, a deep, melodious voice halted his movements.

"My brother, Jason, sent me to you," Blood Drinker said calmly as he found an oil lamp in the dark room and lit it.

The flickering light disclosed Blood Drinker's tall form as he moved nearer the bed where Brett had been sleeping. Blood Drinker was magnificent; tall, straight, and proud, his features undeniably handsome, with chiseled lips and high cheekbones and dark, fathomless eyes. His hair was blue-black, and he wore it parted in the middle, two long, thick braids lying on his chest.

There was a mystical air about the Indian, as if he knew things of other worlds that eluded ordinary men, as if he were capable of things that other men only dreamed of, and Brett suddenly understood Jason's confidence in Blood Drinker. Blood Drinker, he soon learned, was like no one he'd ever met. There was silence as Brett shrugged into a robe and threw some water on his face. He motioned Blood Drinker to follow him into the other room, and when they were there he motioned his unexpected and slightly unnerving visitor to a seat. Blood Drinker shook his head and murmured, "I shall be here but a moment." Reaching inside the buckskin shirt he wore, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "Jason thought you might like to hold it in your hands—he said it was yours to do with as you pleased."

Brett's hand trembled as he took the map from Blood Drinker. It actually existed, he thought disbelievingly with one part of his mind, his eyes roving over the crude drawings and letterings. He looked at Blood Drinker. "How did you get it? When and where?"

Blood Drinker smiled faintly. "The General did indeed have it—he has carried it all this time in a thin packet about his waist. The only time it wasn't in his possession was when he bathed, and then he had it in his sight."

"But how did you get it?"

Blood Drinker shrugged. Almost apologetically he said, "It took me longer than I expected to discover where the map was, but once I decided the General must keep it on him, it was easy enough to wait for a night when he imbibed too freely and sneak into his tent and take it from him." A little gleam of amusement lit those opaque black eyes. "The General sleeps heavily," he murmured, as if that explained everything. Turning away, Blood Drinker began to walk back toward Brett's bedroom. "I will go now the way I came."

Reluctantly Brett followed him, watching as the Indian swung a leg over the balcony and prepared to make his way to the courtyard below. A grin tugged at the corners of Brett's mouth. "A bit unorthodox, wouldn't you say?"

"True, and Jason has often accused me of doing these things for effect—sometimes I think he is right." Blood Drinker looked back at Brett. "He will wish to see you when he arrives in the city on Wednesday. Will you remain that long?"

Brett nodded. "I can delay my return home for a few days longer." He stared at Blood Drinker and asked, "How long ago did you obtain this?"

Blood Drinker swung the rest of his body over the side, and just as he dropped from sight, he said, "Eight days ago."

Brett stared at the place where Blood Drinker had been. Eight days ago would have been November 4th, the day before Wilkinson had struck the Neutral Ground Treaty. He laughed and stared at the scrap of paper in his hands. Had they altered history? Would a war with Spain have come about except for this one piece of paper? He didn't know, no one would ever know, but Brett liked to think that the disappearance of the map had changed Wilkinson's plans.

Seated on the edge of the bed, he stared at the map for a long time, and then reached over and brought the oil lamp closer. If all his suspicions were correct, the map had already cost men their lives, it had nearly been the cause of a war, and all for greed. Not a greedy man himself, content with his own life, with deft, sure movements, Brett fashioned the map into a spindle and then calmly fed it to the flames of the oil lamp. A moment later, there were only a few blackened particles floating through the air. Nolan's map was gone forever, and the Aztec treasure was safe until another adventuring man discovered it.

Brett spent the next two days finishing up his business and also buying gifts for Sabrina. He wanted something special, something she would have always, and he sought out a jeweler he knew in the city. Escobar and Sons had long been established in New Orleans. Their work was superb, and they occasionally bought private collections, too. They would have the very best selection of anyone. Brett found several pieces that pleased him, and in an extravagant mood he bought them all.

His meeting with Jason on Friday was brief, but it confirmed their suspicions that the map must have been pivotal to Wilkinson's plans. Seated in the library of Brett's house, Jason said bluntly, "I've just come from a social call at Governor Claiborne's; he received a letter from Wilkinson. A very interesting letter, I might add. It has the Governor concerned, for Wilkinson writes that Claiborne is surrounded by dangers and that the American government is seriously menaced. Wilkinson claims that there are spies everywhere and that within six days the President will be apprised of a plot that will implicate thousands." Jason grinned. "Much of it we can put down to Wilkinson's flare for the melodramatic, and of course he swore Claiborne to secrecy."

Brett cocked an eyebrow. "Yet the Governor told you?"

Jason's emerald-green eyes twinkled. "Don't forget, Claiborne knows that I am one of Jefferson's brilliant young men."

Brett laughed, but then his face grew serious, and he muttered, "It seems as if Wilkinson has made up his mind to betray Burr. What other plot could he be referring to?"

Shrugging, Jason replied, "You're probably right, but we shall just have to wait and see. The next few weeks should be extremely diverting."

Eager to return home now, Brett left before dawn the next morning for Fox's Lair, and noon on the following day found him being greeted enthusiastically by his delighted wife. Her eyes sparkling with pleasure, Sabrina confessed breathlessly, "Oh, I have missed you! I did not think a week could be so long."

Inordinately moved by this impetuous speech, Brett caught her more tightly to him. She must feel something for me to say such a thing, he thought.

It was later that day, after dinner, when they were sitting in the salon that he gave her the presents he had bought in New Orleans. The weather was growing cool and it had begun to rain; a merry fire burned on the hearth. Sabrina was seated on a green velvet sofa, and with childlike glee she opened the gifts he presented to her. "I've never personally bought you anything before," he said.

Sabrina was enchanted with the necklace and earrings, the diamonds they were comprised of expertly selected and just as expertly fashioned into jewelry worthy of royalty. "Oh, it is lovely," she cried. There was a wide, happy smile on her lips as she opened the last package, but staring at the contents of the little box, her smile faded and she paled. Looking anxiously up at Brett, she demanded, "Where did you get this? Whom did you buy it from?"

Brett had been standing next to the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantel, but at her expression and questions, he frowned and walked over next to her. "From a jeweler well-known in New Orleans. Why? Is something wrong?"

Sabrina looked again at the contents. It was a very lovely, very unusual brooch. Fine gold had been intricately fashioned to form a roaring lion; its eyes were tiny emerald chips, and its teeth were white, gleaming ivory. Sabrina had seen it before, had seen it often as a child. It was Señora Galaviz's brooch that had been stolen the night of the birthday fiesta over six years ago.

"Do you remember the bandits that were plaguing our area when you came to visit us? Remember that they robbed our guests as they left from my birthday fiesta?"

Brett nodded, his eyes fixed intently on hers. "Of course. I also remember that we killed them, although the things they had stolen were given up for lost."

Sabrina shook her head violently. "No, not anymore. This is one of the things stolen that night."

Brett's gaze narrowed. "Are you certain, Sabrina? Could this piece just be very similar?"

For a moment doubt entered her mind. Could she be mistaken? It had been a long time, and perhaps her memory was playing her false. "I don't think so," she finally said. "It is too much of a coincidence for two such unusual pieces of jewelry to be made. It has to be the same one."

His frown deepening, Brett mused, "Then either we didn't kill all the bandits... or someone else has found their cache and is selling it off."

He picked up the brooch from the box and stared at it a long time. "I have to go back to New Orleans at the end of the month," he said thoughtfully. "I'll go to Escobar and Sons and talk with José Escobar. He'll tell me how it came into his possession."

They didn't discuss it further, but it lay heavily on both of their minds, and it was inevitable that they both would begin to speculate if there was any connection between this brooch and whoever had killed Alejandro. Was the robbery in which the brooch had been stolen unrelated to Alejandro's death almost five years later? It was a long time between events, but had one lone bandit remained from the original group? A lone bandit who had later met and murdered Alejandro?

Lying awake in Brett's arms, her head resting on his shoulder, Sabrina trembled with the need for vengeance. Dios! If only she could find her father's killer, even now, and take her own vengeance, perhaps it would ease some of the pain that remained with her. The baby moved within her, and she smiled, a bittersweet smile. How delighted her father would have been! She was married to the man of his choice and would have been presenting him with his first grandchild. A small tear formed at the corner of her eye and trickled down to drop onto Brett's naked shoulder.

Feeling it, he turned to her with concern. "Sweetheart!" he whispered. "What is it?"

Sending him a watery smile, she muttered, "I was thinking of Alejandro and how happy he would be about the child."

He drew her nearer, murmuring gentle words of comfort, and her heartache lessening, she drifted off to sleep. Not so Brett. He lay awake a long time, mulling over the lion-shaped brooch and what its appearance in New Orleans meant. Finally though, his speculations becoming rather wild, he, too, dropped off to sleep, wondering why he kept coming back to the fact that it had been Carlos who had shot the last bandit—at point-blank range, almost as if he hadn't wanted there to be any survivors....

Oddly enough, Sabrina's thoughts, too, were of Carlos, but on an entirely different matter. During the time that Brett had been gone to New Orleans, she had dwelled a great deal on the events of that summer in Nacogdoches. She realized her own part in what had happened, and even now she writhed with shame when she thought of how easily she had accepted Carlos's words. How almost eager she had been to believe anything vile about Brett. Just thinking about it made her blush with despair. But there were unanswered questions that nagged her, and mortified at the prospect of revealing to Brett how gullible she had been, how little faith she'd had in both her love for him and in him, she resolved to speak with Carlos. To demand the truth from him. Wise now to his lies, she was certain that if she met him face to face, she would be able to sort the truth from the morass of lies that surrounded what had happened. She had two weapons that she hadn't possessed then—Brett may not have spoken aloud his love and he might never do so, but she knew with a fierce certainty that he cared for her, that he cherished her and was pleased at the prospect of becoming a father. She had the strength to trust her own emotions, to trust her instincts, and instinct told her that Brett bore no resemblance to the man Constanza had described.

At first she considered going with Brett on his proposed trip to New Orleans at the end of November, but she hesitated. It would be almost impossible to arrange a private meeting with her cousin in the city without Brett finding out about it. If Carlos was even in New Orleans, she thought grimly. He could have left for Nacogdoches months ago. Feeling sneaky and underhanded, she finally decided that the easiest way to see Carlos without Brett finding out about it would be to have her cousin come to Fox's Lair while Brett was gone. It was risky, and the servants were bound to talk, but if she cautioned Carlos to come late at night... if she arranged some signal for him, so that he would only approach the house after the servants had gone to bed...

She didn't like it, but it was all she could think of. Meeting him privately somewhere else was out of the question—she wasn't that foolish! And though none of the servants slept in the house itself, their quarters were a little distance from the main house, and a piercing scream would bring them running. And then there was her knife.... Satisfied that she could hold her own if Carlos tried anything violent, Sabrina wrote her note.

Taking aside one of the servants, she gave him orders to deliver the note to Señor Carlos de la Vega. "You will have to go to the Correias' house on Condi Street first and see if my aunt is there. She will know where he is staying. And if by chance she is not there, the Correias themselves will know whether he is still in the city or where he has gone." Hating herself, she said, "And remember, not a word to my husband—it is to be a surprise."

Guilt made the kiss she pressed on Brett's lips some ten days later especially fervent and yearning, and Brett looked at her with surprise. "I'm only going to be gone for four days, sweetheart," he teased. And fondling her swollen stomach, he added, "Rest and take care of our child. I wouldn't want anything to happen to either of you." His eyes darkened, and Sabrina was breathless when he muttered, "I think it would kill me if you weren't waiting for me when I returned."

Sabrina hugged those words to herself. Oh, he must care and care deeply for her.