Sabrina had just settled herself back in bed, several lace-edged pillows plumped up behind her, when Bonita, a warm smile on her swarthy face, waddled into the room carrying a large silver tray that held Sabrina's usual breakfast: hot chocolate and a sweet cake called pan dulce. Different from most days, however, was the huge bouquet of yellow roses and the small cloth-covered box that lay in the center of a plate.
Seeing the roses, Sabrina gave an exclamation of pleasure, and Bonita's lined face softened. "Happy birthday, little one," she said, the affection she felt obvious in the wise brown eyes and the crooning tones of her voice.
Bonita had been Elena's nurse, and when her mistress had married the dashing Alejandro del Torres, she had accompanied her from Natchez and had settled down in the wilderness of Spanish Texas to devote herself to the houseful of babies she was certain would be arriving in due course. But there had been only one baby, Sabrina, and consequently Bonita had lavished all her love and not a few scoldings on Sabrina, much like a cat with one precious kitten.
Watching as Sabrina took a deep, delighted sniff of the fragrant roses, Bonita was conscious of a feeling of bittersweet satisfaction. How proud Dona Elena would have been of her daughter on this day! Then, eyeing suspiciously the uncreased state of the demure nightgown that covered Sabrina's body, she thought how shocked Elena would have been that her daughter could have acquired such wanton habits.
Bonita was old and fat, her once-dark hair liberally streaked with gray, and whatever shape she had possessed had long ago disappeared. She had a merry face, though, and a deep, rich chuckle that made one smile involuntarily. She ruled the del Torres household with an iron hand; that is, all the household with the exception of Senorita Sabrina and Don Alejandro. Don Alejandro had only to pinch her cheek and smile whimsically at her and she instantly melted. As for Sabrina, well, try as she might, Bonita could never resist the appeal of those amber-gold eyes. She had been heard to mutter on more than one occasion that Senorita Sabrina could have charmed the devil or slain him with just one glance.
As Sabrina opened the cloth-covered box, those incredible eyes darkened with deep emotion, and staring at the beautifully wrought gold hoop earrings that lay on the white satin, Sabrina breathed reverently, "Oh, Bonita, you are too good to me—you spoil me."
"Si, this is true," Bonita returned with her rich chuckle, and reaching over to tweak a strand of the curly hair, she added, "But there are days when you deserve it, and today is one of them."
Oblivious to the nearly spilt chocolate pot and the wobbling vase of roses, Sabrina twisted in bed and flung her arms around Bonita's neck. "Oh, Bonita, I love you so much! And I will always treasure these lovely earrings. I will wear them tonight for the fiesta."
The remainder of the day proved to be as enjoyable as its beginning. There was a constant stream of well-wishers arriving and congratulations from everyone she met, and from her father and relatives and the servants of the ranch there was an almost overwhelming variety of gifts to help celebrate her birthday: a gold hair comb from the women in the kitchen; a fine leather bridle embossed with silver from the stablemen, a beautiful white lace mantilla from Tia Francisca and her family, a breathtaking silver-inlaid saddle from the suddenly shy vaqueros, and from her father a curious combination—a delicate blade of wonderful Toledo steel and a necklace of glittering emeralds.
That evening as she dressed for the fiesta in her honor, she managed to wear as many gifts as possible. Bonita had piled the red-gold curls high on Sabrina's head and secured them with the gold comb; Bonita's gift of the earrings hung from her small ears, and around her neck were the emeralds given to her by her father. She wore a simple gown of white silk, a profusion of lace flowing around its deep decolletage and around the hem of the wide, full, swinging skirt, Tia Francisca's gift of the white mantilla draped fashionably about her bared shoulders and arms. The effect was striking, the brightness of that flame-colored hair, the honeyed tones of her soft skin against the emeralds, and the white silk of the gown making more than one young caballero that night think of a goddess of fire—a goddess in whose embrace it would be heaven to burn.
Unaware of the thoughts she aroused in the young males and not a few older ones, Sabrina took a child's unaffected delight in the evening. She danced every dance, her gay laughter and heart-stopping smile heard and seen continually, and Alejandro, watching her proudly from a short distance away, was aware of a curious mixture of pleasure and pain. If only Elena could see her, he thought, could be with us . . .
For just a moment he allowed the uneased agony of Elena's death to sweep over him, and almost compulsively he fingered the unique turquoise and silver bracelet he always wore—a bracelet that Elena had given to him to seal their betrothal. But then, conscious that even from a distance, in spite of the whirl of gaiety around her, Sabrina would uncannily sense his unhappy thoughts, he quelled the pain that welled up inside him. Tonight was a joyous one—and Elena would be the last person to want him sad, he reminded himself with a forced smile.
"They make a lovely couple, do they not?" Francisca de la Vega said abruptly from his side, her eyes on Sabrina and the young man with whom she was presently dancing.
Wryly Alejandro returned, "I agree. But don't you think we are a bit prejudiced? After all, Sabrina is my daughter and Carlos is your son."
Francisca gave a satisfied smile. "That is true, but they are a handsome couple nonetheless—and it would be a wonderful alliance. The del Torres rancho and the de la Vega rancho under one ownership would make them the largest and richest landowners this side of the Sabine River."
Alejandro remained silent. Though his sister might prefer one to think her motives were totally altruistic, he knew the de la Vega finances were not flourishing. Luis de la Vega, her husband, had casually intimated as much to him not a month ago, and Carlos only last week had laughingly stated that while they had land and cattle aplenty, he would probably have to marry an heiress if he wished to see any amount of gold in the near future. Every landowner occasionally suffered from lack of ready money, Alejandro admitted wryly to himself, even he did periodically, and he assumed that this was the current situation with his sister's family—next month, next year, things would right themselves and all would be well. Carelessly he dismissed as unworthy the notion that there was any desperate need for a marriage between Sabrina and Carlos. Francisca had always wanted the marriage, and he guessed that at the moment it probably looked even more attractive than usual to her. But to Carlos? Thoughtfully he gazed at his nephew as that handsome, smiling young man spun Sabrina lightly around the grand salon.
Alejandro had no real reservations about Carlos de la Vega—certainly his lineage was impeccable, and at twenty-six he was mature enough and hopefully wise enough to control Sabrina. But even knowing the scheme was dear to his sister's heart, Alejandro had for the past two years resisted her attempts to formalize a match. There was much to be said for a marriage between Sabrina and Carlos, he would freely concede, and yet . . .
Consideringly he scrutinized Carlos as that young man laughed across at Sabrina. Carlos was a handsome devil, typically Spanish in his features—thick black hair; black eyes; a thin, aristocratic nose; and a mouth that was at once sensual and cruel. Like so many Spaniards, he was not a tall man, and yet there was such command and arrogance in his bearing that one immediately forgot his lack of height. His was a slim, graceful physique, and whether on the back of a horse or on a ballroom floor, he always gave the impression of complete control. Tonight, attired in black velvet calzoneras, the Spanish equivalent of a pantaloon, the borders trimmed with filigree buttons and tinsel lace; a matching chaqueta that ended just above the gold silk sash that tightly encircled his firm masculine waist; and a white silk shirt that intensified his dark good looks, Carlos was, Alejandro had to admit, an eminently eligible young man whose suit would make most of the unmarried women there that night swoon with delight. Somehow, though, he didn't think Carlos would make Sabrina swoon. And
that, he admitted ruefully, is the crux of my problem.
Born into a proud Spanish family where arranged marriages were commonplace—even when, as in the case of Alejandro's father, Don Enrique, a younger son had chosen to seek his fortunes in the new world—Alejandro had resisted such a fate. He had gone, as his father before him, to Spain to choose a bride, but unlike his father, Alejandro had found no dark-eyed senorita who aroused anything more than tepid interest within his heart. He had returned home to the family ranch in Mexico, much to Don Enrique's disgust, unmarried. It was only some five years later, when he was busily wresting the present Rancho del Torres from the wilderness of East Texas and had by chance visited Natchez, that he had met Elena Sevilla . . . met and fallen passionately in love with her. They were married three months later, and even now, ten years after her death, Elena lived in his heart. His marriage to her had been idyllic, filled with laughter, love, and passion. I want that for Sabrina, he thought fiercely. I want her to love with every fitter of her being, I demand that the man she marries will love her beyond death, and I want him to be her very reason for breathing. Nothing else will satisfy me ... or Sabrina.
And yet, tonight as never before, he was aware of the fact that when he died, Sabrina would be alone in the world without the much-needed protection of a man. Oh, to be sure, his sisters, Francisca at his side, and the younger one, Ysabel, in Mexico City, would see that no real harm befell her; Sofia, too, could be counted on to care for Sabrina. But the thought of either of his sisters or their husbands having control of his vibrant, headstrong daughter distressed him. Sofia and Hugh Dangermond now . . .
Alejandro's sixty-two years sat lightly on him, his carriage and bearing as straight and proud as it had been thirty years ago. He was tall for a Spaniard, standing nearly six feet in height. He had passed this trait on to his daughter—in her stocking feet she was only three inches shorter than her father. His vivid red hair was untouched by silver; the amber-gold eyes were still magnificent, the passing years unable to dull their brilliance. But while he enjoyed the best of health, he was conscious that someday, perhaps not too far away, Sabrina would be alone. To have her safely married was the only way he could think of to protect her, and yet he felt instinctively that Carlos de la Vega was not the man to capture her heart—or the man to love her as she would need to be loved. But how to explain that to Francisca?
Francisca de la Vega was precisely ten months older than her brother, a fact she constantly threw up in his face. She was also a creature endowed with few emotions, a rigid woman to whom family and duty came before anything else. She had been disbelieving when Alejandro had refused to marry for anything less than love, and if he were to have explained his reservations about a match between her son and his daughter, she would have been outraged and incredulous. She had not loved their longtime neighbor in Mexico, Luis de la Vega, when Don Enrique had arranged her marriage to him, but what did that matter? Luis, though a younger son, had been wealthy enough, and he had been blue-blooded enough to satisfy Don Enrique.
It had been her duty to marry as her father demanded, and she had done it without argument. It had also been her duty to follow her husband when, much to her fury, he had decided to follow his brother-in-law's lead and remove his family from Mexico and settle in the Nacogdoches area. Francisca absolutely hated living in this barely civilized outpost of Spanish dominion, and through the years she had complained bitterly about its lack of the elegance of life. Elegance she would have enjoyed had they remained in Mexico. But it had been her duty to stay with her husband and run his household and bear his four children, including Carlos, the youngest, the only son and heir. Why couldn't Sabrina do the same?
If Francisca and Alejandro were far apart philosophically, they were also greatly dissimilar physically. Francisca was the epitome of a highborn Spanish matron. Swathed in bright silks and glittering, heavy gold jewelry, she was a little plump and not very tall, with lustrous dark hair not as yet showing any sign of silver, and possessed a pair of lovely, liquid brown eyes. She, too, carried her age well, her aristocratic features still showing signs of the beauty she had been. Unfortunately, neither she nor her sister, Ysabel, shared their brother's lively sense of humor or zest for living, nor would either of them have understood his reasons for not agreeing to a match that was so advantageous.
Which brings me back to where I started, Alejandro sighed with frustration.
As he remained silent, making no reply to her statement, Francisca grew impatient and demanded sharply, "Have you nothing to say?" And when Alejandro merely shrugged his shoulders, she added heatedly, "Why will you not admit that their marriage would be a splendid thing? I do not understand you, mi hermano! Surely you can have no objections?"
Reluctantly Alejandro confessed, "No, I would have no objection ... if it were what Sabrina wanted."
Francisca looked offended at the notion that Sabrina could have any say in their plans for her future, but deciding not to be sidetracked by such nonsense, she pressed on. "I didn't agree with you when you suggested we postpone any serious settlements when Sabrina was younger, but as there was no real urgency to the matter being decided then, I held my tongue. Now, however . . ."
His eyebrow rising sardonically, Alejandro murmured, "Do you ever hold your tongue?" But before she could reply, he asked innocently, "You mentioned urgency. Is there some urgency now? And as I recall, you made quite a few objections when I wouldn't discuss a marriage between them before Sabrina went to spend those six months with Ysabel when she was fifteen. Could it have been that you were frightened she might have found a young caballero in Mexico City who would have suited her better than your son? Like perhaps Ysabel's oldest son, Domingo?"
Francisca's opulent bosom swelled with indignation. "There is," she spat furiously, "no one better than Carlos!"
Suddenly enjoying himself, Alejandro said meekly, "Ah, forgive me, what you say is perfectly true. But tell me, why are you so insistent that we decide anything now? Nothing has changed." His tongue in cheek, he added, "Unless Ysabel has written to say that Domingo is coming to visit?"
Francisca's dark eyes flashed, and her full mouth tightened. Controlling her temper with an effort, she ignored his provocative statements and said levelly, "Sabrina is now seventeen years old. There is no reason why an engagement cannot be agreed upon."
Annoyed with her persistence, Alejandro finally muttered, "Francisca, cease your machinations! Tonight is Sabrina's seventeenth birthday, and I have no intention of making any decisions." He said inflexibly, "You were eighteen before our father betrothed you to Luis, so why should Sabrina have less time? She is young yet, and I will not have you or anyone else stampeding her into a marriage she may not want."
Her jaw clenching, Francisca inquired acidly, "Are you saying she may not want to marry Carlos?"
Alejandro sighed. "I don't know what her thoughts are. Rest assured that if Sabrina wishes to marry Carlos, I will put no obstacles in their way."
"How generous of you!" she said scathingly. "But do not be surprised if, by the time you condescend to talk of a marriage, Carlos has already decided he no longer wishes to marry your daughter."
"So be it."
Making no attempt to hide her displeasure, Francisca stalked off, and Alejandro breathed more freely. But the conversation they had exchanged did not go away from his mind, and much later that night, when all the guests were gone and he and Sabrina were settled comfortably in a small, cozy, slightly shabby sitting room at the end of the main wing of the house, he casually said, "I noticed that you danced quite a few dances with Carlos. Do I sense a romance?"
Sabrina, in a very unladylike position, barefooted, her long legs dangling over the side of a huge, high-backed chair of Cordova leather, stared at her father with astonishment. "A romance?" she demanded incredulously. "With Carlos?"
Alejandro smiled, thinking of Francisca's reaction if she had heard Sabrina's answer. Pushing the thought of Francisca's chagrin and anger from his min
d, he said idly, "Hmmm, Carlos. Do you like him?"
Puzzled, Sabrina answered readily enough, "Of course I like my cousin—we've grown up together."
"But have you considered marrying him?"
A look of complete bewilderment on her lovely face, Sabrina glanced at the crystal snifter of brandy that sat just inches from her father's hand. Alejandro laughed out loud at that glance, instantly feeling happier. Lightly he said, "No, I have not overindulged myself, pigeon. It is just that your Tia Francisca would like to see you married to Carlos, and I wondered how you might react."
Sabrina wrinkled her slightly tilted nose with displeasure. "Tia Francisca interests herself in matters that are not her concern. I do not wish to marry yet, and," her features suddenly dreamy, she added, "when I do, I want to love as you and Madre did—nothing less will do."
Relieved and pleased at the same time, Alejandro raised his brandy snifter and said solemnly, "Nothing less than love for us."
Despite the reassurance of his own beliefs about Sabrina, after she had gone to bed that night, Alejandro found himself thinking seriously of her future—and possible marriage. There was, he knew, no man of any age in the area who had caught her fancy. Or, he admitted ruefully, one that she would not lead around like a bull with a brass ring through its nose! But yet, even as that thought crossed his mind, he remembered a young man with a dark, lean face and hard jade-green eyes . . . his nephew-in-law, Brett Dangermond.
The Tiger Lily Page 4