The Tiger Lily

by Shirlee Busbee

  His black mood lifting slightly, Brett snorted with laughter. "And you are running a rig, jackanapes! I know you well enough—you are merely waiting for a more opportune time to give me the sharp side of your tongue."

  Ollie grinned, relaxing. "Now guvnor, 'ave I ever been an5rthing but a dutiful servant to you?"

  Brett grinned back at him. "I won't answer that question. My plate is quite full enough as it is!" His grin faded, and moodily he stared down at his booted feet. "I think I must be just blue-deviled, Ollie—leave me alone and go to bed. Forget what I asked earlier."

  Ollie hesitated. "Guvnor, if there's anything I could do . . ."

  "Nothing," Brett said flatly. But forcing his thoughts away from his tangled emotions, he asked abruptly, "Do you remember a young Spaniard by the name of Carlos de la Vega? We might have crossed paths with him a few years ago."

  Ollie shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Can't say as I do. Describe him for me."

  Brett did, and when he finished Ollie frowned. "Seems to me, guvnor, there was a fellow in New Orleans who looked like that. Don't know if it was the same one, though—them Spaniards all look alike to me. But remember when the old captain was killed and we joined the smugglers? Remember that 'igh and mighty Spaniard that cut up Frenchie's favorite girl?"

  Brett suddenly sat up straight, Ollie 's words reminding him vividly of the incident. Of course, that's where he'd seen de la Vega before! It had been a minor confrontation, just one of the many violent encounters he'd experienced, and he had completely forgotten about it until Ollie reminded him.

  Frenchie had been the leader of the renegade band of smugglers that had killed Sam Brown, and it was while Brett was part of their band that the incident with Carlos had occurred. Frenchie had operated a saloon and bordello on Girod Street in the notorious area known in New Orleans as "the Swamp." It had been there that Frenchie conducted his business of disposing of the smuggled goods. The actual transactions took place privately in a back room, and afterward it was Frenchie's policy to send his best customers upstairs to sample on the house some of the latest wares procured from all over the world. Nubile young girls direct from Africa were the most common commodity Frenchie had available, but there were also unfortunate young women from India, the Orient, Europe, and even Greece.

  It had been near the end of Brett's sojourn as a smuggler that Carlos had appeared on the scene, and he had been there in the back room playing his role as Frenchie's newest right-hand bully when Carlos had come to bargain for the latest cargo of smuggled goods. Brett couldn't remember what it was that Carlos had purchased, but he did remember clearly being the one to escort the swaggering Spaniard upstairs to where the girls were kept. And it had been the shriek of fear and pain coming from the room where Carlos had been shown that had caused Brett to burst through the door to discover the naked and bleeding body of the young Greek girl who'd been Carlos's choice. Fortunately she wasn't dead, only badly frightened and horribly slashed by the thin-bladed stiletto Carlos still held ready in his hand. Carlos had been fully dressed, and his narrow lips had drawn back in a sneer as he had said coolly, "She tried to steal my money. I am disappointed in Frenchie. He should have known better than to try that trick with me!"

  It was possible Carlos had been telling the truth, but it didn't excuse what he had done to the Greek girl. Controlling his blazing temper with an effort, Brett had urgently hustled the affronted Carlos out of the room and out of the saloon. It was only when they stood outside the low-gabled cypress building that Brett had threatened him. Carlos had looked him up and down and then shrugged his shoulders and drawled, "I don't fight with ruffians, nor do I brawl over common whores."

  The dark green eyes glittering with suppressed violence, conscious of the dangerous role he played, Brett had dared not reply in kind. Instead he had taken a deep breath and promised, "Perhaps someday I'll make you change your mind about that. You might just find a brawl with a ruffian better sport than knifing an unarmed girl."

  Carlos's face had whitened, but he had not pushed his luck. He'd spun on his heel and disappeared quickly, leaving Brett wishing he could forget his masquerade for about five minutes. He had figured that was about all it would take him to teach that arrogant Spaniard a lesson. And now, he thought with a grim smile, I might just get to teach Carlos that lesson after all.

  Looking across at Ollie, he said, "You're right. That was the fellow. And he's Alejandro's nephew."

  Ollie whistled with dismay. "That could be right bad for us, guvnor. This de la Vega saw you when you were acting the part of a smuggler. It'll be a bit difficult to explain what you were doing there."

  Brett made a face. "It won't be that bad. Remember, Alejandro already knows what I was doing there. He was in New Orleans when Frenchie and the rest were brought to trial, and I explained to him my part in their arrest. The problem will be Carlos. I got the distinct impression tonight that nothing would give Carlos greater pleasure than to see me discredited. Even if I were to explain myself to him, he wouldn't believe it, wouldn't want to believe it. He'll definitely try to cause trouble if he can, but I think I can probably stand the nonsense. The most that will arise out of it should be nothing more than a few raised eyebrows and whispers. As long as Alejandro isn't affected by it, and I don't believe he will be, I really don't give a damn what Carlos says or does!"

  Ollie looked skeptical. "You going to mention this to Senor Alejandro?"

  Frowning, Brett regarded his manservant. "It's a bit delicate, my little friend. Carlos is his nephew, and I don't like tale bearers. I can't very well march into Alejandro's room and say, 'Oh, by the way, I had a bit of trouble with a nasty customer when I was posing as a smuggler, and imagine my surprise when it turns out that my nasty customer is your nephew!' A little difficult, wouldn't you say?"

  "I see your point," Ollie replied glumly. "What are you going to do?"

  "Nothing. Carlos may not even remember the incident. And if you'll recall, I looked the part I was playing. Hopefully there is a great deal of difference between Brett the smuggler and Brett the nephew of Alejandro del Torres." A glimmer of laughter deep in his eyes, he murmured, "And if there isn't, it must be the fault of my rascally valet! Hmmm?"

  Missing the lurking laughter, Ollie bristled. "Well, if that don't beat the Dutch! I work my fingers to the bone turning you out proper, and you doubt my craft!"

  Smiling, Brett dismissed him. "Go to bed, Ollie, and don't worry your head over tonight. We'll come about, you'll see."

  Once he was alone in his rooms, Brett wished he were as confident as he sounded. This evening's interlude with Sabrina had left him badly rattled. And the ugly suspicion that he might have been the one seduced couldn't be dismissed. In the black, suspicious mood he was in at the moment, he wouldn't have been at all startled to have Alejandro suddenly come barging through his door, demanding that he do the honorable thing by his daughter. But he found it almost impossible to believe such a thing of Alejandro, and as the time passed and the house remained silent, he dismissed that notion. That Sabrina had planned tonight's confrontation all by herself wasn't quite as easy to dismiss. Even her youth did not stand in her defense—women were trouble right from the cradle as far as Brett was concerned.

  Of course there was Carlos. . . . But he shrugged. Sabrina could simply have decided that Brett was a better catch—even Carlos had admitted that the engagement had not been formally announced. So had she planned what had nearly happened tonight? Or had it been as innocent as it appeared on the surface?

  Unable to resolve that problem, he deliberately turned his mind away from it. But if he could push aside the question of Sabrina's innocence or guilt with reasonable ease, he could not ignore his own part in tonight's near disaster.

  How could I have lost control of myself like that? he wondered bitterly. Not only had he transgressed his own code, he had nearly dishonored and abused the trust of a man he held in high regard. Disgust and fury at himself rising up in his throat, he got up and pou
red another glass of brandy. If she hadn't called a halt when she did . . . He closed his eyes in pain. God! He had wanted her! And he was bleakly aware that in another moment or two he wouldn't have been able to stop—no matter what she'd said or done. Just thinking of her warm body, of that soft mouth beneath his, made his body harden and burn with desire. Outraged that even now she could arouse him so powerfully, he cursed helplessly under his breath. Unwilling to admit to any reason other than simple lust and propinquity for his body's betrayal, he was eventually able to convince himself that all he really needed was a woman—any woman! Once he'd broken his celibate state, this ridiculous obsession with Sabrina would disappear completely.

  Assured that he had discovered the reason for having nearly broken the rules of a lifetime, he relaxed slightly. He had nothing more to worry about, he told himself repeatedly. Sabrina's attraction had been merely that she was a desirable young woman and she had been close at hand. Too close at hand, he reminded himself tightly.

  Those conclusions should have allowed him to seek his bed and sleep soundly, but such was not the case. He found himself instead increasingly restless, and like Sabrina he finally left his room and wandered downstairs.

  Idly he walked through the darkened hacienda. Eventually he ended up in the library, and lighting the candelabrum at the end of the couch, his gaze went reluctantly to the floor where he and Sabrina had lain together. The image of her lying there came back to him, the flame-colored hair spread out like a cloak of fiery gold around her, the amber-gold eyes drowsy with desire, the lush ripeness of her mouth begging for his kiss. He swallowed dryly. He had to stop thinking about her!

  Like a man chased by demons, he left the library instantly, fleeing unwanted memories. Reaching the stables just as the faintest glimmer of light broke on the eastern horizon, he declined the services of a sleepy stablehand and quickly saddled Firestorm himself.

  How long he rode, or even where, he never remembered, but the movement of the horse beneath him seemed to soothe the devils that ate at him, and the instinctive need to pay attention to Firestorm's spirited attempts to increase their pace kept him from thinking too deeply.

  When he finally did return to the hacienda, the sun was high in the sky and the place was bustling with the usual daily activity. Dismounting, he tossed the reins to the waiting stablehand and began to walk toward the house. Passing one of the paddocks, he absently noticed Sabrina's mare, Sirocco, joyfully frolicking with two other handsome horses. He stopped for a moment to watch the fluid, graceful movements of the sleek palomino, the sunlight turning Sirocco's gleaming hide to pure spun gold. A beautiful animal worthy of her owner, he decided.

  Pleasantly exhausted now, he wanted nothing more than his bed, but crossing the front courtyard, he was stopped by Bonita, a faintly worried expression on her plump features.

  ''Buenosdias, Senor Brett," she began politely. "Don Alejandro apologizes for having to leave this morning before seeing you, but a puma killed a calf last night, and he didn't want to delay the hunt for it until you could be found." A slightly scolding note in her voice, she said, "We were concerned that you were not in your room when word of the kill came, but once it was discovered that your horse was gone, your servant explained that you often go for an early morning ride." Her lips pursing sternly, she admonished, "You are as bad as Senorita Sabrina—both of you seem to forget that there are bandits in the area and it is foolish for you to disappear without letting someone know your whereabouts."

  His suspiciously meek demeanor at odds with the twinkle of amusement deep in the dark green eyes, Brett murmured, "I am sorry, Bonita, if you were worried about me—I will try to be more considerate of your fears for my safety in the future."

  Bonita sniffed, not at all placated by his words. But letting the subject drop, she went on, "Don Alejandro does not think that the puma hunt will take too many hours, and he suggested that you might care to accompany him this afternoon, after siesta, when he plans to ride into Nacogdoches."

  Brett nodded his dark head in agreement and would have gone on his way, but Bonita seemed to hesitate, and then she asked anxiously, "Senor , did you see Senorita Sabrina this morning? Or notice if her horse was in the stables when you were there?"

  Brett stiffened, wondering immediately if this was another calculated move in whatever game Sabrina might be playing. "I haven't seen her since last night," he answered warily. "I did see Sirocco just a few minutes ago, though, in one of the paddocks. Why do you ask?"

  Bonita wrung her hands, the expression of worry deepening. "She is not in her rooms! I was not alarmed at first, because, like you, Senor , she comes and goes as she pleases, but it is almost mid-morning and still there is no sign of her. Never has she been gone this long without telling me! I had hoped that she had gone riding with you—but now you tell me that this is not so and that her horse is here." Her big round brown eyes frightened, Bonita wailed, "Where can she be, Senor ? With the bandits around . . ."

  Something decidedly unpleasant slithered down his spine, and because he had never experienced the feeling before, it took Brett a second to realize what it was—fear. Bonita's unspoken words raised horrifying specters in his mind—Sabrina helpless and at the mercy of the cruel, unscrupulous bandits; Sabrina suffering rape and worse at the hands of those same brutal murderers who had attacked and razed the Rios ranch . . . Savagely he reined in his racing imagination.

  Concealing his own niggling fear, Brett said soothingly, "Now, Bonita, don't work yourself up into a frenzy. She's probably just gone for a walk and taken longer than she expected. Have you had any of the servants look for her?"

  ''Si, Senor !" Bonita answered quickly. "I had them search the grounds thoroughly when I could not find her. I myself was on my way to the stables when I met you."

  "Well, dammit, she must be someplace!" Brett bit out, torn between worry and irritation. "She can't just have disappeared on foot. Isn't there someplace you haven't looked, someplace she might have gone?"

  Suddenly Bonita's face cleared. "Ah, senor, of course! What a silly old woman I am—she must have gone to the gazebo at the lake. It is a favorite place of hers, and she often goes there for an early-morning swim. How foolish of me not to have had someone look there. I shall see to it immediately!"

  "Never mind. Just tell me where it is, and I'll do it," Brett growled. If Sabrina was there, he was going to wring her neck for alarming old Bonita. And if she wasn't . . .

  His face hard and unfathomable, he listened to Bonita's directions, and in a mood of mingled suspicion and uneasiness, he set out swiftly for the gazebo. Finding Sabrina sound asleep inside the little building did not allay his mistrust of the situation. If anything it reinforced it—the scene was too reminiscent of last night for him not to be instantly on his guard. Last night had not gained her what she wanted, so she would try again. And yet, while his suspicions were fully alive, the feeling of relief that swept over him when he discovered her slim form stretched out on the orange cushions left him curiously shaken and weak. Unfortunately that feeling didn't last very long, and in a matter of seconds, relief was replaced by an odd fury. How could she frighten poor Bonita this way? he thought irrationally, completely ignoring the fact that he, too, had been frightened and that half his anger was sim.ply because he had been, even for a moment, filled with fear for her.

  Walking over to where she lay, he looked down at her, his mouth curling in a sneer. Violently he shook her, saying roughly, "Wake up, Sabrina, if you're really asleep! Bonita's had the entire household looking for you."

  Groggily Sabrina stared up at him, momentarily disorientated. But then suddenly ever3^thing came flooding back and she jerked upright, the bright sunlight causing her to blink. Childlike, she rubbed her eyes with her fists and then yawned hugely. Still not quite fully awake, she glanced at Brett standing so rigidly nearby and muttered crankily, "What did you say? Something about Bonita?"

  "Merely that this little stunt of yours has her frightened to death! She's
been entertaining notions of your capture by the bandits!"

  Sabrina appeared incredulous. "Bandits? Here? They are not so foolish as to try such a thing! The Rancho del Torres is safe. No one could harm me here!"

  "Not only is this place not safe," Brett said nastily, "but you shouldn't be roaming about like some wild gypsy! What the hell is your father thinking of! Anyone could come across you here!"

  Instantly enraged at the implied slur upon her father, Sabrina sat up even straighter and said frostily, "I beg your pardon!"

  "You'll do more than beg, little girl, if you pull another escapade like this! Next time, if there is a next time, I'll tan your backside so hard you won't sit for a week!" Brett said brutally, and grabbing her arm, he jerked her to her feet. "Now let's get going. I haven't had any sleep, and I'm in no mood to argue with you."