contemptuous snort as she pushed aside the voluminous yards of filmy mosquito
netting that ringed her bed. Flopping down on the bright yellow and green silk
quilt that lay atop the mattress, she propped her chin up on her hands and
stared blankly into space. Unable to help herself, once again she relived the
moment she had recognized the dark-faced devil who had held her captive. She
should, she realized bleakly, have been relieved. But she hadn't been then and
she wasn't now. Instead she was filled with an odd mixture of resentment,
bewilderment, excitement, and anger.
I
don't want him here! she finally decided. He was too disturbing, too disruptive, and she just knew
he was going to interfere with the even tenor of her days—completely ignoring
the fact that only hours before she had been bewailing those same even-tenored
days. Already his presence was making itself uncomfortably felt, she mused
rebelliously—never before had her father offered the slightest objection to her
usual riding attire ... or her boyish activities. Yet today, within moments of
Brett Dangermond's arrival, he had done both, criticizing her clothes and
reminding her to act like a young lady. He also, she thought moodily, had
neglected to mention anything about a possible visit from Brett Dangermond.
Frowning,
she considered that thought and its implications. There had never been any
secrets between her and her father. While he didn't tell her everything that he
did, it seemed odd that he would withhold information about a simple invitation
issued to, if not a blood relative, at least a close connection to the family.
Unless there was more behind Brett's visit than just a family visit? But what?
And why had Brett Dangermond decided to accept that invitation?
Her
brow puckered in concentration. Throughout the years that had passed since
Sofia's wedding to Hugh Dangermond, quite a lot of information had come
Sabrina's way about Brett, and now, as much because of her father's
inexplicable, almost secret invitation as a need to understand why Brett
himself should suddenly appear in the wilds of Spanish Texas, she dredged it up
from memory. Brett had left home at an early age, that she knew. She also knew
from Sofia's frequent letters that Hugh worried about his eldest son a great
deal and even upon occasion threatened to disown him. There had been a few
scattered references to gambling and duels and the wish on Hugh's part that
Brett would settle down and take an interest in Riverview, but there was
nothing that Sabrina could recall that would explain why he was now at the
Rancho del Torres. It made no sense, she decided heavily—from Sofia's letters
it was obvious he was far more at home in the sophisticated, vice-ridden
capitals of Europe than in Nacogdoches. Small Nacogdoches was scarcely more
than a wilderness outpost and had little to offer a man of Brett's background.
So why was he here? she wondered uneasily. Had Hugh finally disowned him and
thrown him penniless upon the world? Did he think to recoup his fallen fortunes
from her father? Or had he been forced to flee the civilized world because of
some heinous crime?
With
a chill she remembered her first impression of him, of the leashed, dangerous
power, of the hard face and harder, cold eyes. He had looked a renegade, a
brigand on the run . . . was he? Or was she simply letting her imagination run
full rein? A small, rueful smile curved her mouth. She rather suspected it was
the latter, but still the unpleasant thoughts lingered in her mind for some
time.
As
for Brett's kiss, that she resolutely refused to think about. Not wanting to
remember the sweet ache that had coiled in her stomach or the wild urge she'd
had to cling helplessly to his solid, warm body, she blotted the incident from
her mind. Besides, she vowed tightly to herself, it would never happen again!
Sabrina
would have liked to have stayed where she was, locked away from the rest of the
household and
netting that ringed her bed. Flopping down on the bright yellow and green silk
quilt that lay atop the mattress, she propped her chin up on her hands and
stared blankly into space. Unable to help herself, once again she relived the
moment she had recognized the dark-faced devil who had held her captive. She
should, she realized bleakly, have been relieved. But she hadn't been then and
she wasn't now. Instead she was filled with an odd mixture of resentment,
bewilderment, excitement, and anger.
I
don't want him here! she finally decided. He was too disturbing, too disruptive, and she just knew
he was going to interfere with the even tenor of her days—completely ignoring
the fact that only hours before she had been bewailing those same even-tenored
days. Already his presence was making itself uncomfortably felt, she mused
rebelliously—never before had her father offered the slightest objection to her
usual riding attire ... or her boyish activities. Yet today, within moments of
Brett Dangermond's arrival, he had done both, criticizing her clothes and
reminding her to act like a young lady. He also, she thought moodily, had
neglected to mention anything about a possible visit from Brett Dangermond.
Frowning,
she considered that thought and its implications. There had never been any
secrets between her and her father. While he didn't tell her everything that he
did, it seemed odd that he would withhold information about a simple invitation
issued to, if not a blood relative, at least a close connection to the family.
Unless there was more behind Brett's visit than just a family visit? But what?
And why had Brett Dangermond decided to accept that invitation?
Her
brow puckered in concentration. Throughout the years that had passed since
Sofia's wedding to Hugh Dangermond, quite a lot of information had come
Sabrina's way about Brett, and now, as much because of her father's
inexplicable, almost secret invitation as a need to understand why Brett
himself should suddenly appear in the wilds of Spanish Texas, she dredged it up
from memory. Brett had left home at an early age, that she knew. She also knew
from Sofia's frequent letters that Hugh worried about his eldest son a great
deal and even upon occasion threatened to disown him. There had been a few
scattered references to gambling and duels and the wish on Hugh's part that
Brett would settle down and take an interest in Riverview, but there was
nothing that Sabrina could recall that would explain why he was now at the
Rancho del Torres. It made no sense, she decided heavily—from Sofia's letters
it was obvious he was far more at home in the sophisticated, vice-ridden
capitals of Europe than in Nacogdoches. Small Nacogdoches was scarcely more
than a wilderness outpost and had little to offer a man of Brett's background.
So why was he here? she wondered uneasily. Had Hugh finally disowned him and
thrown him penniless upon the world? Did he think to recoup his fallen fortunes
from her father? Or had he been forced to flee the civilized world because of
some heinous crime?
With
a chill she remembered her first impression of him, of the leashed, dangerous
power, of the hard face and harder, cold eyes. He had looked a renegade, a
brigand on the run . . . was he? Or was she simply letting her imagination run
full rein? A small, rueful smile curved her mouth. She rather suspected it was
the latter, but still the unpleasant thoughts lingered in her mind for some
time.
As
for Brett's kiss, that she resolutely refused to think about. Not wanting to
remember the sweet ache that had coiled in her stomach or the wild urge she'd
had to cling helplessly to his solid, warm body, she blotted the incident from
her mind. Besides, she vowed tightly to herself, it would never happen again!
Sabrina
would have liked to have stayed where she was, locked away from the rest of the
household and
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