Read The Tiger Lily for Free Online Page B

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