The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

Pain slammed into him, driving shard-sharp into his brain, destroying his thought and will.

  Bloody damned malaria.

  “You’ll not have me!” he shouted to the waiting darkness, to the restless bamboos.

  To the white death he felt watching from the top of the hill.

  “Not me. Not Windhaven either!”

  The branches of a nearby sal tree began to shake; high above, a myna screeched in terror.

  But Deveril Pagan hardly noticed.

  Lost in nightmare visions, the grim-faced Englishman clutched his rifle and stumbled blindly down the path toward the beach.

  Pain, everywhere pain.

  It squeezed her, choked her until she slipped in her own tears. Inside her head, across her shoulders, down her spine—always the pain.

  No more! a wild voice screamed. Not her voice, Barrett thought dimly. No creature could sound so desperate as that.

  Suddenly she was falling, plunged into cool darkness. Somewhere far away she heard a muffled shout, followed by the thump of heavy feet.

  Then she heard no more. Water gushed into her nose and mouth and lungs.

  She gasped, tempted to give in. How sweet to sink into the darkness! How sweet to let the black wings gather her up until she felt no more.

  No fear.

  No pain.

  No more gnawing horror of memory.

  Feet pounded somewhere nearby. More shouting…

  Cool waves in a black glass night.

  And then that, too, was forgotten. By reflex, her hands reached out, clawing the glossy darkness until she sputtered up into cool, clear air. She threw back her head, gasping for breath.

  High overhead, like diamonds flung across a black velvet cloth, the stars flashed back at her.

  Water.

  She must be floating at sea. Where at sea, she hadn’t the slightest idea.

  Now all she could think of was finding the next breath, of churning her way over the black swells that never stopped coming.

  Fight—must fight.

  But every crashing wave made her weaker, until her arms shook and her lungs ached.

  Trailing phosphorescence swept past her right shoulder, burning like pinpricks of flame. Some small, wretched sea creature fighting to stay alive, just as I am, she thought.

  Although her legs were leaden, she attacked the waves anew, for in some way that faint shock had revived her and given her new resolve.

  Slanting her head, she dragged in a ragged breath, at the same moment glimpsing a fuzzy orange glow to her right.

  A fire?

  Fire meant land, she thought dizzily. And land meant safety!

  Gasping, she began to struggle toward the faint ember that glowed like hope against the night. Her heart racing, she fought her way through the cold waves.

  Toward the far shore.

  Toward safety.

  Toward a place where pain and shame did not exist.

  Behind her, all unnoticed, the past flickered and blurred, then winked out altogether, swept far away into the leaden darkness of the night, where it could not harm her.

  With the first cool sweep of water, sanity returned—or partial sanity. Blindly Pagan waded out into the silver-webbed currents, feeling the madness loosen its chill grip.

  The malaria was always close, one of his many mementos of India. Like the jagged scar that ran the length of his torso, the fevers were a legacy of the Great Mutiny—and of Cawnpore.

  Cawnpore. Place of madness and bloodlust. Place where death hung tangible and suffocating in the burning air.

  At the memory, a chill swept over him. Only the water, Pagan told himself grimly.

  But he knew it was a lie.

  It was Cawnpore that made him shiver, Cawnpore that he would never forget. Someone needed to remember, after all.

  Smothering a curse, he plunged cleanly into the silken darkness, letting the cool currents close over him. He stroked deeper, trying to forget those long weeks of fire and carnage when the Sepoy flames had swept across India.

  In a week he had lost his house, in a fortnight all his carefully tended fields.

  In a month he had lost his servants and all his friends. Dry-eyed, he had watched everything that he had ever worked for swept away in one great paroxysm of hatred.

  Now eight years later here he stood, captive of a dream on an island that hung like a tear from the eye of India. And here he’d stay, his back to the mist-hung mountains, his face to the southwest monsoon, determined to fight, determined to hack a living out of the jungle.

  And he’d bloody well succeed.

  If the nightmares didn’t destroy him first. If somehow he could manage to forget Cawnpore…

  Cursing harshly, Pagan lifted his powerful arms and stroked back up to the surface, water sliding from his head and shoulders like scattered diamonds.

  He filled his lungs, treading water. Smoke mingled with pungent native herbs drifted down from somewhere on the ridge. More secret rites in the night?

  He had threatened his workers with instant dismissal if he found them skulking off to worship the skull of Kali, but apparently his threats had failed. The native workers would do as they pleased, just as they always did.

  Once more Pagan plunged down, throwing back his head and letting the cool water sweep over him.

  Forget the five dead workers you found on your return from London, he told himself. Forget the attack at the docks in Colombo. Forget the three men who followed you into the night, seizing you from behind, he repeated as the waves rocked him.

  Like a benediction, the current rippled and surged beneath him. And he yielded to the shadows, savoring their healing forgetfulness as his strong arms cut a path through the dark waters.

  Then his fingers brushed the raw welt running from his cheekbone to his right eyebrow. Immediately his massive body stiffened. When his head broke the surface a moment later, his eyes were hard, the night’s magic shattered.

  Forget?

  That was the one thing Deveril Pagan could never do.

  She felt the sandy bottom before she saw it. A second later the waves tossed her onto the beach; sand, seaweed, and tiny shells ground into her mouth and tongue.

  Sputtering, she crawled from the water, then sank onto the heavenly warmth of the sand.

  A crab scuttled past her hand, but in her exhaustion she did not move. She had no energy left for anything but breathing.

  A wave surged past her knees and then retreated. She realized she must climb higher, lest she be dragged back out to sea with the rising of the tide.

  She tried to struggle upright but failed, collapsing back in a sprawl against the beach. Ashen-faced, she managed to crawl a few more feet before sinking down once more, her energy spent.

  At least she felt no pain beyond a prickling at her back; or perhaps she was beyond feeling pain.

  Gritting her teeth, she raised her head and searched for the orange beacon. For hours it had beckoned, finally bringing her here to safety.

  Strange—the light was gone.

  But it scarcely mattered. Nothing mattered now.

  Sighing, she let her eyes close. Her fingers stretched out and dug into the warm sand.

  A moment later she was asleep.

  The first rays of dawn burned a blood-red trail out of Burma as Pagan lifted himself wearily from the sea. Water streamed in silver rivulets from his face and chest, coursing down his powerful, bronzed body. With a primitive, animal grace he shook his head and stretched, careless of his nakedness.

  At last he was tired, a pleasant, comfortable sort of fatigue. With a little luck he might even be able to sleep now.

  The hunger in his groin was still there of course, only now it was reduced to a dull ache.

  Just like the memories of Cawnpore.

  Frowning, he toweled himself off and tugged on his breeches, his broad shoulders bunching and rippling with each movement. He dragged a weary hand through his black hair, combing it back off his face, then turned toward the path tha
t led inland.

  It was then that he saw the smudge of color.

  It lay against the dawn-gray beach to the south.

  A smudge where no smudge should appear.

  His broad brow furrowed. He stared across the sand, frozen with shock. It was impossible, of course, nothing but another illusion.

  He closed his eyes, shaking a rivulet of saltwater from his face. When he looked again, he fully expected the bright blur to be gone.

  But it wasn’t. The shape had not changed in the slightest.

  And the it, Pagan now saw clearly, was a woman.

  A prickle of something that might have been foreboding skittered up his spine.

  The man with raven hair and onyx eyes stared at that dim blur on his secluded beach, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. Another tormenting image, he told himself; another illusion come to haunt him through the long tropical nights.

  Wind played over his face, already warm with the heat that would grow to a ferocious blast by midday. Feeling a queer, burning sensation in his throat, the man the estate workers called the Tiger-sahib stalked over the hard-packed sand.

  His shadow fell over the motionless figure, a slash of darkness against ivory skin and pale, sodden damask. Slowly Pagan knelt, feeling a strange sense of fatedness about the moment. He realized he could not have turned away even had he wanted to.

  And turning away was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

  His eyes narrowed.

  His blood took on a strange, staccato drumming. Kismet, he told himself, oddly lightheaded. Jo hoga, so hoga.

  To his disgust, his hands began to tremble.

  Even before he looked down, he knew she would be beautiful. It was inescapable, part of the dreams that had tormented him for weeks since his return from London.

  A woman, Pagan thought dizzily, staring down at the honey-gold strands cast upon the sand. A white woman…

  But how did she come to be lying here? Outside of a few of his estate workers, no one even knew this secluded cove existed. The few who did were native Sinhalese whose loyalty he trusted absolutely.

  So what was this fragile mermaid with hair the color of a tropical sunrise doing here, asleep on his private beach?

  With unsteady fingers, the tall planter swept a tangled strand from the woman’s face, revealing a silken curve of cheek and honey-colored lashes.

  Beautiful.

  Just as he had known she would be. But—faintly familiar?

  Pagan frowned, seeing the face he had glimpsed so often in his tortured, malarial dreams. There was the slim, chiseled nose that turned up slightly at the end and the chin rising to a defiant point. There were the lips the color of wild orchids, soft and achingly generous.

  Lips that could cling sweetly while they drove a man wild with desire.

  He tried to forget the raw image of what he would like those lips to do to him, how much he would give to feel them inch slowly over his naked, fevered skin.

  Desire shot through him. He jerked back, dropping the golden strands as if burned. Rocking back on his heels, he stared down at her, dazed.

  Beautiful, damn her, just as he had known she would be. And if his judgment of women was any good—which St. Cyr knew damned well it was—then this particular woman would have a perfect body to match that exquisite face.

  And the Tiger hadn’t had a woman in almost two months.

  Ruxley would surely know that too.

  Frowning, the Englishman rose and stared down the beach. His eyes narrowed on the sea, calm and silver beneath the rising sun.

  Just as he’d thought. No splintered planks, no floating cable or torn sheet. Nothing at all.

  His frown deepened. No debris meant there had been no shipwreck, and a shipwreck was the only reason for her to be cast up on this lonely stretch of beach that appeared nowhere in any English sea chart.

  The only innocent reason, that is.

  But it seemed someone had talked: the evidence lay right before him.

  His eyes hardened as he looked down at the female sprawled in the sand. At his sides his fingers clenched and unclenched, yearning to shake out all her deadly secrets.

  Beginning with the details of Ruxley’s latest plan to extract the location of Windhaven’s fabled ruby mine.

  Go ahead, a dark voice urged. Strip her bare and savor her naked beauty. Enjoy her as a woman was meant to be enjoyed. Make her hot and hungry, begging for you to take her. And then bend her to your will until she answers every question you can even think of asking.

  Desire lay upon him, heavy and smothering like the black clouds that ran before the southwest monsoon.

  But Pagan did not move, though his pulse was crashing through his veins like cannon shot.

  Why not? he thought angrily, his temples slick with sweat. This was his land, his beach. On this square of sand and soil he alone was lord and master.

  Abruptly his face twisted with self-mockery. Maybe it had been too long. Maybe he was afraid.

  Sometimes he almost forgot what a woman looked like.

  Almost.

  The warm wind brushed his face, tossing the woman’s pale damask skirts, offering him a glimpse of lacy drawers beneath frothy petticoats trimmed with peach-colored ribbons.

  A bead of sweat slid down his neck. His skin prickled, dry and taut.

  A woman. By the gods, every inch a woman, from her lacy petticoats and ruffled drawers to her expensive damask gown.

  A torment.

  Why here? And why now? Pagan asked himself, unwilling to face the answer. Knowing it was the only possible answer.

  Two simple words.

  James Ruxley. A man who would stop at nothing to hold Windhaven’s secrets, especially now, since the great ruby had vanished during the melee back in London.

  Sir Humphrey’s murderer had never been discovered, nor had the ruby, in spite of a lengthy investigation. Apparently Ruxley didn’t have it, which surprised Pagan vastly.

  Such tactics were exactly what he’d expect of the Merchant Prince.

  But six of Ruxley’s men had come to Ceylon so far, asking questions in the native villages and flashing their gold guineas. When that hadn’t worked, they’d tried a more direct assault through the jungle.

  All six had died in the attempt. One by one Pagan had found their dead bodies, snake-bitten or leopard-clawed, their corpses darkened by a cloud of circling vultures.

  But it appeared Ruxley was playing a different game. The formula was ancient and very effective.

  One beautiful woman, washed up on a deserted beach. One malaria-weakened man, starved for the touch of a woman’s silken skin.

  Yes, it had all the earmarks of a successful campaign.

  Except he wasn’t that far gone yet, Pagan thought grimly. And this intruder would be a pleasure to interrogate. As his eyes burned over the soft curves outlined beneath her wet garments, he felt the telltale heaviness at his thighs and surge of heat to his manhood.

  When she awoke, it would be in his bed, hot and hungry for him. And he would take his time about it, for he wanted her fully aroused when she woke.

  And wearing nothing but him.

  Grim-faced, the Englishman reached down and flung his trespasser over his shoulder. A muscle flashed at his jaw as he felt her hair spill over his naked back. His skin burned where she lay against him, all softness and sun-warmed silk.

  He looked neither right nor left as he strode up the beach to his bungalow.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Tamil workers watched in silent wonder as the tall Angrezi crossed the path from the beach, an inert female flung over his shoulder. Several shrank back, murmuring protective mantras as the planter passed.

  Although he gave no sign of noticing, Pagan missed none of their reactions. It was getting harder and harder to keep them here.

  This string of recent “accidents” had been the final straw. Now it was whispered that the Tiger-sahib was cursed, and that whoever worked for him would suffer terribl
e consequences. The local shaman’s doing, no doubt, Pagan thought grimly.

  Last week five workers had defaulted on their contracts, vanishing overnight into the jungle. The only reason the rest stayed was because the Tiger treated them with fairness and paid their wages as agreed upon rather than months late, as some of the other planters did.

  If they paid at all.

  In grim silence Pagan kicked open the door to his bungalow and strode down a long corridor to his sparsely furnished room. In one corner stood a rattan chair and a wooden campaign desk, the latter placed in tins of water to discourage the foray of voracious white ants. On the bed lay scattered correspondence, chits requiring his signature, and scribbled notes detailing the progress of his tea experiments.

  Pagan swept the papers onto the floor, then dumped his sodden captive over his shoulder onto his bed.

  Why hadn’t she awakened yet? There had been no blood nor any sign of a head wound.

  Then his onyx eyes hardened. Maybe she wasn’t asleep at all, merely feigning.

  If so, he knew the perfect way to find out.

  His fingers dropped to her bodice. He pried a tiny, cloth-covered button free, trying to ignore the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Any moment he expected her to sit up, squawking in protest.

  But she did neither. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did she acknowledge his presence.

  Pagan attacked the second button, his hands strangely awkward. His fingers slipped on the tiny circle, once and then again.

  Get control of yourself. How Ruxley would laugh to see you now, he thought furiously.

  But his fingers only grew more unsteady. Smothering a curse, he sank down on the bed and pulled the woman across his lap. In one savage stroke, he caught the top of her gown and sheared the row of buttons away, sending the cloth-covered circles pinging across the wooden floor.

  Even then she did not move.

  Pagan’s jaw settled into a hard line as he tugged the woman’s dress from her shoulders. All the time he reminded himself that he was calm, that he was in control, that this was merely another skirmish in his ongoing war with Ruxley.

  But it was a lie.

  The lie that became harder and harder to ignore as his manhood strained, hot with desire where she lay angled against him, her weight a sweet, burning torment.