The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  At even that faint touch Pagan froze. Madness swept through him and his jaw locked in a hot, urgent swell of desire. But denied, the need only grew sharper, digging at the already frayed edges of his sanity.

  Beneath his fingers he felt her nipple harden. Even with his eyes closed, he could see it clearly—all pebbled silk and rich heat, its proud crest upthrust.

  Instantly the old hunger slammed into him.

  Grim-faced, he fought the urge to bury himself deep inside her, relieving his torture before she awoke to contest him. She was simply another of Ruxley’s pawns, after all.

  Something tells me you’ve too much pride to take a woman by force. Another woman had said that.

  Was it true?

  Beneath him the woman with tawny hair flinched slightly. Her lips opened with a restless moan.

  The sound jerked Pagan back to reality. He stepped back, dropping the mosquito net in place.

  This time Ruxley would lose, Pagan swore. He’d waited two months to bed a woman, so he supposed he could wait a few hours longer.

  Until he was stronger and the malaria was past.

  Until she knew exactly what he was doing to her.

  She heard the roar of distant thunder, then the steady beat of drums.

  A parade? she thought. This time of year?

  Her lips tensed. But what time of year was it? And where precisely was here?

  Her eyes opened slowly. She saw the dim outline of carved bedposts beneath some sort of net. She felt no warmth about the room, just emptiness and a chilling sense of unfamiliarity.

  With it.

  With everything.

  Even herself.

  Frowning, she made to sit up, only to bite down a moan as pains shot through her back and shoulders. White-faced, she eased back against the cool sheets, listening to her heart pound.

  Where was she? And why did every muscle in her body scream in protest?

  Looking down, she saw a petticoat draped over her chest. Beneath was a damask dress—her dress, though she did not seem to recognize it.

  She began to tremble. Beneath the dress she wore a rigid corset of cotton twill, laced so tight that she had to struggle for breath. Her breasts, she saw to her horror, were crushed together, her nipples rising in pebbled points at the lacy trim.

  Crimson-faced, she tried to tug the garment up, only to subside with a gasp of pain a moment later. Not that she would have succeeded anyway—the frame was far too stiff to permit shifting.

  Warily she took in her frothy petticoats and a slim foot clad in silk stockings.

  Silk stockings?

  But, it was all wrong! These were not her garments! Where was she? What had happened to her?

  Her slim fingers tightened, pleating and unpleating the unfamiliar petticoat at her chest.

  Her back began to throb. She turned slightly, wincing at the pain even that slight movement provoked. Through the open shutters at the far end of the room, a blinding rectangle of turquoise sky stretched over an emerald expanse of forest.

  She tried to sit up, grimacing as dagger-sharp pains shot through her back.

  Go away go away go away, she ordered vainly, pressing trembling hands to her ears. But the maelstrom in her head only grew.

  A crimson-crested lizard crept along the side of the bed, only inches from her hand. Its cold, hooded eyes studied her with the reptilian equivalent of curiosity.

  “Go away!” she barked hoarsely.

  Undaunted, the reptile took a step closer.

  “Shoo! Go away—now!” A shiver went through her. Where had this repellent creature come from? “Go—go—go!”

  This time her frantic waving had the desired effect. The creature skittered away, disappearing down the far side of the bed.

  But the exertion left her drained, and her back throbbed so fiercely that she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

  Maybe that was why she didn’t hear the sound of the door opening. When the dark shadow fell across the bed, she was totally unprepared.

  Maybe nothing could have prepared her for the sight of that sharp, chiseled face crowned by a piercing charcoal eye. The other, she saw, was concealed beneath a black patch of cloth.

  It was an arrogant face. A wicked face, with sensual lips curved above a forbidding jawline.

  A face that spelled an iron will and a potent sensuality.

  A face that spelled endless danger.

  He stood staring at her from the end of the bed, his big frame angled lazily against one carved mahogany bedpost. His eye patch rested like an angry black slash against his face, enhancing its lean, chiseled strength. His shirt was opened to the waist, broad shoulders angling down to a sun-bronzed chest thickly furred with dark, curling hair.

  Hypnotized, she followed the dark mat of hair as it tapered down, then finally disappeared beneath coffee-colored trousers.

  Heat flooded her face when she realized what she was doing and just where she was looking. Swallowing hard, she jerked her eyes away from the flat line of muscle where his trousers rode low and tight, leaving very little of his anatomy to the imagination.

  Red-faced, she looked up and met two chill pools of obsidian in a face that showed no hint of softness. A mouth that looked as if it knew exactly how to drive a woman to ecstasy and beyond.

  One dark brow rose to a mocking point. “I’d suggest you stay precisely where you are. That wound on your head is going to hurt if you try to get up.”

  A queer lightness hummed through her head. “Whe—” She cleared her raw throat. “Where—where am I?”

  “You are the guest of Viscount St. Cyr.” The sensual lips twisted in a bitter smile. “An uninvited guest, of course, but some notions of courtesy must apply, even in such a case as this.”

  St. Cyr, had he said? The name meant absolutely nothing to her.

  Frowning, she tried to sit up, choking back a moan as pain clawed through her.

  He was beside her before she knew it, jerking aside the mosquito net and scowling down at her.

  Just like a panther, she thought dimly. Only a wild creature could move with such speed and deadly grace.

  “What—what happened to me?” she demanded, refusing to be cowered.

  “You washed up on the beach. A private and very secluded stretch of beach, actually. A place where we aren’t in the habit of seeing trespassers.” His eyes narrowed. “Nor are we overly fond of them.”

  “W-when?” Her voice was ragged.

  “Two days ago.”

  “Impossible. I don’t even—” She frowned. “You found me?”

  He nodded coolly. “You may restrain your gratitude, however. It’s answers, not gratitude I want from you now. Such as how you came to be lying on that particular beach. Who sent you, and why?”

  Her lips set in a mulish line. “My head is thundering like a parade drum and my mouth feels as if it were stuffed with linen. I’m deucedly sorry to have intruded upon your precious privacy, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is, but it was not by my choice, I assure you. Now if you’ll fetch my portmanteaux and see to a hackney, I’ll gladly rectify the mistake.”

  His eyes glittering, the man threw back his head, laughter breaking from his chest. But there was nothing of warmth or humor in the sound. “Very convincing, my dear. You must have worked on that for hours. As for leaving, that’s quite out of the question. The nearest habitation is thirty miles away, unless you count the Vedda village outside Kalutara. And they’d have little use for an Angrezi-mem like yourself. Not the sort you’d care to mingle with, if you understand me.” His eyes smoldered over her chest, where she clutched her petticoat between tense fingers. “No, I’m certain you’ll be much more comfortable here.” His voice darkened. “With me.”

  How dare the man! Fury set her blood churning. She would not be treated so rudely, even if he had rescued her from—

  From what?

  She frowned, struggling to clear her tangled thoughts. “You are St. Cyr?”

  Immediately the man�
��s face went still and watchful. “What makes you think that?”

  “I simply assumed—”

  “I said you were a guest here. St. Cyr’s guest. The viscount is far too busy to concern himself with a waterlogged female trespasser. No, I am Deveril Pagan, the viscount’s estate manager. And it is to me that you’ll answer, Miss—” That arrogant black brow rose once again. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”

  She frowned, digging her fingers into the petticoat, fraying a lacy fold to threads.

  “I believe I just asked you a question.”

  “My name?” What was wrong with her? A hot tide of crimson stained her cheeks. She clutched the petticoat tightly to her chest, feeling her fingers tremble.

  “I’m waiting.”

  She stiffened beneath his heated scrutiny. So what if he’d rescued her? So what if he made her pulse go faint and jerky?

  If only she could find Viscount St. Cyr, the owner! Surely he would help her, if she explained her predicament.

  In the meantime, she meant to teach his arrogant estate manager a lesson. Her chin rose mutinously. “You may wait until hell freezes over, Mr. Pagan, but I’ll tell you nothing.”

  His unblinking obsidian eye mocked her. “Perhaps I should call you Cinnamon.”

  “Why would you call me that?”

  “You mentioned the name in your sleep. Cinnamon Hill—don’t you remember?”

  Her eyes widened. So he had been here while she slept? Dear lord, what else had he done besides eavesdrop?

  His mouth twisted in a cynical smile, as if he registered her concern perfectly. “Yes, it was rather a temptation. But I prefer my women to be wide awake when I bring them to passion. And when they do the same to me.”

  Her breath caught. “You vile, contemptible—”

  “Careful, my dear. Your true colors are showing.”

  “—loathsome, degenerate oaf—” she continued, just as if he hadn’t interrupted. Suddenly her eyes narrowed. “And just what do you mean by ‘true colors’?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “You speak in riddles, worm!” Her shoulders stiffened in indignation. “I order you to leave my room.”

  “I’ll leave when I have some answers, starting with exactly who—or what—brings you here.”

  Her brow knit in a frown. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the raucous screech of a bird. The sound was odd, entirely unfamiliar. Her head began to pound and she bit her lip against the pain.

  Why wouldn’t he just go away?

  She swept a trembling hand across her temple, trying to clear her tangled thoughts.

  “All this suspense is vastly intriguing, of course, but a simple name will suffice.”

  She barely heard the man. Fear blocked her throat like wadded cotton.

  Nothing. Not even a trace of anything familiar.

  No past, no present, no future. Just a vast black sea. Unrelieved blankness, like an empty house or a frame with no picture inside it.

  Gone. All of it was gone.

  Numbly the woman on the bed stared through the window at the bright, alien landscape, really seeing it for the first time. Up the hill a small, gray-whiskered monkey shinnied up a coconut palm tree. Nearby, perched on a thatched shed, a pair of crimson-crested parrots jabbered companionably.

  Alien, every part of it.

  Ashen-faced, she jerked to her knees, clutching the petticoat to her chest. But no answers came to light her darkness. Only pain answered, breaking over her head in choking waves, ripping through her back and shoulders.

  Her lips compressed into a tight line. I will not cry, she told herself.

  I will not cry. I will not!

  “Talk, Cinnamon. Unless you want me to think of ways to persuade you. Some of them might not be to your liking.”

  “Leave me alone!” she rasped, her eyes dark with fear. “Can you see nothing? Are you blind as well as deaf?” A tight little sob ripped from her lips. “I don’t know why I’m here. It’s—it’s gone, don’t you see? All gone—”

  The woman with no name swallowed raggedly, a tear squeezed from the corner of her eye. “Heaven help me, there’s nothing left,” she whispered. “Not my past. Not even the sound of my own name. They … took that from me, too.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Pagan cursed, shattering the harsh stillness.

  He caught her slim wrists tightly. “No more games, damn you! Ruxley has proved to be more clever than I imagined this time, but not even a woman with your obvious attractions will bring him what he wants. So, my dear, you had better face the fact that you are under my control now. I will do whatever I want to you. Whenever and wherever and however. You are on Windhaven land and Ruxley can’t help you.” His fingers tightened on her wrists. “And now I want the truth. How did you get here? Does Ruxley have men hidden on the beach?”

  His captive caught back a moan, twisting wildly against his work-hardened fingers. “I don’t know! Can’t you understand English? Or are words of two syllables too complex for you? If so, read my lips.” She mouthed an exaggerated pantomime. “I—don’t—remember!”

  A tight smile twisted Pagan’s lips. “I hear you well enough, Cinnamon, but I don’t believe your affecting story for a minute. And believe me, I have ways of finding out exactly what I need to know.” His eyes hardened to ruthless slits. “Perhaps a little opium would help. It’s very plentiful in this part of the world, you know. It quite changes one, I’m told. Turns the mind free, while the body experiences pleasures beyond describing. Does that prospect pique your memory?”

  The woman before him tried to fight free, but her slim frame was no match for his massive strength. After a few seconds she sank back dizzily onto the bed.

  But pride made her swallow her pain and face her captor with raw outrage burning in her eyes. “Try whatever you like, you great festering pile of slime,” she hissed. “Neither opium nor anything else will accomplish your foul plan!”

  “Hardly the language of a lady, my dear. So at least we can rule out that possibility. Not that I ever had any doubts. No, Cinnamon, you can be only one thing: Another one of Ruxley’s whores, sent here to worm Windhaven’s secrets out of me.” His eyes glittered coldly, only inches from her face. “That was his plan, wasn’t it? For you to seduce me with a night of long and imaginative lovemaking? Then you could extract all your answers while I lay slack-brained in the aftermath.”

  “You—you’re mad?”

  “Mad?” Pagan’s lips quirked in a cold smile. “I only wish I were. And I never joke, my dear, as you’ll soon discover. So let’s begin, shall we? There is no need to wait for nightfall.” The Englishman jerked to his feet and shouldered free of the overhanging net, his hand dropping to the wide leather belt at his waist. “Yes, taking you by daylight will be much more stimulating. And I mean to see that you earn every damned shilling Ruxley’s paid you.”

  His leather belt plunged to the floor with a harsh thump. His hands moved to the neck of his shirt. There was no trace of compliance on his face, only raw determination.

  His captive’s face went white. “Stop, damn it! You can’t really believe—”

  “Save your talk for later. Right now we’ve better things to do. Don’t you realize you’re the only white woman in a hundred miles?” His voice dropped to a dark growl. “I’m glad I haven’t bedded a woman in nearly two months. It ought to enhance my pleasure vastly.”

  He wrenched off his shirt, revealing a broad torso covered with mahogany hair. A moment later his hands dropped to his trousers.

  Fury mottled her cheeks. “Get out, blackguard! I won’t be bullied, do you hear? Not by you or anyone else!” She glared at him mutinously, her hands balled into fists.

  Pagan merely shrugged. “So that’s to be the scenario, is it? Ruxley enjoys that particular one himself, so I’m told. Not that I do. No, simple enjoyment will suffice, or perhaps the pretense of something more energetic. Not that I expect any real emotion from yo
u in the act.”

  The first button of his trousers slid free, and then the next. The crisp chocolate-colored fabric slipped low, teasing her with a glimpse of bronze skin shadowed with ebony hair.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of that lean, hard stomach, the dark swatch of hair that narrowed as it went lower.

  The shadowed ridge of muscle jutting just below the loosened V of his breeches.

  “What sort of base reptile are you? Leave me! Now, before I—”

  “Before you what?” the Englishman growled, covering the distance to the bed in two long strides and jerking aside the mosquito netting. He stripped away her petticoat and seized her slim wrists, hauling her against his chest. All the time his burning eyes raked the ivory curves that trembled above her constricting corset. “Have you forgotten that this is precisely what Ruxley sent you here to do?”

  His captive tensed, red flags of fury in her cheeks. “Ruxley, Ruxley, Ruxley! The man can fly off to hell, for all I care. And you can join him, Mr. Bloody Pagan. For when your employer hears about your treatment of me, he’ll see that you’re booted out in the dirt where you belong!”

  The man before her merely smiled. “Brava, my dear. Most affecting. This whole business might turn out to be more interesting than I thought. Yes, if you pleasure me well, I might even provide you with a few scraps of information to keep Ruxley interested.” His mouth hardened. “If you are clever—and something tells me you are very clever, Cinnamon—you might even rub by rather well by playing both sides.”

  “Go to hell and toast your eyebrows, you—you son of a sow!”

  A muscle flashed at Pagan’s jaw. “I grow tired of your cursing, woman. Keep a civil tongue within your head!”

  “I’ll speak when and how I choose, you—you bufflehead!”

  With callused fingers he pinned her wrists to the bed. A mocking smile twisted his lips as their bodies strained, only inches apart. “Did Ruxley tell you that fighting was my pleasure, Cinnamon? Did he tell you that swearing and kicking would encourage me? Yes, it might be amusing at that. Anything would be better than your anguished virgin role. Why don’t we find out?” His thigh crushed her to the bed.