The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  Her outer petticoats were the next to go. By now she was too weak to stop him, able only to turn her head restlessly, her fingers clutching at the white sheets.

  “L-leave me a-lone,” she rasped.

  Pagan scowled, trying to tear his eyes from the ivory sweep of her slim thighs. From the proud, coral-tipped curves above.

  An arrow of flame swept through him. He tried to quell the ache at his thighs—and failed lamentably. “I want you to rest, woman. I’ve got eight hundred acres of green gold that need tending, just like the difficult children they are. And when I leave tomorrow you’re bloody well going with me.”

  Her slim hands quivered on the thin coverlet. “I don’t want to,” she rasped, defiant to the very edge of consciousness. “And I will not…”

  Ah, but she was a fighter, this one, Pagan thought. Something told him she had done too much losing in her life, that she had had to fight for herself this way far too often.

  Deep inside him, something twisted and stirred to life. It was a silent thing, dim and wholly unfamiliar, composed of sweetness and dangerous longing…

  For things the slate-eyed Englishman knew he could never have.

  For such emotions were no more real than the dust devils that raged down from the Hindu Kush or the mirages that shimmered over the sunbaked sands of Rajasthan.

  No more substantial than the gossamer mists that wreathed Windhaven’s green hills each dawn, Pagan told himself bitterly.

  When she finally slipped into sleep, he was still there, his face an unreadable mask as he sat beside her. It hurt to sit so close and not touch her, of course.

  But to leave would have hurt him far more.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The sun hung aflame, molten gold over green treetops. Pagan pounded up the steps to the bungalow, tired but well pleased with the state of preparations for the morrow’s journey.

  At the front door he was met by muffled thumps and shrill simian cries. What deviltry was Magic up to now?

  The sounds led to the door of his own room—or to the room that had been his, until his uninvited guest arrived. He stopped on the threshold, black eyes glittering, one dark brow quirked.

  Had he not been so surprised, he would probably have begun to laugh. As it was, he could only stare in raw disbelief at the scene unfolding before him.

  Clad in his own silk dressing gown—and very little else, he judged—his beautiful visitor was fighting a losing battle with the little langur monkey for possession of a ruffled, half-unlaced corset.

  Pagan’s lips twitched. Gone was the exquisite lady, the haughty beauty. Instead he saw before him a wild temptress with golden hair spilling free over a gossamer garment that cupped every proud curve of her body. Her cheeks were streaked with red and her teal eyes were snapping.

  And she was breathtakingly beautiful.

  “Give that back, you wretched creature!” The woman wrapped her hands tighter around one of the long laces and tugged furiously, while Magic erupted in a shrill torrent of protest. “You can’t have it, do you hear? What would you do with a corset anyway, you silly thing? Wear it on your head? Now stop this second—ohhhh!”

  With a sharp ping the lace tore in half beneath the strain of their struggles. The Englishwoman went flying in a heap onto the wooden floor, her silken robe sweeping up to reveal golden skin from ankle to thigh.

  Magic, meanwhile, jumped up and down in triumph, chattering shrilly and clutching the precious corset to her furry chest like spoils of war.

  Pagan made a low, strangled noise at the back of his throat, and that was his undoing.

  The woman scrambled to her feet. Jerking the robe tight to her slim body, she advanced upon him. “Get out! Get out, both of you! I’m sick of this place, do you hear? Sick of having no clothes! Sick of being hot and sticky! Sick of being dinner to every mosquito within a hundred miles! Most of all I’m sick of you!”

  Pagan was having trouble breathing. Her beauty was overpowering, wild and reckless as it was now. And he discovered she was infinitely more seductive this way than when she was wrapped up in all those stiff, choking layers of cloth and propriety.

  “Hurts to come in second, doesn’t it, Cinnamon? Especially to a monkey.”

  “Get out! Get out before I throw something and mar those perfect features, you detestable cur!”

  Magic tilted her head at this interchange, studying first Pagan and then the Englishwoman in turn. The monkey’s lips stretched wide to reveal shining white teeth as she hissed thoughtfully.

  The next minute she darted over the floor, swept up the lace-trimmed drawers from beside the bed, and tied them over her head like a bonnet.

  Pagan burst into laughter. The sound made his captive’s face more furious.

  “Stop, you devilish creature!” The woman chased the little langur toward the door, grabbing vainly for her white undergarments. “I’ve lost my freedom and my memory, but I’m not about to lose those clothes. They’re the only ones I have!”

  Pagan settled back to watch. “Very fetching, Magic. I compliment you on your taste in hats.”

  His visitor scowled at him. “Dolt! Degenerate knave!”

  Pagan merely shook his head chidingly and held out a hand to Magic, who skittered across the room, drawers still tied overhead, and jumped up into his arms. With a little sigh, the monkey burrowed into her master’s arms and rubbed her head against his chest.

  Smiling broadly, Pagan stroked Magic’s head and slipped her a peanut, which she attacked with noisy relish.

  “Disgusting! You are both quite mad! Very well, take the things, since the animal appears to want them so badly. Only leave me here in peace!”

  “That bad, is it?” Pagan asked softly, his eyes narrowing. “Which is it, the mosquitoes or the heat?”

  The woman before him muttered something beneath her breath and twisted forward to slap a mosquito on her leg. What she said next sounded suspiciously like a curse. “Both, if you must know. But I shall survive, Mr. Pagan, you may be certain of that! First I mean to find out how I was brought here. And why,” she added, crushing another mosquito at its meal.

  Pagan offered her an innocent smile. “Would you like to see where I found you?”

  Her scratching slowed. “On the beach?”

  Pagan nodded, stroking Magic’s furry head while he watched an array of conflicting emotions flash across his captive’s face. Her eyes really did change color with each emotion, first teal, then turning to turquoise and copen blue.

  “Was there—did you see any—”

  “Clues to your identity? Nothing. No wreckage, no signs of struggle, no footprints. No signs of a boat, either. I looked very carefully, Cinnamon, believe me. But there were no clues of any sort.” He offered Magic another peanut. “Whoever brought you here was very thorough in concealing his tracks.”

  Nothing. The thought echoed hollowly through the Englishwoman’s mind. Nothing at all, no past, no clues.

  No future, either, judging by the dark determination she saw in Pagan’s eyes.

  “You honestly remember nothing?”

  She shook her head blindly, fighting down a rush of despair.

  “They must have brought you by boat, then. If you’d come down from Negoro or up from Colombo along the coast, someone would have noticed you. But I’ve sent my men looking twenty miles in each direction, and all of them have returned with the same results: nothing. Not a single bloody clue.” Then, as he saw the ragged edges of despair darken her eyes, “Pluck up, Cinnamon. We’ll find something.”

  “Does that mean you believe me?”

  Abruptly a curtain seemed to drop over Pagan’s face. “Yes,” he said after what seemed an infinity of silence. “Yes, I do believe you, Cinnamon. Not necessarily that your story is true, but that you believe it to be true.”

  “Of all the arrogant, nonsensical—”

  Pagan continued calmly, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Ruxley, of course, would not have planned on your injury robbing you of
memory, but it does add a certain ring of authenticity to your protests. No doubt right now he is applauding himself for his cleverness.”

  “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “It is my sincerest hope,” Pagan answered silkily, making her a little bow.

  “But you make one grave mistake, Mr. Pagan,” she snapped, pulling the belt tight about her slim waist. “I am nobody’s pawn. You’d best realize that right now.”

  “Indeed?” Pagan’s unpatched eye took on a dangerous glint. “But there is something you fail to see, Angrezi. You are a pawn, whether you choose to be or not. Right now the only question is whether you will be Ruxley’s pawn…” His voice dropped as he studied the crimson swell of her lips. “Or whether you will be mine.”

  The woman before Pagan did not move, mesmerized by the dark fires burning in that hard, unblinking eye. For a moment she almost thought she read regret there.

  Then that, too, was gone, replaced by a lazy ease. “Did you enjoy your rest?”

  “Th-that was alcohol you forced upon me this morning!” she sputtered abruptly. “How dare you try to—-”

  “Try to what—seduce you? Had I tried, believe me, I would have succeeded.” Pagan’s voice darkened, the texture of rough silk. “And you may be sure that we wouldn’t be standing here fully dressed, arguing right now.” His callused fingers stilled on Magic’s head, and the monkey squirmed in protest. Frowning, Pagan looked down and resumed his slow stroking. “By heaven, woman, you’re as contentious as Magic. I gave you no more than a mere thimbleful of alcohol this morning. Not enough to loosen your tongue—certainly not enough to pierce that prickly armor of yours.”

  “Cursed mosquitoes,” she muttered, scratching furiously at the back of her neck.

  “Damnable, aren’t they?” Magic still in hand, Pagan settled his big frame fluidly into the bamboo chair near the window. “Not used to the tropics, are you? But I’ve an answer for that.”

  “I’m very certain that you do.” She continued scratching her neck.

  “How does cool sound?”

  Her digging slowed infinitesimally.

  “Cool and smooth.” Pagan administered the coup de grace. “Cool and smooth and very wet?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t care to have any more alcohol foisted upon me,” she said stiffly.

  Pagan threw back his head and laughed, while Magic cocked her head with curiosity. “No, something far better than alcohol, my dear. Water—water for a bath. Water to swim in, stretching cool and sweet as far as the eye can see.”

  His captive’s scratching abruptly ceased. “Water—truly? Where?”

  “Not far from here.” Pagan concealed a smile of triumph. Sliding Magic down onto the arm of the chair, he came lazily to his feet. “Let me check those bandages and then we’ll go.”

  “We’ll go? Now I begin to understand. And if that’s your plan, you can count me out! And you can forget about using my wounds as an excuse to ogle any more of my body, either.”

  One sable brow climbed to a wicked point. “Oh, I’ve seen everything there is to see already, Cinnamon. You have no secrets left, I assure you.”

  Her cheeks blazed peach-red.

  “Scared, Angrezi?” It was a low, dark challenge.

  “You think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you? Well, it won’t work. I know exactly what game you’re playing at.”

  Pagan waited in silence, watching her fingers pleat and unpleat the web-soft silk of his robe. He tried not to imagine the velvet curves just beneath. “Not clever,” he said slowly. “Not where you’re concerned, Cinnamon.” Something flickered in the shaded depths of his eyes. “Just determined.”

  The woman before him frowned. Determined to do what? she wondered. But she did not ask.

  Something told her it would be better not to know.

  And right now the thought of stripping off her itching bandages and slipping into cool, silken water was a temptation she couldn’t resist.

  “Very well, Mr. Pagan. I believe I shall accompany you after all.”

  “Good. I begin to think there might be hope for you yet, Angrezi.”

  “Stop calling me Angrezi. You act as if you were not as English as I. That is what the word means, is it not?”

  Pagan didn’t answer, his eyes hard upon her face.

  “Well?” she demanded, impatient to be off.

  “So it does. But I find I like the word, and I don’t believe I’ll give it up. Not even for you, my dear.”

  “You are without a doubt the most arrogant, irritating—”

  She was growing hotter—and angrier—by the second. “Bast—”

  He was at her side in a second, his hand biting into her wrist. “Don’t even think of saying it,” he growled.

  She jerked away, horrified at the crude term that had sprung to her lips. Horrified, too, by the fury that had darkened Pagan’s face before he’d regained control.

  Twisting, she fought his iron grip, but her struggles only sent the silken edges of her robe flying. Ivory skin flashed beneath navy and crimson paisley before she managed to clutch the garment closed with her free hand.

  She felt him stiffen. She felt the deep pounding of his heart where she was crushed to his chest. She felt the heat that radiated from his taut thighs.

  Suddenly the humor and mockery fled and it was deadly serious between them, all heat and hunger.

  All madness and desire.

  Her breath caught at the darkness in his face, the tension in his body.

  “Take off the robe, Cinnamon.”

  She swallowed. “No-no.”

  “Now, woman,” he growled. “We’re going nowhere until I check those bandages.”

  She glared back at him.

  “Do you really think I’ll hurt you?”

  There was something unexpected in his voice. Something that might almost have been … hesitation.

  Impatiently she shrugged the thought aside. One glance at his face was enough to tell her this man didn’t know the meaning of the word.

  Across her back she felt the pricking of the old bandages, already stiff with dry, caked blood. She tried not to think about how good the cool water would feel.

  Their gazes locked, teal plumbing cool onyx, and the aftershock rocked her all the way to her toes.

  Just ask me and I’ll help you, Cinnamon.

  I’ll never ask for a single, bloody thing, she countered mutely. Not of you or anyone else.

  His gaze fell to her lips, smoldering and sensual. Her fingers began to tremble. She closed her eyes, afraid of the dark pull of his gaze.

  And opened them to feel strong bronze fingers sliding inexorably up her arms.

  “D-don’t—” she protested, but the words died on her lips.

  Spellbound, she watched those big hands glide higher. Strikingly gentle, they curved over her shoulders.

  Her heart began to slam against her ribs. What was wrong with her?

  With a choked cry she wrenched free, one hand caught to her lips as if to scrub away the heat that still lingered from his gaze.

  It did no good.

  How had he succeeded in goading her to sputtering incomprehension, to white-hot fury, and now this?

  This what? a cool voice asked. Recklessness? Hunger?

  Need. That was the only word for it. A hot, shameless need that grew with each heartbeat until she could see nothing but that wide, hard mouth. Those strong, callused fingers.

  Until all she could think of was what they would feel like on her skin. Anywhere and everywhere. With neither linen nor damask to impede their hot, sweet flow.

  Heat and dizziness swept over her.

  At the same moment Pagan turned her with a rich rustle of silk and slid the dressing gown from her shoulders until her back was bared to him.

  She stood stiffly, her legs leaden, her blood aflame, with every breath assailed by a thousand sensations. She felt the heat and power of his taut thighs in sharp contrast to the gentleness
of his fingers. She gasped as he slid the top bandage free.

  His fingers dropped. The lower bandage resisted, adhered with dried blood to her skin. Gently he worked his hands around the edge of the wound until the fabric pulled free.

  Her breath hissed out in a jerky sigh.

  “Steady, Cinnamon.”

  She shuddered, desperate to break free of the sweet, potent lethargy inching up her legs, creeping over her heated skin where the soft borders of the dressing gown flapped free. “Just finish it, can’t you?”

  Her hands balled into fists. She spun about to face him, a wild sob rising in her throat. “L-let me go. You’re hurting me!”

  “Liar,” Pagan whispered, his eyes dark with desire. “Pain isn’t what you’re feeling now, but hunger and need and a thousand other things.” His gaze fell to the silken expanse of her chest, stained by a faint flush. “I should know, because I’m feeling all that too,” he added harshly.

  The next second she was crushed to his chest. “Can you deny it?”

  She went utterly still, trying to ignore the hot brand of his manhood against the curve of her belly. “It—it hurts, Pagan.”

  She was not thinking about the pain at her back, however. It was the other pain, the strange gnawing restlessness, that plagued her. The sweet, mindless wanting…

  Pagan watched the hypnotic rise and fall of her chest, the jerky pulse at her neck.

  “Turn around,” he growled.

  He jerked a fresh length of linen over the rapidly healing wounds, working in tense silence. The only sound in the room came from the rustle of bandages unrolled over warm bare skin.

  And the wild thunder of his heart in his own ears.

  Damn it, man.

  Keep your control.

  He started to speak. To his utter disgust he had to clear his throat before continuing. “Better.”

  “B-better?” his patient repeated dumbly, no more coherent than he.

  “Your back. Bleeding seems to have stopped. Smaller wounds—beginning to bind. Good sign.” Pagan scowled. He could barely string two words together!

  What about when her wounds heal? a mocking voice asked. Will you be able to let her go?

  “No!” The word burst from his lips.