The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  But he only bent down and shouldered his rifle. “Get dressed. Nihal’s just sighted a party of hunters coming over the ridge.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hours later Barrett lay restless in her cot, unable to sleep. The hunting party had turned out to be simply a band of disgruntled Vedda aborigines, looking for any sort of game in a jungle arid and bare before the onset of the monsoon.

  Pagan had traded them some salt and a freshly slaughtered boar in exchange for medicinal herbs and a very potent arrack punch.

  After drinking together amiably with Pagan for half the night, they had shouldered their packs and longbows, then melted back into the jungle.

  Barrett had suffered through every note of off-key singing, every burst of raucous laughter as she tossed back and forth in the arid tent. Hour after hour she had chased sleep up sere jungle slopes and down again.

  Always it evaded her.

  Partly it was the tension of waiting, knowing that any minute Pagan would flip up the fine mesh flap and stalk inside the tent. She understood his order that they share a tent, even though she did not like it. But if she rose in her sleep and found her way, dream-blind, into the jungle, she knew it was likely she would never return.

  So when Pagan had ordered her cot moved in here across from his, she had bit down her protests, contenting herself with one sharp, defiant look.

  Now as she lay in the steamy darkness she found all she could think of was Pagan’s hard fingers and soft mouth, his infuriating ability to intuit what she wanted seconds before she even wanted it.

  Or maybe it was a darker magic he commanded, a magic that made her want what he chose her to want, against her very will and spirit.

  And what of her own breathless, stunning response? With a sharp oath she wrenched to her side and snuffed the palm-oil lantern, tears glittering in her eyes. She absolutely refused to waste any more thought on the infuriating Englishman.

  At the far side of camp, Pagan watched the lantern in his tent flicker and go out. He caught back a sigh of relief that he had managed to keep from going to her this long.

  But with the darkness, new temptations gripped him.

  Thoughts of how she would feel if he came to her in the shadows, how little it would take to re-create the wild, sweet abandon he had felt at the lagoon.

  With a low, dark curse Pagan shoved to his feet and plunged off into the darkness, the potent arrack liquor he’d consumed with the Veddas burning hot trails through his exhausted body.

  He had walked nearly twenty miles that day, crisscrossing back and forth before the others, checking and rechecking to be certain that they were not walking into an ambush.

  Only when he satisfied himself they were not, did he trot back to the rear and hold a position there, keeping well out of sight until they made camp for the night.

  Even with that care, the Veddas had come nearly unnoticed.

  A bad sign, he realized, even though the island’s aboriginal tribesmen were renowned for their ability to melt into the jungle. The only good thing was that they had not been a band of Ruxley’s men.

  One more example of the way he was slipping, Pagan thought in disgust.

  As he strode through the jungle, palm leaves and trailing vines slapped his face but he scarcely noticed. He still cursed to think how close he’d come to madness, to taking her right there in the gleaming silver currents of the lagoon. And Pagan was experienced enough to know that the desire would have been mutual. And then had come her wild, liquid tremors. Her breathless cry. Sweet Lord, had a woman ever been so beautiful in her passion?

  Then the planter’s face hardened. A man was only as good as the worth of his word, and tonight he knew he had come very close to breaking his. Her innocent fire had done that.

  It was not a vow to family or friend, but a vow made to himself, which was the most important kind of all.

  A vow made long ago, while the heat and smoke of Cawnpore churned up around him.

  And the day he broke that vow was the day Pagan died.

  On he stalked through the jungle, finding the water by smell alone. Blindly he dove forward, clawing his way toward the far horizon, seeking the oblivion that would bring forgetting, if only for an hour or two.

  His last thought before succumbing to a blessed exhaustion was how ironic it was that the Englishwoman with no past was seeking the one thing he would have given a fortune to shed.

  In the hot, still darkness of the tent Pagan tugged off his shirt, then eased his tired body back onto the cot.

  Strong arms locked behind his head, he concentrated on the sounds of the night, cataloguing a hundred forms of wildlife.

  The whoosh and faint click of a large, night-flying insect that rushed into a lantern and was incinerated instantly.

  The wild cry of a shama falcon, sighting its prey. The swish of a flying squirrel soaring from one perch to another. The distant crash of underbrush as some large, lumbering creature—a sloth bear, perhaps—pushed through a dry, brittle thicket.

  Each sound Pagan catalogued carefully, hoping it would help him ignore the slim form only inches away.

  But it did not.

  And then another sound came from the steamy darkness, a low moan followed by the rustle of fine cloth.

  In taut silence Pagan watched Barrett jerk upright. He did not move, waiting to see what she would do next, wondering if he might discover untruth in these nighttime meanderings of hers.

  Her arms rose slowly. She seemed to brush something from her face. Without a sound, she rose to her feet.

  Her eyes wide and fixed, she studied the darkness, her head cocked to one side.

  Pagan waited, his pulse churning noisily in his ears. She moved forward in the darkness, straight toward him.

  Danger prickled along his spine, urging him to seize the knife hidden in his boot. But he did not, for somehow answers were more important to him than self-defense at that moment.

  Even when she stood beside his cot, he still did not stir by so much as a muscle.

  Her hands glided out, and Pagan expected any moment to see the dull gleam of moonlight reflected off a honed blade.

  But there was no brightness in the still, hot air that curled between them. There were only shadows, and the steamy scent of need.

  When her hand brushed his sweat-slick chest, Pagan reined in the voice that was clamoring for him to wrest her to the ground.

  He could almost feel those slim fingers rise to close with surprising force upon his neck.

  And when they slid down over his ribs, as light as a dawn wind, he had to fight to keep from jerking upright. Sweat slid in a silent stream down his forehead.

  She traced each bone, and then each rigid, bunched muscle. Her fingers slid softly through the springy fur at his chest.

  When she brushed his flat male nipples, he nearly leaped from his cot.

  Her fingers hesitated, then circled slowly.

  “No more, Angrezi.” His voice was a low growl, and he said what he had to say, not what he wanted to say.

  But it didn’t matter, for the slim shadow gave no sign of hearing. Her tormenting circles only grew wider, until they edged his taut stomach.

  Pagan cursed when she brushed the edge of his breeches. He felt his manhood throb, begging for her touch.

  “Enough, woman,” he rasped, surging to his feet and capturing her wrists.

  Her eyes were wide and fixed, staring into the darkness.

  And she was a million miles away from him.

  Where? Pagan wondered. In a lush London boudoir? In some drafty ruin of a castle in Kent? In another life where she was cherished and protected?

  In that moment he believed, knowing such oblivion could not be feigned. And Pagan found himself wondering as he had so often before exactly what buried memories drove her to pace in the night, to seek his heat for protection.

  Before he could move, she turned silently and glided to the center of the tent. There she slid to her knees and curled up in a
ball on the pounded earth floor. Fast asleep.

  Leaving a stunned Pagan to stare down at her in brooding silence, a look of unquenchable longing in his eyes.

  A crimson-tailed macaw shrieked through the treetops overhead. Barrett jerked upright, her eyes huge and frightened in the half-light of predawn.

  Her breath caught as she fought to separate dreams and truth.

  Her eyes sought Pagan’s cot and found it empty. With a little sob, she pressed trembling fingers to her face.

  Dreams again, followed by the old pain. And always the fragments of memory, shard-sharp, in which she heard the sound of her own sobbing.

  Gasping, she sat bolt upright in her cot. All around her came harsh, unfamiliar noises—the shrill whine of insects, the rasp of unseen wings, the low call of an owl.

  She was lost, adrift from herself and all who might help her. Only one man remained.

  Though his cot was empty, it was as if Pagan stood only inches away, his big body flexed, his shoulders bare in the hot, still night.

  And Barrett finally admitted to herself that she wanted him. She wanted his hands, his mouth, his low, raw moans. She wanted to know the sleek friction of his aroused body.

  Somehow she wanted that more than anything she had ever wanted in her life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  They broke camp while the first streaks of dawn crawled over the treetops. Pagan walked in front, his long legs striding with effortless speed over the dry, trampled beru grass. Behind him came two bearers with provisions of rice and other food stores strapped on their backs. Next was Mita, silent and beautiful, her brow faintly creased.

  With every hour the heat grew.

  Now sweat ran in little rivulets down Barrett’s forehead, pooling on her neck, in the valley between her breasts. Only grim pride kept her moving, always moving, her eyes fixed on Pagan’s broad back.

  Yes, by all the saints, if he could keep walking, so could she!

  Grim-faced, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and forcing her way forward though every muscle screamed for rest. On and on she moved by willpower alone, until all she heard was the pounding of her own blood, and the forest blurred to a green tunnel around her.

  She must have swayed. A second later she felt hard fingers grip her elbow. Somehow she managed to right herself, refusing to look at the man beside her.

  “You may release me. I am quite all right, thank you,” she snapped.

  The next second she was free. The ground pitched, and she nearly fell. She caught herself an instant before she reached out for Pagan’s broad, bronzed shoulders.

  Somehow she managed to right herself and stumbled forward, every step the product of pure female recalcitrance.

  “Bullheaded, that’s the only word for you, Cinnamon. That stubbornness is going to get you into a vast amount of trouble one day.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “But you can’t help it, Angrezi. Trouble might as well be your middle name.”

  Gritting her teeth, Barrett plunged on, determined that she would not be the one to quit first.

  “Oh, very well, damn it. We halt here.” A moment later Pagan shouted a terse order to Nihal, who relayed the command down the line of thankful bearers.

  Instantly there was organized chaos as the Tamils began peeling off their packs and settling boxes.

  When Barrett turned around, he was gone.

  That night, Pagan didn’t trust himself to accompany Barrett to the bathing pool he had found.

  Instead he sent Mita and Nihal, who carried a gun.

  He’d watched them leave, oddly restless as the minutes wore on.

  Then a sound made him tense, the crash of a sloth bear lumbering through the underbrush in search of honey. Slow and lazy at most times, the creatures could be provoked to frenzy, and in their ire were more dangerous than an elephant.

  Quickly Pagan shouldered his rife and plunged down the path the party had taken.

  A few moments later he saw the bear. After sniffing a clump of bamboo, it turned and ambled down an adjoining trail that led back into the jungle.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Pagan turned to leave.

  And felt his breath slammed from his gut.

  He hadn’t meant to watch.

  By Shiva, watching was the very last thing he’d meant to do.

  But suddenly Barrett was there, framed in a break in the foliage, a golden Venus at her toilette. Like a slim bright goddess she stood, curved and proud at breast and hip. As she undressed, her hands moved in a slow fluid dance, more evocative than any ancient ritual of dark seduction.

  Pagan felt beads of sweat break out on his face, and yet he could not look away.

  He caught the scent and the texture of her presence, felt the lightness of her being reach out to him from the green curtain of the forest. Her hair was a slide of gossamer and her body a smooth, sleek line of ivory just made for a man’s touch. For his touch.

  His pulse quickened as he watched her release the ribbon at her neck, loosing a cascade of burnished hair over her ripe curves and valleys.

  Pagan’s breath wedged in his throat. Spellbound, he watched her belt loosen, then fall to the ground, followed a moment later by her breeches. Clad only in her trailing white shirt, she moved to the water, rippling it with her fingers and staring down into its crystal depths.

  Like an exquisite, pensive mermaid, her face was distant, her thoughts elsewhere. Slowly she unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged it off. The straps of her camisole came next.

  Silently, Pagan watched, unmoving, breath fled.

  As if loathe to part with all that sweetness, the silk clung provocatively, molding every luscious curve.

  His heart stopped. He felt sweat beading over his brow. Don’t stay! a desperate voice ordered.

  Don’t stop now, Angrezi, another voice answered, this one darker, more primitive.

  She didn’t stop.

  The fine straps trembled and then fell. Fresh and glowing as jasmine petals, her nakedness opened to his devouring eyes.

  And to his everlasting horror, Pagan felt himself begin to tremble. A bead of sweat dropped onto his nose at the same moment that she stepped into the water.

  Utter and absolute stillness descended on the glade at that instant, as if nature, too, held its breath and watched.

  Pagan waited, paralyzed; somehow his hand rose, only to drop a moment later.

  What was there to say, after all? He could bring her only pain, and despite all his angry threats, that was not what he wanted for this woman.

  Nor from her.

  He would have called out to her, but his voice was wedged in his throat.

  He would have strode through the green barriers and jerked her, dripping and naked, from the water, but his feet were frozen, rooted to the ground by a thousand dark memories and the weight of his own savage past.

  He would have preferred to do anything but what he was forced to do—stand in silence and watch her when he would have given everything to touch her just once more, to share her sweet passion.

  But Pagan knew that was something he could never taste.

  Slowly the camp settled in for the night. The bearers squatted to trade stories on the far side of the clearing while Pagan and Nihal sat at a camp table with a map unfurled before them, their expressions carefully shuttered.

  “Four days, do you make it then?” His eyes narrowed, Pagan studied the well-handled parchment.

  “Four if there are no upsets, Mahattaya. Perhaps five.” Nihal turned measuring eyes on Pagan. “Do you think the Veddas were as they indicated, merely hunters searching for game?”

  “I think so, Nihal. I hope so. Unfortunately, we will only know for certain in retrospect.”

  The head servant frowned. “The next day’s journey will be through the lower passes. As the Tiger surely knows, it is a fine place for an ambush. But if we take the eastern route and pass around it, we will certainly lose three days. Aiyo, what to do
?”

  Pagan’s features darkened. “We go as planned, Nihal. I’ll scout the trail ahead tonight and then post extra rifles to the front bearers. We can’t take a chance of three extra days on the trail.”

  Slowly the old servant nodded. “As you wish it, Tiger.”

  After Nihal left, Pagan sat studying the map, measuring the dangers that lay before them.

  A thousand turnings. A thousand valleys. Each one could hide a whole army of hired thugs. No, not thugs, he thought grimly. Those cold-blooded assassins, at least, were long gone from the jungle. But James Ruxley’s mercenaries might be just as bad.

  As he rolled up the precious map, Pagan glanced toward his tent, where a slim shadow moved back and forth against the canvas walls.

  She was brushing her long, glorious hair.

  A queer lightness attacked Pagan’s blood as he watched her hand rise and fall in slow rhythmic strokes. He could almost see the silken strands float out, fiery gold in the lantern light.

  Her shoulders were carved in glass, slim and sharp. Her breasts were high and full, their peaks clearly outlined by the shadow.

  Instantly all the old fires swept to life, white-hot.

  He watched in deadly fascination, struggling with a dark compulsion to stalk inside that tent and throw her down beneath him, filling her, tasting her, claiming her until they both were speechless and spent.

  It was the hardest battle he had ever fought, but he won it. Moments later, with a low curse, he grabbed up his rifle and stalked toward the jungle.

  There, at least, his enemies were faceless and infinitely less seductive.

  Her hair finally combed free, Barrett put down her brush and curled up on the cot, trying to keep her eyes from the emptiness across the tent.

  A flush swept her ivory cheeks as she thought of the things he had done, the passion she had felt on the beach.

  Keep your head, fool! The man is nowhere about. In fact, right now he’s probably downing more of that disgusting palm liquor with one of his bearers and making plans to visit Mita’s tent during the night.