His face hard, Pagan watched her scramble toward a cluster of feathery bamboo. Yes, it would damn well serve her right.
His hands clenched to fists as he watched her disappear into the lush greenery. He felt a welt forming at his cheek and the stitches at this shoulder clutched like metal claws.
But mainly it was Pagan’s pride that stung him.
His eyes narrowed, storm-dark. Yes, this time he would let her find her own bloody way out! He was done with rescuing her from the results of her own stubbornness.
As Pagan stood rigid, studying the hillside, a vulture circled overhead, black wings outspread as it caught the high currents. For long moments the brooding planter considered the possibility that this might have been prearranged, an argument designed in advance so that she could deliver a furtive message to one of Ruxley’s hidden hirelings.
But almost immediately Pagan rejected the idea. Barrett’s memory loss was real, he knew that now. And even were it not, he couldn’t quite believe that a woman of her pride and independence would betray him so callously.
Foolish, a cold voice warned. Damnably foolish. And what if you’re wrong?
You know nothing about her, after all. She might be capable of cruelty beyond your imagining. Maybe it is her dim memories of such cruelty and deception that drive her white-faced and trembling from her bed, captive of terrible dreams.
Pagan watched her golden braid bob as she wove uphill through the trees. He didn’t believe that either, not really. She had too much fire and innate stubbornness for such treachery.
Careful, old man. Pagan frowned, remembering how his father used to say that it never paid to think with one’s groin. Of course you want her, but that must never cloud your knowledge of the danger she represents.
Unconsciously Pagan fingered the fiery welts at his cheek, and his eyes hardened.
Yes, he would leave her to experience the results of her recklessness. An hour spent wandering in the jungle might tame her fiery temper.
His decision made, Pagan turned his back to the jungle and strode off to camp.
Barrett plunged forward wildly, slapping the foliage from her face, certain that Pagan must be gaining on her. Tears of rage and humiliation squeezed from her eyes as she stumbled over roots and boulders. Each time she pushed unsteadily to her feet and pressed on.
Behind her, set in motion by her flight, gravel and boulders crashed down the wooded slope, echoing with the dull thunder of shattered hopes.
Forget him, they seemed to say. Forget hope. The only thing left to trust in now is yourself.
Her vision blurred, and she tripped once again, her knee grinding against a sharp ridge of stone. Searing pain radiated through her bone and down her leg, but Barrett only clenched her lips and stumbled back to her feet.
She wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t even slow down to look over her shoulder. Right now she would prefer to be charged by a leopard than to face St. Cyr’s mocking, deceitful face.
By the time she had skirted a thicket of bamboo at the top of the rise, Barrett’s breathing came steadier. In truth, she had not expected to come so far without feeling the grip of Pagan’s fingers.
Perhaps he’d given up on her after all.
Or perhaps he was planning some darker form of revenge.
Angrily she thrust her braid over her shoulder and forced the infuriating Englishman from her thoughts. He could pursue her as he chose—worrying about it would change nothing.
As she crested the hill, Barrett scanned the narrow, wooded valley that stretched before her, surrounded on three sides by sharply rising, forested slopes. The center of the valley was dark with clustered eucalyptus, sandalwood, and calamander trees and somewhere beyond, a stream wove through the hills, flashing silver-white. Looking up, she saw a faint curtain of silver spilling down over the granite cliff face.
She stared up in wonder, caught mute by the scene’s beauty. Even here she could hear the soft murmur and gurgle of plunging currents.
The sound was irresistible.
Without taking time to consider her decision, Barrett fled forward past stones and roots and shrubs to that peaceful, green-ringed glade.
Her shirt was half unbuttoned by the time she reached the pool’s edge. The clear azure water glinted with sparks of pink and gold in the late afternoon sun, the play of light and color like the flash of jewels hidden in the depths. Dozens of water lilies rocked upon the water, their pure white blooms rising up to the sun from petals spread like flat green plates.
At the far end of the pool a waterfall hung like a silver veil, spray pitched up in soft flumes. Close by, sprays of bougainvillea fluttered in the wind, their crimson petals cast into the water like red rain. The shore was a riot of color, fuchsia roses, purple delphinium, pale peach orchids, and coral-tinged rhododendrons climbing in a tangle against the granite cliff face.
In an orgy of color and sound, the glade reached out, casting its fiery beauty around Barrett, drawing her within its rich, exotic spell. As she watched, a coral-crested kingfisher flashed down from a high perch and skimmed low to drink from the gleaming water.
Paradise, she thought dimly.
A very pagan sort of paradise, that is.
But in spite of that the place soothed her somehow. The water shimmered with reflected colors, almost as if gems rocked in its sandy shallows. A trick of the slanting light, she knew, but it was eerily beautiful nevertheless.
Muttering an oath directed at Pagan and the next six generations of St. Cyr’s, Barrett dropped to a boulder, wrenched off her boots, and sent them flying. Seconds later her shirt drifted down at the water’s edge. There the fabric rocked for long moments, white upon azure, then slipped beneath the surface, one sleeve outstretched as if in a ghostly plea.
Something about the sight made Barrett uncomfortable, but she thrust her anxiety away and tugged at her camisole strap. Only with the first cold rush of spray, did she halt.
Reason returned, cooling the hot rush of her anger.
Slowly she slipped the satin strap back onto her shoulder. But even then she could not quite resist the lure of the silver waters. It might well be days before she could bathe again.
Muttering, she strode out into the pool, camisole, breeches, and all, then sank down to her neck.
Her first sensation was of liquid poured like cool silk over her skin, caressing the partially healed wounds across her back. Scattered crimson bougainvillea petals and fragile orchid blooms drifted over the surface, collecting against her neck and chest until she was caught in a net of crimson and coral.
Overcome with beauty, Barrett felt her anger and hostility drain away, leaving only a vague sense of emptiness in their wake. Sighing, she closed her eyes, easing deeper into the water, allowing the sultry beauty of the place to swallow her up.
Somewhere down the hill came the high, sharp bark of a sambhur buck. A moment later she heard another sound.
It was a low cough, almost—but not quite—a snarl.
Fear jolted down her spine. The little hairs at the back of her neck prickled and rose. Again the sound came, deeper this time, then building in intensity.
No human ever made such a sound. It could only have come from an animal, an animal both savage and splendid.
White-faced, Barrett edged deeper into the water until her eyes were nearly level with the surface. That was when she got her first glimpse of the intruder who invaded her pristine paradise.
He moved in silent, primal splendor, sliding from the green fringe of the trees. His glossy pelt was streaked with ribbons of black, his eyes keen as they scoured the glade.
He turned and glided toward the edge of the waterfall.
Terror blocked Barrett’s throat.
Tiger. A white tiger.
The realization tore through her like a Gurkha blade. Sweet Lord, Pagan hadn’t been lying that day on the beach after all!
Her knees began to shake and she fought back a sob, her eyes darting wildly to right and left, searching
for an avenue of escape.
But there was none. Already the cat was at the waterfall’s edge. With an impossible grace for such a large creature, he lifted one paw and toyed with the silken ribbon of water, growling low when silver spray jetted over his face.
Barrett’s heart slammed against her ribs. Overhead a black-crested eagle darted past, screaming shrilly. Instantly the tiger’s ears pricked forward against its massive head. He dropped against the ground, frozen in a half-crouch while he surveyed his domain.
Barrett forced herself to rigid immobility, not breathing—not even thinking about breathing.
Pale eyes of icy blue swept the clearing, once and then again.
A moment later, the creature edged to his feet, striped tail flicking back and forth over his rump. His moment of water play done, the great beast glided back along the bank.
Straight toward her.
Pagan’s decision was final, utterly and absolutely irrevocable.
And it lasted somewhere in the vicinity of three minutes.
With a low curse, he turned away from Nihal to study the dense greenery screening the mountain slope.
Damn the woman, had she no idea of the risks she ran?
This was hardly Oxford Street after all—not that London didn’t have its own share of savagery.
His jaw taut, Pagan scanned the slope, seeing no signs of motion. Grimly he jammed his hat down on his head and snarled an order to Nihal, who tossed him a rifle. Shouldering the weapon, Pagan stalked off in search of his prey, his pace increasing with every step.
When the first low growl rumbled over the treetops a few moments later, Pagan was already at the trot and cursing himself for a bloody fool.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The roar crashed over the valley, broke to a snarl, then rose in harsh thunder.
Grim-faced, Pagan slammed through the underbrush, heading straight toward the sound. He remembered there was a deep, shaded pool up there somewhere. It was just the sort of spot where a tiger would go to play in the water and groom himself, for the great beasts were fastidious, cleaning several times after a kill.
The thought made Pagan’s face go ashen. He made no effort to mask his approach now, only crashed through the foliage, slapping leaves away from his face. If a big cat were waiting, it would be just as well to let the creature know Pagan was coming. At least that might distract the cat from whatever prey he was tracking.
And Pagan prayed to heaven that the prey was not Barrett.
He pounded up to the top of the incline and crashed through a thick tracery of bamboo, his eyes scouring the valley before him.
The pool was exactly as he remembered it. Flashing water glinted behind a distant fringe of greenery.
Rifle leveled, eyes narrowed, he sprinted into the clearing, braced for an attack.
But the glade was empty. Bone-jarringly empty.
He spun about, scanning a row of nearby eucalyptus trees for any signs of motion.
Nothing.
Maybe she had run. Maybe she had already reached the far end of the valley and was right now climbing into the distant hills.
For tense seconds Pagan did not move, studying the terrain. Seeing no sign of the great cat crouched anywhere about, he moved toward the pool.
Then he saw the line of pugmarks running from the far trees down to the water’s edge. With fear twisting through his gut, he ran closer and bent down to study the damp, sandy soil.
So there really was a tiger! It was no figment of his malarial dreams after all. The beast must have escaped from a passing vessel outbound from Madras or Kerala, for tigers were not native to Ceylon.
And these fresh prints in the damp earth were unequivocal. Judging by their size and spacing, the creature was a powerful, fully grown male.
Pagan had hunted the great cats before—once and once only. It was in the sere brown elephant grass of north India, where little rocky pools drew the tigers down to bathe and escape the stifling heat.
He had tracked a powerful, six-hundred-pound maneater for three days, cornered it at a cliff, and put a ball neatly between its eyes.
And afterward Pagan had sworn never to hunt such a magnificent creature again, except in defense.
Now, facing these large tracks, Pagan felt a paralyzing wave of fear—not for himself, but for the inexperienced woman he had allowed to run away unattended. But there was no time for emotion, not with the tiger still to corner.
Cursing softly, he plunged toward the water. He hadn’t gone ten feet when he saw the white shirt that lay puddled on the dark earth.
Only now the shirt was no longer white, nor even mud-flecked. Now it was dark and mottled with blood all over the neck and chest.
The sight hit Pagan like a cannon blast. He staggered, unable to take his eyes from the shredded, bloody garment.
Barrett’s garment.
Instantly he pictured her as he had last seen her, shoulders rigid with pride and fury as she ran from the pain of his deception. And then Pagan seemed to see a pair of great claws slashing down toward her chest while blood churned up in hot, crimson waves.
“Barrett!” It was a hoarse, strangled cry, raw with an infinity of pain and regret. But something whispered to Pagan that it was too late for words of any sort.
Blindly he stared at the trail of dirt leading away from the pool, drag marks where the cat had carried off his prey to a safer place to feed.
Pagan’s hands began to shake on the muzzle of his rifle. Cursing, he clamped them tighter. He caught up Barrett’s shirt and crushed it blindly to his chest.
The cloth was chill and damp, all the heat of her body gone.
“Noooo!” It was the raw cry of one outraged predator to another, offering the primal jungle challenge of male to male. The sound exploded like gunfire through the glade, quiet in the tiger’s wake. The deer and monkeys had long since fled to safer havens, where they waited in trembling fear.
Only the water splashed and sputtered on, its gaiety cruel.
Pagan’s heart hammered violently against his ribs. “Dear heaven … it cannot be.” His boots dug into the soft sandbank as he fought to stay upright, crushed beneath a wave of horror and pain. Her bloody shirt still clutched to his chest, he looked up to the cloudless sky, seeking some answer in the face of nature.
But nature was silent, as was her wont, all her secrets hidden.
And that is when the rage began, exploding from some deep part of Pagan and spewing forth like a monsoon flood. A wild torrent, it raged higher and higher, until it nearly choked him—for the worst of it was aimed at himself.
His eyes dark with madness, Pagan turned, searching for the great cat’s tracks. Only a few yards from the pool he picked out the dragmark again, where the cat had leaped to a boulder, then plunged on uphill, leaving a broad furrow of blood-stained earth in his wake.
With a sickening wrench, Pagan realized he was indeed too late.
Nausea ripped through him. Only after a violent struggle did he keep from slipping to his knees and emptying his stomach.
He stumbled backward until he felt a boulder dig into his back. Reaching out blindly, he dug numb fingers into the stone until blood pooled across the granite.
Beside him the water shifted and shimmered, but Pagan paid no attention, locked in a world of shadows and wrenching pain.
The wind raised waves over the silver face of the pool. A ripple lapped softly against his boot.
“P-Pagan.” It was no more than a faint croak.
Wildly Pagan swung about, his rifle sweeping the clearing. It must be a dream…
“I’m—I’m here.” The voice was louder this time. Golden hair rose from a lily pad.
“Good sweet heaven.” Something that was too savage to be called relief swept across Pagan’s harsh features.
Slowly Barrett rose from the bed of reeds and water lilies mid-pool, her face as white as the petals that clung to her hair and chest.
“Meri jaan,” Pagan whispered, ravaged by
churning emotions.
“Is it—has he—” Barrett struggled to speak, her eyes glazed with fear.
“Gone. And I-I believed he’d taken you with him.”
Barrett’s eyes flashed to the bloodstained shirt still crushed between Pagan’s fingers. She saw the stunned look on his face, the tension at his jaw, the bleakness in his eyes.
She caught a jerky breath and swayed the rest of the way to her feet, jelly-kneed still, her eyes locked on Pagan’s face.
“Cinn—” The raw syllable wedged in Pagan’s throat, and he tried again. “Cinnamon.” It was a harsh growl, as savage as anything from the tiger’s throat.
Barrett stumbled from the pool, oblivious to how the water molded her thin camisole to her high, proud breasts. Suddenly all she could think of was Pagan’s face, Pagan’s hands, Pagan’s hot, hard body. As if in a dream, she watched his long fingers clench against the wadded shirt and wondered how it would feel if they drove through her hair like that, if they gripped her naked skin the same way.
She could not go through life without feeling those things at least once, Barrett decided.
At the water’s edge she slowed, her eyes raw. “I—I snapped off a reed and used it to breathe. The lilies were close and I hid within them when the tiger returned to the falls to clean himself.”
Suddenly Barrett’s slim shoulders began to quiver and her carefully controlled veneer shattered. “Pagan—” A sob tore from her white lips. “I almost—he nearly—”
She began to shake, cold, so cold. She brought trembling fingers to hug her chest, fighting for warmth as the paralyzing chill enveloped her.
She swayed, and a second later Pagan’s hard fingers gripped her waist. His face was harsh, shadowed, as he dragged her against his chest. “Are you so eager to escape me? Or do you just have a wish to die young?”
“I—I don’t want to die.” With stiff, jerky movements she jerked away, pulled the wadded shirt from his grasp, and shrugged it around her shoulders.
Abruptly she became conscious of the silence that hugged the glade, of their primal isolation in this wild place of splendor.
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