The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  The next moment she felt a cool smooth surface at her hips—the rosewood desk, she realized.

  With a shiver of white-hot desire, she realized they were not even going to make it to the bed.

  He swept the fragile silk from her shoulders until it puddled around her waist. Dark and half-mad with hunger, his eyes devoured her lush, naked beauty, dazzling in the golden lamplight.

  “Damn you, Angrezi.” Pagan captured the pouting rose-red peaks between his strong, callused fingers, tugging and stroking until she moaned. “I never had a chance, did I? Maybe neither of us did.”

  And then his head fell, his tongue lapping the aching crowns furled so perfectly beneath him. He tasted the flare of her pulse, the fire of her wild response. Each place he touched came alive, burning with the raw energy of life.

  He tongued her and stroked her, whispering raw, strange words in a dark litany against her skin.

  Barrett had no thought of stopping him, everything forgotten but the wild joy he gave her in singing blood and racing muscle, in hot, tortured skin.

  She clutched his shoulder and began to jerk wildly at the buttons of his shirt, wrenching them free. Breathlessly she dragged the wet, soot-streaked linen from his tensed shoulders.

  Pagan bit back a groan. “It is folly, the worst sort of folly, but I’ll have you, Angrezi. This time I mean to have your very soul!”

  Wild with need, Barrett pressed her lips to his chest, sliding the tip of her tongue into the crisp mat of his hair. His smell was tea and smoke and eucalyptus, salt and dusky male. His skin was warm velvet over hot, sleek steel.

  Knowing it was madness but far beyond caring, she burrowed closer, capturing a springy strand between her teeth and tugging sharply.

  Pagan stiffened, muttered something in Hindi, and captured her buttocks with his hard fingers. With a groan he kneed apart her thighs and drove her hard into the saddle of his thighs.

  He was huge and hot and throbbing.

  Barrett felt an instant of fear, but an instant only, for the sensual storm in her blood burned the fear away with her next breath.

  Her breath checked, she searched out his flat male nipple, found it, nibbled it wantonly, while Pagan’s heartbeat grew to an angry thunder against her ear. He shuddered at her touch, conqueror now the conquered.

  With slow exquisite torment she teased his aching skin, driven by a dark knowledge that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with blind, female instinct. Suddenly she was every woman who had ever lived, every woman who had ever loved a man to raw, blinding madness.

  With a growl Pagan captured her buttocks and drove her upward, his blade like hot, forged steel between her thighs.

  And Barrett fitted herself to his hardness, desperate to taste more, to feel all he had to give her. Eyes closed, hair spilling wild and golden around her shoulders, she arched against him, locking her long legs around his waist.

  “I’m going to enjoy feeling you everywhere, Angrezi. I’m going to enjoy every soft panting moan, every wild tremor. When I’m done you’re going to feel me everywhere, too. So deep, you’ll never be able to forget me.”

  With one sharp movement he shredded her gown and flung it away behind him until there, was nothing but steamy, scented air between them. She twisted and clawed at him, moaning like a wild sleek cat, and Pagan delighted in her sweet wanton ferocity. Later he knew he would regret this folly, but now he had not the strength to stop, to let such rare beauty slip by untasted and untried.

  He freed his manhood, not even stopping to remove his breeches. The blinding need was upon him now, so fierce he couldn’t think, could barely breathe.

  So close to dying. So close to losing her forever…

  He knocked the cut crystal decanters and silver-handled brushes from the table with a crash and then drove her back.

  His breath checked and held as he found her sweet heat and knew she was ready for him.

  She was sleek and satiny, all warmth and woman.

  As close to heaven as a sinner like him would ever get.

  “Now, Cinnamon? Tell me.”

  “Now, my love. Don’t—ahh—make me wait.”

  He shuddered at the breathless plea, even more at the raw endearment. Maybe it was love after all, discovered among the scarred remains and wreckage of his life.

  “May heaven forgive me, then, for I can’t stop. I must have you, Angrezi. For now at least, if it can’t be forever.”

  He drove inside her then, his hard pulsing length surging into her sleek satin, and he groaned when he felt her stretch to fit him.

  Ablaze in need and wonder, Barrett let her head fall back, shuddering with the dark blazing force of his possession.

  He met her with fury and a pleasure so fierce it bordered on pain, holding back nothing, feeling his soul spill into hers.

  Or maybe it was hers that spilled into his.

  Over and over he muttered her name, a harsh promise, a fierce plea. He rained praise upon her in a voice rich with the love words of four ancient and very earthy tongues.

  Pagan growled in triumph as she strained against him, her nails digging into his shoulders.

  She shuddered, felt her body begin to convulse at the pulse point of their union, woman’s satin tight to man’s steel.

  Light streamed around them, felt as much as seen, and a hot, silver wind as old as time seemed to rise up beneath her, lashing its way through paths of blood and nerve, coiling tight and then flinging her away to paradise.

  He held her close, savoring each velvet tremor, each low, broken sob, rock-hard inside her still.

  And when her shudders faded and her teal eyes opened, blind with passion and something Pagan was finally brave enough to recognize as love, he began to move inside her again, driving deep, then shallow, teasing the velvet petals of her womanhood.

  She clutched him blindly, shuddering, feeling the raw pleasure begin anew.

  And each time he held her back at the edge, denying his full length, spinning out the torment that was endless and unspeakable bliss.

  “P-Pagan!”

  “Yes, love, feel it spill through you. This is the breath of all life, the only joy that the gods allowed us when they barred us from paradise.”

  “N-no more! I can’t—”

  “You can, sweet flower. And it will be better than all the others.”

  He drove deep then, fitting himself all the way until she was anchored to his very root, until the edge of her womb met the pulsing tip of his sex.

  And then she trembled, pleasure rippling through her once more. Her voice broke in a moan of disbelief, resolved into a wild, joyous cry.

  Only then did Pagan throw back his head and plunge to a blind, furious release, uttering a feral growl as he drove his hot seed deep inside her.

  He wondered if they made a life that night, but the thought was dim, so dim, and it came too late for him to feel fear or regret.

  For by then he was falling, wrapped in blinding pleasure. All he knew was soft, endless homecoming and the miracle of her love. A love he had never thought to find.

  He could have sworn the air hung thick with rose and jasmine when he spilled his last ragged moan onto her skin and collapsed into bliss.

  “You’re filthy.”

  It was a soft, half-teasing accusation as they lay half dressed in a drowsy sprawl after finally reaching the bed.

  Pagan’s shoulder cushioned Barrett’s head, and her fingers feathered lazily through the crisp black hairs beneath her chin.

  “Ummm.”

  “You’re thick with soot and you smell.”

  “I shouldn’t doubt it at all.”

  “You nearly died in that fire!” she added accusingly.

  “Would you have cared, little hellcat?” Pagan’s fingers cupped the curve of her hip, suddenly tense.

  Barrett delayed over her answer, too sated, too content to be willingly roused.

  His grip tightened.

  “Very well, you brute. Since you’ll
stand for nothing less than an immediate answer—”

  “Oh, I’ll stand for less,” Pagan said darkly. “A clever little minx like you could make me stand—just by looking at me, I think.”

  Heat swept over Barrett’s face as she recalled their fierce coupling, their desperate panting need of only minutes before. Her eyes glowed with the memory and she sighed softly.

  “Yes, you bully, I would have cared.” Her fingers feathered over his chest, then found the peaked outline of his nipples. She smiled when he shuddered at her touch. “I would have cared more than you know,” she said softly. “Far more than is wise. And I must be mad to admit it.”

  But her words were accompanied by a soft urgent pressure at his chest, then the seeking stroke of her fingers along his thighs.

  He stiffened instantly, his manhood rising like sleek, molten metal to fill her fingers. “Ah, Angrezi. What you do to me!”

  She smiled then, the dark, secret smile of a woman content in her power over a man, a woman brave in her love.

  “So,” he rasped, rising on one elbow to study her face. “You enjoy your hold over me, do you?” In a fluid movement he stripped off his breeches and caught her shoulders, sweeping her up onto his hard thighs.

  “Pagan, I—”

  His eyes were dark slits. “It’s too late for complaints now, Angrezi. You’ve raised the beast and now you’ll have to ride him.” As he spoke he slid her up, teasing her honeyed folds with his throbbing shaft. With fierce control he parted her, driving forward, then sliding almost from her, again and again.

  She clawed at his chest, squirmed wildly. “Pagan!”

  “Do you want me, Angrezi? Do you need this as much as I do?”

  Her only answer was a ragged cry and the urgent seeking movement of her hips. Dimly she heard his dark need, felt the emptiness that drove him to question this blinding happiness they’d found.

  She gave him answer then, capturing him with an instinctive velvet friction that made him shudder. And with that movement the match was equal to equal, both caught in giving and receiving. A circle was forged, heat flying back and forth between them like silver lightning over the far hot hills.

  “Now, Pagan! You must or I’ll—”

  He drove deep, filling her completely, offering all he was and ever would be while she did the same.

  Breaths caught, hands clenched, thigh to love-slick thigh, they fell mindless into bliss.

  “Now,” he rasped. “Now and forever.”

  He fetched servants with a gleaming brass tub and steaming water. After that, they bathed each other with diligent care. Then soap flew and water sloshed everywhere, care giving way to a wild free-for-all.

  And the free-for-all shortly gave way to a wilder contest, as the embers of passion blazed anew.

  Far in the distance, beyond silent serried tea fields, beyond the mist-crowned blue peaks, a tiger roared, long and low and querulous.

  But even that warning the lovers did not heed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The clatter of metal woke Barrett from a pleasurable dream.

  She wrinkled her nose and tugged her pillow closer. Something soft. Something of cool satin sheets and hard fingers.

  Again the clang of metal, closer this time.

  She shot upright in bed, cool linens clutched to her chest, her eyes still dark with sleep.

  “Ah, the memsab is waking at last. You will be wishing for a bath.”

  Keen chocolate-colored eyes studied Barrett’s tangled hair, the rumpled sheets, the clear indentation in the second pillow, now empty.

  Barrett darted a swift glance about the room and saw no evidence of the man who had lately shared her bed.

  Mita sniffed—in disapproval and something more.

  Now Barrett understood the coldness in the woman’s eyes, the distance in her face.

  “Yes, thank you, Mita. You are very … thoughtful.”

  The servant shrugged, then slanted a curious look across the room. With feline grace she moved to the window, reached down, and then held up a length of cloth in two fingers.

  It was Barrett’s nightgown, shredded nearly in two.

  “The dreaming of last night must have been very fierce, memsab, even for you.”

  With that she dropped her armful of fresh linens, glided back through the door, and melted away without a backward glance, leaving Barrett to wonder how much of last night’s events remained a secret to anyone in the great house.

  Hours later Magic came chattering to the window as Barrett was drying off from her bath. The little langur sidled up over the sill and sat rocking, her dark, wise eyes intent on Barrett’s every move.

  The gray head cocked; the young-old eyes studied Brett for a moment. The wide nostrils flared, as if the monkey could sense Barrett’s mood by scent alone.

  Recalling their last tangle over the corset, Barrett decided Magic deserved to remain in doubt a few minutes longer. She slipped on drawers and a cloud-thin petticoat of cambric. Then she opened the sandalwood trunk where the rest of her clothes were stored.

  The instant Magic saw the coveted corset, her nose wrinkled. She rocked back and forth more swiftly on her perch.

  Barrett was careful to pay no attention. Instead she made a great show of slipping on her camisole. She noticed there was no longer any discomfort at her back, where her wounds were nearly healed.

  Magic made a tentative, wistful sniff, then turned and slid back into the green world beyond the window.

  Better there, Barrett thought, than cramped into these unnatural structures we are forced to wear.

  She was just about to tackle the corset and the wild mane of her hair when she heard a shout, followed by the muffled drum of feet down the corridor.

  “Memsab! Please to be coming most quick, memsab!”

  The door shook, then crashed open a second later.

  White sarong awry, his brown face creased in harsh lines, Nihal stood in the doorway, with Hadley just behind him. “Bad it is, this time, Miss Barrett. Oh, so very awful bad! The master—Tiger—he’s—they’ve taken him.”

  Barrett swayed, white-faced, then grabbed at a chair back for support. “Taken?”

  Nihal’s face was taut with worry. “They—they caught him outside the drying shed. It was a well-prepared group, all with rifles.”

  Hadley muttered darkly, then turned. “I must go.”

  Barrett’s heart began to thunder. Oh, Pagan, be careful, my heart. Be very, very careful.

  And then her mind began to calculate, estimating portions and strengths. It would be very dangerous, of course. It might even be impossible, unless Mita could find the right ingredients.

  But she had to try.

  When Hadley returned, he gave Barrett only a glance before pouring himself a drink and wiping the sweat from his brow.

  His face was grim when he turned. “I think you’d better sit down, my dear.”

  Barrett gripped the table. “What is it? But he isn’t—you haven’t found his body, have you?”

  “No. But I found this. It was left down by the path to the lower fields, where he was taken.” He held out a sheet of paper to her.

  Barrett seized it and scanned it eagerly. Her horror grew with every word.

  Here, my dear Barrett, is your lover’s little finger. I shall cut off another finger every hour that you delay in bringing me the ruby. I shall be watching for you at the great waterfall near the upper tea fields. Do not delay. For when his fingers are all gone—assuming he is still alive, of course—I shall cut off his—”

  Barrett swayed, the final savage threat blurring before her eyes. She threw down the note, white-faced, and turned to the colonel. “What are we to do?”

  He crossed the room and gave her shoulders a quick, brief squeeze. “Do? Why we’re going to rescue him, of course! And we’ll do it by finding that bloody stone.”

  “So you do know where it is?”

  Hadley’s eyes hardened. “I’m afraid not. But Ruxley believes
it is here, so it probably is. Which means we’d better get to work.”

  “No, you go on. Mita and I will look about some more. Dear Lord, there is so little time…”

  Both were silent, thinking of the note’s last, savage threat.

  Hadley hesitated, then nodded grimly. “Very well. I’ll take ten men and wait by the waterfall. If Ruxley sends anyone near, anyone at all, I’ll corner the bastard. And then I’ll find out everything he knows, even if I have to cut him up very slowly to do it.” His keen eyes searched Barrett’s face. “Will you be all right?”

  “Yes, just—just go.”

  His face grim, Hadley wrenched down a rifle from the gun case and did just that.

  Barrett and Mita started in Pagan’s bedroom, then progressed to the rest of the house. They ripped open quilts, overturned drawers, and even slit the beautiful old damask wing chairs.

  But they found nothing. There was no trace of the ruby.

  With every minute, Barrett knew Pagan’s time was running out. Wildly she swept fire-charred books from the study’s blackened shelves, hoping that one of them might have a false interior.

  But they crumbled in her fingers, burned paper and nothing more.

  When Magic skittered up beside her, chattering curiously, Barrett barely noticed.

  Down the hall the little ormolu clock in the foyer began to chime.

  The deadline had come.

  The leather box arrived fifteen minutes later. Nihal found it on the porch and instantly carried it in to Barrett, who stared at it, white-faced. It looked like a jewelry case, made of good old leather embossed with gold lettering and a pseudo-heraldic crest Ruxley had designed for himself.

  As if locked in a nightmare, Barrett slid open the top. A moment later she gasped and the box fell to the floor with a dull crack. Tears squeezed from her eyes as she thought of the bloody mass of bone and tissue inside, carefully wrapped in white silk.

  Ruxley had carried out his first threat.

  Mita ran in, saw the box on the table, and gave a sharp cry. “Is it—have they—”

  Barrett nodded blindly, tears rushing down her cheeks. “Is there no sign of Colonel Hadley?”