The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  “I have no lovers—jealous or otherwise,” Barrett said flatly.

  “Then why—”

  “I can tell you no more. Thank you for your assistance, but now I must go. Soon he will send others to—” With a smothered gasp, she bit back the rest of her sentence.

  “Who?”

  “Just—others. Men as you have described—jackals who yap at the tiger’s heels.” Her lips quivered slightly as the Indian’s strong fingers brushed the underside of her chin. His thumbs circled the soft swell of her lower lip. “Stop! I can’t think when—when you do that.”

  The man’s mouth curved slightly, his teeth bright against the darkness of his face. “And I cannot think if I do not, meri jaan. Not with such beauty to entrap me.”

  “Meri jaan?” she repeated unsteadily, desperate to think of anything but the fire of his fingers.

  “My soul. My world.” His eyes glittered. “It is no more than you could be, Angrezi. With such a voice. With a body of such fire and sweetness.”

  Barrett’s breath caught. She had no time for weakness, nor for wild flattery. “I must go,” she said, forcing her voice to coldness. “I regret that I have nothing with which to repay you for your assistance.”

  Her captor did not move. “Ah, but there you err, little falcon, for you do have it in your means to repay me. And I fancy I shall collect my price before I let you fly free.”

  Barrett’s fingers opened, shoving furiously against his silk-clad chest. Her struggles wrenched his cloak open, and she gasped as a score of jewels winked back at her, sewn with stiff embroidery to the top of his satin tunic.

  Wild laughter trembled on her lips. Repay him? Sweet heaven, the man had wealth beyond measuring! One jewel alone would have seen her secure for life. What use would he have for her pathetic few shillings?

  Slowly his hands slid to her shoulders. He pulled her against him, all warm, taut muscle against her softness. Heat leaped between them in the dark cocoon of night.

  “This is my price, Angrezi.”

  His face slanted down. Barrett watched, hypnotized, her heart hammering as his fingers captured her black veil and slowly drew it away from her face.

  Already she felt his heat, knew how he would taste against her. Perhaps that was why she didn’t struggle, but only waited, breathless, to learn if the beauty of their earlier kiss had been simply an imagined thing.

  His large hand splayed open against her neck. His black cloak whirled and danced in the wind. Suddenly the night was warm, alive with sound and sensation.

  Her head fell back, and his followed it down, one hand buried in her hair, tugging the silken strands free of their confining combs. His breath was a raw whisper at her throat as he inhaled her scent, then tongued her neck, pulse point by pulse point.

  And then his lips found hers. He covered her, possessed her, rough with an unspoken urgency.

  Barrett’s breath caught in a gasp as he swept her down smooth, glossy corridors of pleasure.

  Until she wanted more. Much more.

  The ground seemed to shudder beneath her feet, the sky to flash with jagged lightning. Yet all the while the night hung frozen around them, caught in midnight silence.

  Their contact points became the world, the only world, and the pleasure went on forever, born and dissolving in wave after wave of sensation.

  “Who—who are you?” she gasped at last, when some fragment of reason helped her pull free of his drugging touch.

  “Would it help to have a name? Can you trust a word more than what you feel, Angrezi?” His eyes glittered. “Some know me as the faithful hand of the Lord. To others I am the devil’s own spawn. But you, sweet falcon, may call me by a different name.” His voice hardened. “And that is Rajah of Ranapore.”

  Barrett’s breath caught. “But—but that means you’re the one who has come to sell the ruby!”

  The Indian’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of the Shiva’s Eye?” There was a sudden curtness to his tone.

  “All London speaks of the stone. That was what I saw in the window, was it not?”

  He nodded, his eyes hard.

  “The Eye of Shiva,” she whispered. “It is beautiful beyond describing, but…”

  “But?” One sable brow rose in a questioning slant.

  Barrett hesitated. “But there is danger in its beauty, I think. Perhaps there is always danger in beautiful things. And in this particular stone there is something more. Something that feels almost—evil.” She laughed unsteadily. “You’ll think that foolish of course.”

  “Not I. Nor would anyone who has ever lived in the East. There such powers are understood and rightly feared. Only the fool mocks that which he cannot see or touch.”

  For long moments he studied her shadowed face, engaged in some interior argument. Finally he seemed to reach a decision. “Come with me, Angrezi. I will see that neither jackal nor tiger vexes you. With me you’ll wake to lavender skies and the sound of rushing water. To windblown jasmine and the chatter of restless monkeys every day of your life.”

  Barrett’s teal eyes darkened. It was tempting—far too tempting. But she must not even think of it. Not while her grandfather remained behind to pay the price for her defection.

  She frowned, wishing she could see the man’s features clearly, just once. Her slim fingers opened, tense upon his chest. “I—I cannot. If things were different, perhaps. If I were free…”

  “I see.” It was a flat, cold dismissal. “There is absolutely no need to explain, I assure you.”

  Barrett saw the narrowing of his eyes, the hardness that gripped his jaw. Her hands rose, capturing his cheek, fear of being misunderstood making her bold. “No, you do not see,” she said sharply. “It is not because of who you are, but because of who I am. Because of what I must do. Maybe … oh, maybe when that is done…”

  If it is ever done, a bitter voice mocked. But you know they will never stop. Not until they have all the knowledge you carry hidden in your head.

  “I leave tomorrow,” the rajah said flatly. “You have only this night to decide.”

  “Then…” Barrett’s voice was rough with regret. “Then I fear my answer must remain the same.”

  She felt his jaw clench beneath her fingers. Black and glittering, his strange eyes probed her face, testing her resolve and the honesty of her answer.

  A strange wordless sharing flowed between them. Their eyes met, haunted teal to hungry jet. There in the darkness measures were taken, questions asked and answered, all in urgent silence. It was a strange interval, dreamlike and yet of a piercing clarity that neither had ever known before.

  Perhaps that is why they didn’t hear the muffled hoofbeats sooner. By then the carriage was nearly upon them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time the tall Indian turned, the carriage was at the crossing, Careening wildly toward the sidewalk where they stood. And they were caught helpless between the street and a wall of iron grillwork.

  Cursing, the rajah snared Barrett’s arm and dragged her toward a narrow doorway half hidden by shadows.

  Behind them came the nightmare stamp of angry hooves and the wild, urgent cry of a coachman. The man must be mad, or else three sheets to the wind!

  With a cold wave of certainty, Barrett realized this was no runaway team, nor an accident that found them in its path. This, too, was by design. The design of men who would stop at nothing to possess her secrets.

  The doorway seemed a universe away, the metal fence a mere blur. She plunged forward, urged on by the rajah’s strong hand about her waist. But she was only slowing him down, while the great wheels surged ever closer.

  With a curse, the Indian caught her up into his arms and pounded on toward the shallow recess. Beneath his cloak Barrett heard the thunder of his heart, along with the wild answer of her own.

  Behind them came the crash of the great hooves, the deafening clatter of iron wheel-rims against cobblestone.

  With an agonizing burst, he swept her into the
narrow alcove just as the coach thundered past.

  Barrett felt the Indian flinch. Half hidden by shadows, he lowered her slowly to the ground, held taut against his body all the while. Down the street the team lurched off without a break in stride, a hail of sparks flashing off metal axles where they ground against a row of wrought iron spikes.

  But for this man, it would have been me there, she thought. It could have been my bones gnawed by those awful iron teeth, my flesh lying trampled beneath those flashing hooves.

  She shuddered convulsively, reaching blindly for the wall. Instead she found the iron line of the rajah’s shoulder and gripped it tightly, grateful for its strength.

  “Will he never let me go?” But she knew she must find a way to escape. Her knowledge—and her grandfather’s discoveries—were too great a prize to fall into ruthless hands.

  Yet how much longer could she go on running?

  Suddenly Barrett felt the rajah’s shoulders tense beneath her hand; his fingers clenched at her waist, rough with demand. “Why, Angrezi? Why does this jackal pursue you with such deadly determination?”

  Barrett’s lips thinned to a flat line.

  “Stubborn woman! I could help you if—”

  “You have helped me. But now I must go.” Why did he make it so hard?

  “I could make you go with me,” the dark-faced man beside her said fiercely, his fingers digging into her slender waist. Without warning he turned, pulling her close. “I could force you to go—to do anything I wanted. There is no one here to stop me.” As if to prove his point, he drove her roughly to the wall and lifted her against him as if she were no more than a toy.

  Staring into that harsh, shadowed face, Barrett felt a jab of fear. Then her lips settled in a determined line. “You are right, of course.” Her head slanted back as she countered with a challenge of her own. “You could do all of that … but somehow I do not think you will. Something tells me you have too much pride to possess a woman by force.”

  For long moments he did not move, glaring down at her in the darkness. Then with a hard curse he lowered her to the ground—but slowly, thigh to thigh, breast to chest, molding her to the heat of his arousal. “Perhaps I have less pride than you think, stubborn one. I am not one of your docile English gentlemen, after all. I know no fealty to the laws of your land. Shall I prove my power over you? Shall I pull you down and take you beneath me? Right here and now?”

  Barrett’s lips trembled slightly, but she did not draw away from the angry steel of his body.

  And her careful restraint seemed only to feed his anger. With a low growl, the stranger gripped her face, holding her captive as he crushed her mouth to his in a cold, punishing kiss. This time there was nothing of persuasion or teasing in his touch; now he was all hard, dominating male.

  But Barrett did not flinch, nor fight him in any way. Her body was motionless, unyielding beneath his fierce onslaught. Even then, when she knew she should have been afraid, somehow she was not.

  The next moment his fingers tightened. “You owe me, Angrezi! Never forget that.” He jerked away, his fingers digging into her arms. “What sort of woman are you? You do not fight; you do not scream or whine or plead for me to free you?” He glared down at her, measuring the chiseled line of her chin, a mere flash of ivory against the darkness. “By the Lord Shiva, why do you not say yes to me?”

  “I would have…” Barrett’s voice trailed away as she studied his face. She was tempted. Oh yes, she was beyond tempted by this strange man with the hard face and the oddly gentle hands.

  But she must never let him know that. Something told Barrett that this man could convince her if he set his mind—and his body—to the task.

  Her chin rose, stiff and resolute. Her life had made her so. “Yes, once I think I might have agreed. But I see now that I have run too long. And it is you, my lord, who taught me that I must run no more. I must fight.”

  The man muttered something in a language Barrett did not understand. His eyes narrowed to dark slits. “You are very unwise to cross me, falcon. In the country of my birth men have suffered slow death for less than what you do now.”

  In stiff silence Barrett returned his ruthless gaze, retreating not a whit from the challenge in his eyes.

  His breath teased her cheek. His fingers dropped, capturing her slim wrists and pressing them back against the brick wall. His thighs drove into the softness of her belly. “Say yes, damn it! Give pleasure to us both! You say there is no husband, no jealous lover. Then what holds you here? Whom must you fight in this devil’s city, this place of fog and snow?”

  Even as he spoke, an errant white flake floated down onto Barrett’s cheek. The heat of her flushed skin soon set it to moisture, and in a silver line the bead slid slowly downward.

  He followed the salty trail with his lips.

  Barrett shivered at the slow glide of his rough-soft tongue. She felt the fire and fury of the man, the confidence of his touch. Even she, who had so little experience in such things, realized his touch was magic.

  But she had no time for magic.

  So instead of leaning closer, she forced her eyes shut, fighting the compulsion of that rich voice, fighting her own heart, which whispered for her to yield—to allow him to protect her from the terror that waited in the darkness.

  She summoned up her pride, stubbornly refusing to ask for his help. Driving her hands apart, she shoved wildly at his broad, hard-muscled chest.

  “Lat-sahib?” A low voice, harsh with urgency, came from the darkness at the Indian’s back. “My lord!”

  Suddenly an extraordinary vision filled the night—a giant of a man, black-bearded and dark turbaned, gripping a huge, curved scimitar in his paw of a hand.

  Barrett gasped. “Behind you!”

  The rajah only chuckled. “Do not fear, little falcon. Singh is my man. He will not harm you.” Pulling away slightly, he turned his head and barked a guttural order to the towering Sikh bodyguard, who bowed low, then trotted off to the far side of the street, where he awaited his master’s pleasure.

  Barrett’s mind was whirling. What would the man do next, order the sky to open so he could pull down a golden staircase? White-faced, she tried to force down a raw wave of hysteria.

  Control your folly! After all, this is London in the twenty-seventh year of the enlightened reign of the great Victoria, not the Dark Ages!

  But Barrett could not escape the feeling that she had stumbled headlong into a dream.

  Wild laughter spilled from her throat. “I s-suppose you have heard of Captain Richard Burton and his strange Arabian tales?” She’d never forgotten the dark, gypsy-eyed adventurer, whom she’d met at one of her grandfather’s eclectic scientific evenings.

  The rajah’s dark brows knit in a scowl. “I have, as it happens. But what has that to do with anything?”

  Her laughter came then, ragged and raw. “Only that you might be his strangest—and his very best creation!” She must get free, Barrett thought. A few minutes more and she would lose the last shreds of her reason!

  “Stranger than you know, meri jaan.” The words were low, aimed more at himself than her. “And now I, too, must go. The hour is nearly come for—”

  He did not finish. His jaw tense, the Indian stared down at the pale blur of Barrett’s face. “Your answer remains? You will stay here?”

  She could only nod, not trusting herself to speak.

  For some reason she thought then of miracles, and realized that this was as close as she would ever come to one. But even with that certainty, she did not relent.

  She owed her grandfather too much.

  A strange glitter flashed in the charcoal depths of her protector’s eyes. “Not even if I promised you a look at the stone you were admiring through the window? What if I offered you twenty such stones, sweet one?”

  Across the street the Sikh rose from his stoic squat, a mute reminder to the rajah that his deadline had come.

  There was a rough urgency in his voice and
an edge of self-mockery. “Even for the Shiva’s Eye you will not reconsider? Does not the great ruby tempt you, Angrezi?”

  “It tempts me—you tempt me.” Barrett’s face flushed at her frankness. Somehow, staring up at those dark, smoldering eyes, she found she could be nothing less than honest. “In spite of that, I cannot. Honor forbids it.”

  The man before her made a low oath. His hands slid up to cup her flushed cheeks. Barrett shivered, caught by the enigma of the man.

  “Do you fear me? Is that why?”

  “No.” Her voice was oddly husky. “To my eternal shame. I—I only wish I did.”

  He made a noise that might have been laugh or sigh or curse. Perhaps it was all three. “Then you are wrong, falcon, for there is no shame in this rare feeling we share. It is as old as man himself, as natural as the circuit of the moon or the rising of the monsoon winds.” His head slanted down slowly until he spoke against the flushed skin behind her ear. “I find you remarkably honest—for a memsahib girded in corset and stiff petticoats. And you gird yourself in even stiffer notions of propriety, I think. But I feel all the answers I need right here, Angrezi. In the pulse that leaps beneath my lips. In your little tremors. No, such a one as you cannot lie easily.”

  He trailed his tongue along the line of her jaw, inching up to tease the curve of her ear. “Come with me,” he commanded, skin to her skin, heat to her heat, never ceasing his drugging onslaught.

  Barrett’s breath caught in a little moan. Danger lies here, she thought wildly. And this danger was even greater than all the rest, for this turned her traitor to herself.

  “S-stop,” she managed. But somehow the fingers that should have been shoving him away had moved and now were kneading his shoulders.

  Urging him closer.

  “Kiss me, Empress.” It was both harsh command and raw plea, and the dark force of his need broke over Barrett like warm rich rum, loosing a tide of longing.

  For all the things she had never had—and never expected to have.