Slowly she lifted the exquisite chemise to her chest. “How lovely, Captain. But not for me, surely?”
Dark with lust, the captain’s eyes fixed on the lace-trimmed lingerie spilling from Barrett’s fingers.
Sweet heaven, it would be a close thing. But she had no choice.
“Aye, they’re for you, right enough. Put ‘em on.” A leer spread over the man’s coarse features. “Now.”
Fury exploded through Barrett’s veins. It wasn’t enough for the swine to order her about. Now he meant to watch her while…
She managed to quell her rage, knowing that her life depended on staying calm. Slowly she reached down for the corset, which lay against her dusty half-boots. But there was something very odd about the thing.
Suddenly she stiffened, seeing the square-cut neckline clearly for the first time. Ornamented with lace and peach ribbons, the bodice rose a mere four inches above the ribbed waist.
Dear heaven, there would be almost nothing to cover her. If she even breathed too hard, her breasts would spill over the top.
And the contemptible slime knew exactly that!
Fighting down a string of oaths, Barrett turned away. Her only chance lay in appearing to be compliant. She couldn’t afford the luxury of anger—not yet, anyway.
Another item of dress flew toward her, this a pair of lace-trimmed drawers.
“Lovely, ain’t they?” the captain said thickly. “Now let’s see how they fit.”
Her back turned, Barrett shoved her slim fists against her chest, out of the captain’s range of sight. She had to think!
She dug her nails into her palms, fighting for control. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” she managed to ask sweetly. “Like my dress?”
The man behind her barked out a laugh. “You’re a cool one, ain’t you? Mebbe you’re not all so straitlaced as you been putting on. Aye, we’ll rub along just fine, you and me. Without that boot black in your hair, you’re a bleedin’ little beauty. And as for the dress, I reckon I’ll keep it over here a mite longer. Just to be certain everything else fits right and proper, you understand.”
Barrett’s eyes flashed teal sparks. The arrogant, lice-ridden swine!
Scowling, she stared down at the scandalous corset. Some new French creation, no doubt. Sweet heaven, the thing was an absolute outrage! In it she would be covered, but just barely so.
Her fingers tightened. No, she could not—she absolutely would not!
In a burst of desperation she turned, clutching the garments to her chest. “How much were you paid to bring me here? Whatever it is, I’ll see you receive double. I can give you an address in London. They—they’ll pay you with no questions asked!”
Greed darkened the captain’s gaunt face. “Double,” he mused, his eyes on her heaving chest. “That’d make fair to two thousand pounds, my dear. Can you possibly be worth so much?”
Barrett’s breath caught audibly. “He paid you a thousand pounds to bring me here? But why—”
“Enough talk,” the captain growled. “And the answer is no. Not for all the fine offers in the world. So do we do this the easy way or do I have to call Lafarge and have him hold you down while I undress you?”
Fear slammed into Barrett like a fist. The bastard meant every word he said, and this time there would be no eluding him. But she had to make one last attempt. “What about ten thousand pounds then? Think of it, Captain. All you’ll have to do is take me to the nearest town. With that much money you could vanish without a trace.”
The wiry seaman frowned. Was he wavering?
But his next words put an end to all her hopes. “Lafarge it is, then.” He strode toward the door. “Perhaps this way might be more interesting after all,” he muttered thickly.
Barrett’s heart lurched against her ribs. Damn the man! Damn all of them! What did they hope to gain by this?
But she knew the answer all too well. They wanted her secrets. They had not been able to work them from her in London, and this scum’s purpose must be to terrorize her into revealing them now.
London. At the memories, her hands began to shake.
But she would never talk. She would die first.
“Very well,” Barrett said flatly. “I suppose it would be useless to ask you to turn your head.”
The captain merely leaned back against the door, crossing his hands over his chest. His mud-colored eyes never left her face. “Quite useless. Just like you guessed.”
Tight-lipped, she turned, attacking the row of tiny buttons down the front of her dirty black dress. At least she would be free of this wretched thing, her only garment since leaving England.
To Barrett’s fury her fingers shook as they shoved the buttons free, then lowered the threadbare fabric just far enough to unhook the front closing of her corset. Gritting her teeth, she fought to ignore the man behind her.
Once her corset was open, Barrett slid it free and maneuvered the new corset in place. She had denied the scum that pleasure at least!
But her triumph vanished as she reached the top hook and looked down at the porcelain curves thrusting above the rim of the corset.
Sweet heaven, the thing was dreadfully tight and forced her cleavage painfully high. Now her breasts were clearly exposed, the rosy buds at their center coming just even with the garment’s lace trim.
Fire streaked Barrett’s face and chest. She might just as well have worn nothing! Vainly she tried to tug the top of the corset higher, but the stays were rigid and immovable.
“Now the rest,” the man behind her muttered thickly.
Burning with fury, Barrett freed the tapes of her pantalets and let them drop to the floor beneath her skirt. Only then did she carefully wriggle into the new pair, all the time keeping her skirts draped over her legs.
Time, that was what she needed. Time and a clear head. Dragging in a lungful of air, she raised her chin proudly, then turned.
The captain’s eyes widened, drawn like a magnet to the silken expanse of her chest. “Saint’s blood, but you’re a beauty,” he breathed hoarsely. “It’ll work, alright. No man in his right mind could resist the sight of that.”
What would work? Barrett wondered. Or was this just another trick to frighten her?
But she kept her suspicions from her face, studying her captor through lowered lashes. “Do you like it?”
The dark gleam of his dun-colored eyes was all the answer Barrett needed. “Aye, I like it, wench. And so will he—” With a sharp oath, her captor cut himself off.
He? What were they planning now? “To succeed I must know exactly what you wish me to do, Captain.”
“All in good time, woman. The two of us have a bit of unfinished business first, you see.” The gaunt seaman was only a few feet away now, his leathery face creased in a leer.
Barrett’s heart began to hammer. Stay calm, she told herself. There were always solutions, her grandfather used to tell her; the trick was being clever enough to find them.
But the cold sparks of desire flickering in the captain’s eyes told Barrett that her last chance had come and gone.
“Aye, and this is the part I’ve been waiting for most of all.” He brought the thick coils of hemp down with a sharp crack against his palm. “Aye, as much as the money, I’ve been wanting this.” He gazed down at her breasts, mounded wantonly over the stiff, lace-fringed corset. His voice grew thicker. “Maybe even more than the money.”
He was close now. Barrett could smell his breath, musty and rum-laced. She shivered slightly, and only with great control managed to keep from flinching.
Wait, she told herself. His blood will soon be hot, and his reflexes off. Yes, a moment or two more. Not yet…
Rough fingers gripped her slim waist, hard and greedy. The mud-colored eyes narrowed, dark as the evil he planned.
Only then did Barrett twist free. She grabbed up her old corset from the floor and threw it at her captor, then pulled a little silver-handled fruit knife from her boot and struck out blindly at h
is face.
Roaring with pain and surprise, the seaman staggered backward, flailing at the air. Immediately Barrett darted past him and scrambled onto the desk, searching for the porthole with trembling fingers.
Not high enough!
Desperately she stretched until she felt the metal latch. Gritting her teeth, she jerked the glass pane open. Beneath her lay a sheet of sapphire water glistening in the white-hot glare of a tropical sun.
Clutching the frame of the porthole, she rose to her toes and thrust one leg outside. She bent and maneuvered her head through, trying to ignore the captain’s wild curses at her back.
Terror snaked through her.
Stay calm. In a moment the other leg will be free.
She blinked, blinded as her head cleared the porthole. Twisting sideways, she gripped the upper rim and tried to work her other leg through.
Dear heaven, let there be no sharks here.
Wherever here was…
Barrett’s fingers shook as she perched on the porthole, fighting for balance. Her knee cleared the rim. Nearly through!
Inside the curses suddenly ceased.
Her heart hammering, she leaned out over the water and eased her ankle toward the metal rim.
But at the last second a heavy coil snaked around her ankle and jerked her down with savage force. Hard fingers gripped her waist, dragging her back through the porthole.
“Bloody little bitch! That’s the last running you’ll be doing for a long time!”
Knocked off balance, Barrett fell backward, unable to help herself as her head smashed against the corner of the desk.
A queer ringing filled her ears. Pain flooded over her.
White-faced, she pushed to her feet and stumbled blindly toward the porthole.
The rope cracked down, biting into her back. The captain’s bloodied features danced before her, strangely dim and blurred.
Then the rope hissed down again, shredding the back of her dress and flaying the fine skin beneath.
She flinched as the world exploded in a blinding vortex of pain. The stench of whisky was the last thing she noticed before the hot breath of darkness rushed down to claim her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Beneath the mosquito net the tall planter tossed restlessly. Stripped naked, he twisted in the steamy tropical night. Muscles bunched, he attacked the air, sweat covering his bronze torso.
Mumbling, he seized the bedposts as if confronting an old enemy. His breath came fast and jerky, as the malarial fever caught him once again.
Pagan’s fingers clenched. Without warning the dream changed, the blood and rage of Cawnpore swept away like so much smoke. Before him now stood a woman, proud and sleek, all ivory nakedness and tumbled raven hair.
The woman in London.
The same woman Deveril Pagan had seen in his dreams for weeks.
His face hardened as he gripped the bedposts, tormented by nameless yearning, by a hunger that burrowed into his deepest being and split him open with pain.
Desire hammered through him. Struggling for sanity, he sat up, still fighting the hallucinations.
But this time the sickness was strong, and he was very weak, for he had driven himself relentlessly since his return almost eight weeks before.
This time Pagan knew that the dreams would win.
Blindly he stumbled to his feet and thrust aside the mosquito net, trying to forget the woman with hair like smoke, trying to forget the savage fire she stirred.
And then the images vanished. The phantom woman smiled sadly and swirled away into smoke, only to reappear as a white tiger.
Black-streaked and regal, the great beast faced him, eyes gleaming, tail twitching. Just like that day two years ago in the hills above Windhaven, the pair stood in taut silence, predator and prey taking the other’s measure, each too proud to turn back.
The dream tiger flicked his tail sharply, and Pagan tensed. He could almost feel the bite of razor-sharp claws.
Around them the jungle grew still. Even the monkeys ceased their restless chatter.
Sweat trickled down Pagan’s brow; he steeled himself for the first savage lunge.
Jo hoga, so hoga. What is meant to be will be.
A growl ripped from the back of the tiger’s powerful throat.
For a moment St. Cyr tasted the tang of regret. How could he die now, when he had so much yet to finish? A tea crop to gather. A plantation to save.
A killer to catch.
Too late!
Teeth bared, the tiger lunged; his great, sleek body pushed off the overhanging bough and drove out into space. His legs seemed to go on forever, a dizzying blur of light and shadow.
Instinctively Pagan raised his arms, feeling the cold blast of death. Caught in fevered dreams, he struggled wildly, arms outstretched to combat an invisible foe.
No time left, he thought, thrusting away the tangled vines which were bed linens and jerking free of the foliage which was mosquito netting. Any second the big cat would be upon him!
He heard a smooth, deadly purr. He froze, listening to the slow pad of powerful feet.
Only one chance—have to get the gun!
Pagan stumbled toward his gun cabinet, his eyes wide and blank.
Outside the bungalow, somewhere in the darkness, a big cat cleared its throat and began to purr.
Waiting patiently in the night.
As deadly as the jungle itself.
Less than a mile away, atop the crest of a small hill, a thin line of smoke trailed skyward, invisible against the darkness. Before the fire sat a thin brown man in an undyed, homespun loincloth. His eyes, focused on the dancing flames, were the color of sun-dried coffee beans.
Coffee.
The devil’s drink. The commodity that had spelled the death of his beloved island.
Mumbling hoarsely, the shaman sat forward and peered into the snapping flames.
In their big ships the foreigners had come, darkening the harbors like evil birds. First the Dutch and now the English carried their bright gold guineas to lure his people into clearing the sal trees and burning the sweet, screening bamboo.
All so that the English could plant more of their devil crop.
With money and honeyed promises they had seduced his people into forsaking the old ways. With their clever words, they made the Sinhalese forget the old gods, the old legends.
His beloved island had changed completely. All its people could see now was the flash of yellow gold. All they could think of were the toys and cheap trinkets that the blue-eyed Angrezi used to seduce them.
Anger swept across the old man’s gaunt face. Silently he reached into a pouch at his hip, removing a handful of white powder, which he sprinkled over the flames.
Instantly the fire erupted with angry sparks.
The chief of the ten tribes looked up from the blaze, well content with what he had seen there.
Soon the white man would meet his match, the flames foretold. Every day the leaf weakness grew, choking the devil plants. Soon there would be none left untouched.
Then the shaman saw something else in the white-hot embers—small circles, lined up like the pugmark of a tiger.
His eyes blazed, triumph coursing through him. So the time had come at last for the summoning of the tiger, just as the legends had foretold! Now the white king would drive out the foreign invaders and lead his people to reclaim their sacred homeland.
Behind him a bamboo began to shake, whispering of future glories. The shaman’s eyes took on a glazed, faraway look.
Even now the great beast waited. He could feel it out in the steamy darkness, blue eyes burning, great chest heaving. Midway down the hill it crouched beneath an ancient sal tree, panting in the heat.
But there was something else…
The old man peered down into the flames again, his gnarled hands scattering another handful of powder.
From the hissing flames a pair of shining eyes gleamed back at him. Brave eyes, with the changeable hue of peacock feat
hers.
Desperate eyes, he saw now. Eyes that had looked into the blank face of night and been blinded by loss.
Empty eyes.
The shaman’s breath caught sharply. A woman, by the great Kali! A woman from the city of fog in the Angrezi’s devil land.
Murmuring the words of an ancient and very secret chant, the old seer focused on that image, willing it to grow and take on clearer lines. As he watched, the log hissed, then burst into flames and collapsed in upon itself.
The old man’s heart thundered in triumph. All praise to Shiva, Creator and Destroyer! All praise to his consort, the all-seeing Kali, Mother of Time and savior of her faithful!
The Angrezi woman changed everything, of course. Now the contest could begin in earnest.
The shaman smiled, tasting the sweetness of revenge. With a final prayer to Shiva for his merciful intercession, the old man rose sinuously to his feet and started downhill, barely checking his stride to accept the ivory walking stick one of his followers held out, head bowed.
At last the time had come.
The shaman quickened his pace. He would have much to do before the sun climbed next from the molten silver sea.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Minutes passed.
Or perhaps it was hours.
The pounding began in his chest and hammered out through his whole body until Pagan thought he would be torn in two.
Sick again, he thought. Cursed malaria…
The cinchona drink was right there on his campaign desk.
Why the hell hadn’t he taken it?
Around him the jungle lay in unnatural silence. Only the bamboos moved, rustling in the wind.
Like a warning.
Pagan frowned, fingering the butt of his rifle, wondering where the white devil was hiding now. His hands slipped in his own sweat, and he cursed. From behind him came the crunch of palm fronds and he spun about, his eyes focused on the dark, restless dance of the jungle.
Nothing. Only shadows. More bloody shadows…
The tiger could appear anywhere, the Englishman knew, usually from the place one least expected.
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