The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  Abruptly the woman beneath him went totally still. Was she a virgin? Sweet heaven, she hadn’t the slightest idea! She blinked, frozen by uncertainty.

  Why couldn’t she remember? Still, letting this man see her fear was the last thing she’d ever do! “You’ll be sorry if you touch me,” she hissed, unaware that the stark pallor of her face belied her attempt at confidence. “They didn’t succeed, nor will you!”

  The instant the words were out of her mouth she froze, her breath catching sharply. Dim images swept over her, images of hard hands and jeering laughter. She shuddered, feeling fear ghost down her spine.

  But then the phantom visions vanished, like sand spilled through open fingers. Yet what she’d said was true; somehow she knew that there had been others who had tried to bend her to their will.

  She had outwitted them. She would do the same to this man.

  The certainty warmed her, strengthening her courage.

  Pagan’s eyes narrowed. “So, your memory is not so deficient after all. Or is it merely selective?”

  “Neither, you brute. The image just—just came to me.” She tossed her head, fighting his hard grip until the pain began anew.

  “Still set on playing the tormented innocent?” His face descended inexorably, until she seemed to see grinning devils in his single uncovered eye. “And now I think it’s time we dispensed with that corset.”

  He was so close that she could see every springy strand at his chest, every band of muscle rippling beneath his skin. At her belly she could feel the heat of his powerful thighs, and the angry blade of muscle that lay rigid against her.

  “Never! You can just—”

  “Ah, Cinnamon, now you begin to bore me. Surely you can be more inventive than that?” Grim-faced, Pagan caught her wrists in one hand and freed the satin bow at the neck of her corset. The white fabric immediately parted, her breasts threatening to spill free any moment.

  His long fingers dropped lower, attacking the first of the metal hooks that secured the front of the garment.

  His touch was fire, she thought. As scorching and ruthless as his eyes. As sure and knowing as his body atop hers.

  “L-let me go, you—you imbecile!” She arched desperately, and in her fury she reopened the wound at her forehead. Tears hazed her eyes, but even then she did not stop fighting. “I’ll tell the viscount what you’ve done! Even in this desolate place—wherever it is—you can’t hope to get away with such villainy!”

  “St. Cyr?” The man in the black eye patch laughed coldly. “The viscount is even worse than I in his treatment of women, I’m afraid. Were he here now, Cinnamon, he’d merely enjoy the spectacle, then demand to be given his own turn between your legs.”

  At those harsh words, the last bit of color drained from her face. The man was inhuman! Her hands curved into talons, lashing vainly at his neck and face.

  Pagan merely ducked.

  Suddenly her nails found his cheek, raising blood in an angry slash from cheekbone to jaw. Just beneath another scar, which glowed silver against his bronzed skin.

  Pagan cursed long and low. Enough talking, fool! Take her now and be done with it. Clear your mind and get back to your work. You’ve a plantation to run after all.

  And a murderer to catch.

  Grimly the Englishman braced his body above her and shoved one knee against her hip. The contact was electric and immediate, as if he’d been scorched by a bolt of lightning.

  His arousal swelled to painful proportions. Bloody hell, if he didn’t have her soon, he’d…

  Abruptly Pagan froze. The white bandage at her brow was tinged with fresh blood. “Give it up or you’ll tear open that wound. I won’t hurt you, you know,” he muttered roughly, oddly unsettled by the pallor of her skin, the churning turmoil in her strange blue eyes. “That’s not part of my fantasy, either, Cinnamon. You can forget the rest of whatever act Ruxley coached you in. There’s no reason to make this any more complicated than it already is.”

  Her eyes flashed back, dark with defiance. “You already have hurt me, scum. And the first chance I get, I’ll repay the favor, I assure you!”

  So much for feeling she was vulnerable, Pagan thought. This woman was about as vulnerable as a python! He freed two more hooks, and as he did so he felt her shudder.

  His hands stilled instantly. “What is it?”

  But the woman beneath him only clenched her jaw, turning her face away in silence.

  With a smothered curse, Pagan renewed his assault. “You’re wearing too damned many clothes. Why can’t you women get it through your heads that this is the tropics, not England? You’ll suffocate beneath so much cloth!”

  The tropics? The woman beneath him blinked, engulfed by a wave of helplessness. So far from home, from anyone who would help her.

  But where was home? Who were her friends?

  Tears pressed at her eyes, but she refused to give in to the luxury of self-pity. Something told her she had strengths she did not yet remember, strengths honed in a hard struggle for survival.

  She’d teach this madman a lesson, she vowed. He would have to release her soon if he wanted to finish his own undressing. And when he did, she would be ready.

  Catlike, her teal eyes narrowed, studying his face. She concentrated on staying ready; with the effort, she could almost forget the pain gnawing across her back.

  Almost.

  “So, you understand the situation at last. Good.” Pagan worked another hook free, then moved to the next. More and more naked skin sprang into view beneath his unsteady fingers.

  Tormenting skin, the color of pure ecru silk. Skin so warm that a man would go up in smoke at the very first touch.

  Skin such as Pagan had not seen for months.

  Skin he had imagined night after night in fevered dreams.

  His hands slipped on the next hook. She twisted once, pulling free before he shoved her still beneath him. With each movement he had to fight back memories of another woman, a black-haired beauty whom he had kissed beneath a globe of London gaslight.

  But he could not forget. With each touch, the memories grew stronger.

  “Stop struggling, damn it!”

  The garment was nearly free and should have sprung loose. Pagan frowned, wondering why it still clung firmly to her ribs.

  Probably some wretched new device of torture that the women of England had come up with in his absence, he thought irritably.

  Impatiently he tossed her onto her stomach, tugging at the laces crisscrossing the corset’s back. He noticed that the stays were made of iron and smiled darkly. Metal stays didn’t last long in the tropics. Here rust or rot destroyed everything but ivory.

  Evidently no one had told her that.

  Which meant, Pagan concluded, that she was newly out from England. Otherwise she would have learned this already.

  Another fact to store away for future consideration, just in case she persisted in this ludicrous story of having lost her memory.

  Her slim shoulders stiffened. Her rigid posture fired Pagan’s blind fury. So she still insisted on this masquerade of the virgin sacrifice, did she? Ruxley must have paid her a fortune!

  The thought of Ruxley tutoring her in sexual fantasies was the last straw. Smothering a curse, Pagan seized the loosened corset and stripped it from her body.

  And then he went deadly still, staring numbly at her back. What in the name of bloody everlasting hell?

  Blood covered his hands, blood everywhere. Thick and red, it oozed from raw scabs crisscrossing her spine and shoulders, right down to the top of her ridiculous ruffled drawers.

  Why in heaven’s name hadn’t she told him?

  In taut silence Pagan jerked away and stumbled to his feet, his stomach churning. He caught the bedpost, certain he was going to be sick. Who would do such a thing?

  Only then did he hear her soft, choking sob. The sound filled him with self-loathing.

  Either a brave woman or a very clever one, he had thought her. Now he knew which.


  Silently he reached down to cup her shoulder. “Dear heaven, Cinnamon, I—”

  But his captive flinched and struggled away from him. “Don’t!” Blindly she searched for the netting, then tossed it aside and stumbled from the bed. “Don’t touch me or I swear I’ll make you sorry you ever laid eyes upon me!”

  Step by step she inched away from him, one white hand hugging her breasts protectively. Her eyes burned into his face, deep teal pools of pain.

  Never before had Pagan met such a woman. A woman who fought him even now, when her pain must be beyond imagining.

  Nausea gripped him at the memory of her back. “Those wounds … they’ll have to be cleaned.”

  He saw her eyes glisten, hung with tiny diamonds where tears pressed. But she did not cry, and her chin stayed high.

  No, Pagan thought, this woman would not cry easily. Whoever had done this to her probably realized that.

  For a moment rage blocked his vision. He yearned to feel the man’s neck between his fingers.

  And yet in spite of everything else, the sight of her proud face was doing strange things to his pulse. So was the lovely curve of naked skin scarce hidden beneath her trembling fingers. With a body like that she could command a fortune for a night in her bed.

  Damn it, was he nothing but a rutting beast?

  A muscle flashed at his jaw as St. Cyr fought the heat exploding through his veins.

  “Who did it?” he demanded. “Just tell me that much.”

  Some dark, skittering emotion passed over her face as she swayed against the door frame. “I told you, I don’t know. I don’t even know what was done to me. I can remember nothing, don’t you understand? Not a single, wretched thing!” With a choked sob she turned away, squeezing back the tears she could no longer conceal. In a silent rush, the hot salty drops spilled down her cheeks.

  Pagan was at her side before she could fight him, drawing her with rough tenderness against his naked chest. In her pain she did not struggle, only stood stiffly in the circle of his arms.

  He shuddered when he felt her unbound breasts thrust against his naked skin, one perfect crest nestling in his matted hair, setting off a fire storm of exquisite sensation.

  And all the while her tears fell, hot and heavy, searing his naked skin. Each one burned him with a thousand regrets, making his heart twist, making him wish things could have been different between them.

  Through a long and reckless life Deveril Pagan had never let a female make him uncomfortable for a single second. Now in a matter of hours this tawny-haired stranger had turned his world upside down.

  Her nipple shifted in silken torment, and Pagan found himself swallowing audibly. “Damn it, woman, why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  She held herself rigid, too weak to fight him but too strong to let him think she had any liking for his touch. “I’ve done nothing but try to tell you, lackwit!” Her voice rose, choked and unsteady. “Just go away! Leave me alone!” Her lashes dropped, tawny spikes fluttering against her cheeks.

  What would it feel like to plant tiny kisses across those eyelids? he wondered. Across those creamy cheeks? Most of all, across those intoxicating, coral-tipped breasts.

  His fingers tightened unconsciously at the thought.

  She gasped. “Stop—please!”

  His hand froze instantly. Damn it, what was wrong with him? How had she managed to twist him up inside this way? This fresh evidence of his loss of control fired his fury anew. “Don’t worry, it meant nothing—less than nothing. What you’re feeling is merely the response of a man long in the jungle. Right now any whore would make me hard.” He made his voice flat and impersonal.

  She raised her face then, mesmerizing Pagan with the changeable hues of her teal eyes.

  “Who did this to you? A jealous lover? A husband who returned home unexpectedly to find you pleasuring his best friend? Or was it Ruxley himself, irritated when you didn’t learn his lessons promptly enough?” He spoke with cold, cutting precision and had the shallow pleasure of seeing her grow paler with every word.

  Except that it brought him no pleasure, Pagan discovered. Instead the sight left him sick inside.

  She jerked away and sank back against the wall. “’Twas a man, that much I know. A man like you. Someone big and loud and cruel.”

  “I’m going to have to clean those wounds, Cinnamon. It’s going to be—unpleasant.”

  She swayed slightly. Her lips clamped down suddenly and her fingers whitened on the wall. “Don’t worry about me, Mr. Pagan. You’d better worry about yourself!”

  You’re brave, Cinnamon, Pagan thought. But the ragged beat of the vein at your temple tells me any minute you’re going to find yourself flat on the floor.

  Meanwhile the carbolic acid was going to hurt like hell.

  With a low curse, Pagan forced himself to watch and wait. He gave her about thirty seconds.

  Her eyes closed and her lashes fell, a curtain of gold across her cheeks. She might almost have been insensible, except for the vein pounding at the base of her neck.

  Seconds passed. Soundlessly he raised the net and stalked closer.

  Twenty seconds…

  Her fingers relaxed slightly. Her lashes fluttered. He was close enough now to hear her jerky breathing.

  Ten…

  He waited like a silent predator hidden in the bush, powerful flanks tensed. Knowing her weakness better than she did.

  And when her breath fled sharply and her knees gave way, he was already bending forward to catch her, one broad palm cupping her shoulder, the other wrapped about her waist. Grimly, he pulled her into his arms and anchored her against his chest, fighting the fire that scorched him where her nipple thrust against his rib.

  A shudder shook her, raging the whole length of her slim body. “I’m not crying. I n-never cry,” she mumbled, her eyes dark with tears and defiance.

  A moment later her head fell onto his shoulder, golden hair spilling across his chest like a burnished curtain.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Pagan groaned, twisting against the knives stabbing at his stomach. The heat was there, just as before, only now it was mixed with piercing pain.

  “Tiger-sahib?”

  The words were soft, uncertain.

  “Drink, my lord.”

  “What the bloody—” Cold china met his dry lips and bitter liquid slipped down his throat. Coughing, he twisted, forced to swallow. Cinchona, he thought dimly. Foul, but effective.

  “More please, Tiger-sahib.” Soft fingers anchored his head.

  Mita, Pagan realized. Not the Angrezi woman with fire in her hair and fury in her eyes. Mita: an Indian beauty who wore her love for him openly in her shining eyes.

  A woman he would never touch, because to do so would hurt her far more than she had been hurt in the brothel Pagan had freed her from in London.

  But what was Mita doing here? He’d left her back at Windhaven.

  Scowling, Pagan emptied the last of the foul potion, then fell back against the pillow. Dimly he realized he was in a cot in the little shed he used for an office. He remembered staggering here the night before as the fevers swept over him.

  “Wh-what day, Mita?” he muttered in Hindi.

  “Thursday, sahib, just after dawn. You are sleeping a day and a night. Fever is going down now, I am thinking.”

  Her patient grunted noncommittally. “Dawn?” he repeated. Then, more sharply, “Thursday? Where is the Angrezi-memsab?”

  There was the faintest hesitation. “The yellow-hair?”

  Pagan heard the tightness in Mita’s voice. “Yes, the yellow-haired one.”

  “In the sahib’s room. She is waking once, and I am giving her coconut milk. But she is only saying something angry to me, then pushing it away.”

  Pagan’s lips curved into a smile. He could imagine exactly what his fiery trespasser had said upon being presented with a bowl of tepid coconut milk. “The memsahib sleeps still?”

  “Yes, Tiger. You are
wishing me to—”

  Pagan threw back the covers and pushed unsteadily to his feet. “Never mind, Mita. I’ll see to the memsab myself.” Wobbling, he reached for the bedpost, then felt Mita’s slim, strong hand slip beneath his armpit. His lips twisted in irritation at his weakness. “Once again I must thank you.”

  The woman shook her head sharply. “No thanks are owing to me, lord. Serving you is my duty.” Her dark lashes swept down for a moment, and then she looked up at him with luminous brown eyes. “It is also my greatest pleasure, Tiger-sahib.”

  For the fifth time in as many weeks, Pagan reminded himself that he must find some way to cure Mita’s hero worship. Ever since he had rescued her from the two louts outside a low-class London brothel just two streets away from Helene’s, Mita had looked upon him with total adoration.

  Pagan knew that if he chose to take her to his bed, she would offer no objection. In fact, she would be delighted.

  Unlike the woman sleeping in his bed right now, he thought irritably.

  Bloody everlasting hell!

  But Pagan had not bedded Mita, because he knew too well what it would do to them both. There could only be pain where one of them loved too much, and the other loved far from enough.

  Yet sometimes when the delirium was high on him, as it was now, his abstinence proved damnably painful. What matter if he thought of the honey-haired woman, as long as Mita was willing?

  Gripping the bedpost, Pagan looked down. Belatedly he realized he was stark naked. Worse yet, all this thought of bed partners was making his body stiffen and swell.

  “Bring me my clothes, Mita, and also my boots. Then see that Nihal makes a light repast—eggs, tea, some sort of cakes. He can bring it up to my room.” The struggle to control his desire made his voice unnaturally harsh.

  The woman’s lips quivered in disappointment. Most painful of all, Pagan knew, was his clear insistence that Nihal bring the food up to the bungalow, rather than herself.

  But he decided to begin the process of disillusioning her right now. He was a cold-hearted bastard who would do nothing but break her heart if she let him, and the sooner she got used to that idea the better.