The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  “No what?”

  “No—no sign of infection.” How had the tawny-haired creature manage to strip him of thirty years of logic and hard-won skepticism in less than forty-eight hours?

  Get your wits about you, man. This one may be well more dangerous than any tiger.

  And then he was done. He tugged her dressing gown back in place. Barely was he finished when his patient spun about, her face ashen. “You hurt me, damn you!” Her eyes were dark with pain and accusation.

  Suddenly Pagan recalled how still she had stood while he worked feverishly at his task. And he had been congratulating himself on his skill…

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Would it have made any difference if I had?”

  His jaw locked. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered, considering the raw state he’d been in.

  Hell, the state he was still in.

  “I’m … sorry, Cinnamon.”

  She tried to turn away, but he cupped her cheeks and forced her head up to his gaze, cursing when he saw two bright tears trembling on her skin.

  Mesmerized, he slipped the liquid diamonds onto his forefinger and drew them gently to his mouth.

  He shuddered as he tasted the salt of her body. It made him wonder how the rest of her would taste.

  Abruptly he spun her about and pushed her toward the bed, where her dress lay flung in a silken pool. “Get dressed. The cove won’t be safe after dark.”

  He saw a string of emotions play across her face, fury, surprise, and uncertainty. What he had not expected to see was the disappointment that skittered briefly through her lovely, haunted eyes.

  The sight made his blood burn with raw triumph.

  Her slim fingers pleated and unpleated the silk dressing gown at her chest. “S-safe? What do you mean?”

  She was as wary as a sambhur doe at twilight, Pagan thought. And just as beautiful.

  “At last light the great cats go down to clean themselves in the tides. And, of course, to eat. Now that the drought has come you can hear the cry of the leopards all along the coast, since their usual water holes have dried up.”

  And what about the tiger? Pagan asked himself. Or was that simply another one of his nightmares?

  “H-how do I—That is, what shall I—”

  “Wear?” His voice was low and deep. “Steamy, scented air, Angrezi. And not a bloody thing else.”

  If he couldn’t touch her, Pagan decided grimly, then at least he could damned well look at her.

  A chill rain hammered down over the granite mansion, crushing the roses and shaking the gleaming glass panes of the only house whose lamps were still lit at this late hour.

  But the house’s owner seemed not to notice. He sat alone, a thin man with cold eyes in a room rich with old and very precious things.

  His slender fingers filled a crystal goblet with fine, aged brandy, then raised the glass in a silent toast. Well done, old man, he thought, studying the liquid’s hue and clarity before sipping slowly and appreciatively, like the careful connoisseur he was.

  Then his thin lips twisted. Let them think it was coincidence that brought them together again. Yes, magic was a powerful tool, if one believed strongly enough.

  But that fool aboard the Orient Queen had bungled things. Now the little harlot had lost her memory.

  A faint smile crossed his face. But maybe that would work to his advantage too. In the meantime, he’d repay his informant well for that valuable bit of information. There had been no sign of the ruby as yet, but that was hardly surprising. St. Cyr was far too clever a man to keep such a gem anywhere but in a very safe place.

  His thin features hardened. He set down his goblet and reached into his pocket, drawing out a small key on a chain of wrought gold. Bending down, he fit the key into the top drawer of his desk. From the shadows within he lifted out a marquetry box of mahogany and rosewood.

  Inside gleamed an empty bed of pure white satin. As he stared down, a strange fire lit his chill eyes.

  So damnably close!

  Creighton was to have seized the stone before he murdered that fool Sir Humphrey. But it appeared someone had already made off with the jewel.

  His pale hands caressed the white satin reverently. With each movement the telltale flame in his eyes burned brighter.

  But he must not be impatient, James Ruxley reminded himself, stroking the snow-white cloth.

  Soon he would have his ruby, along with everything else that he wanted. Neither heaven nor earth could stop him now.

  Certainly not one stubborn insignificant female.

  The very best part of all, he decided smugly, would be seeing Deveril Pagan’s face when he realized exactly what he’d lost.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The wind began to rise as they left the compound. Furious, the Englishwoman fought to keep her eyes from the tall figure before her, a rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder. High over their heads a monkey screamed shrilly from the dense branches and was joined by several of its mates. A crimson bird darted from the green canopy of foliage high above, then disappeared in a burst of red plumage.

  So alien, she thought.

  So painfully strange.

  And yet there was something seductive about this phantasm of life burning in restless fury, of colors and sounds and life force pushed to their limits, then squandered just as recklessly.

  Something told her life was lived the same way here in the jungle, recklessly and urgently, with the knowledge that death was always heartbeats away.

  Her eyes swept the green world before her. Jungle everywhere, a great pulsing wall of life, green calyx, emerald bough, and olive stamen. Raucous leaves atremble, the wall heaved and shuddered with life.

  And with death.

  Even now the air hung heavy with the green smells of mango, frangipani, and decomposing leaves.

  Life burst through ten thousand hidden roots, pushing out greedy buds and shoots in a desperate frenzy to reach the sun hidden high above the forest floor. Each being was reckless to live, even if its life encroached on another’s.

  From somewhere to her right came the frantic thunder of an animal charging through the underbrush, followed by a sharp wail of pain.

  After that, only silence.

  Fear whispered down her spine.

  Amid this churning storm of life lurked the death. Always it waited, the silent background to this kaleidoscopic vitality.

  The snap of a twig sent her gaze darting to the strange, unyielding figure several feet in front of her. His eye patch lay like a dark slash against his bronzed face, making his harsh features seem even harsher.

  And as always, she found his maleness arresting, nearly tangible.

  Entirely fascinating.

  He was an enigma.

  He did not trust her, yet he had rescued her. He did not appear to like her, but he desired her. He seemed not to want her anywhere near him, and yet he saw to her comforts and cared for her wounds.

  She sensed she had never known such a man before, and that she never would again.

  A rush of curiosity swept over her as she watched the long-limbed planter stride forward, oblivious to her scrutiny. What stirred such a man? How had he come by the wound that hid beneath his black eye patch? What dreams kept him slaving in the torrid heat while any reasonable Englishman would have retreated to comfort, allowing his hirelings to manage everything that resembled real work.

  But there was nothing reasonable about Deveril Pagan’s lean, brooding face and rigid body, she concluded. All granite and steel, he was the sort of person who lived each day as if it were his last and seemed to expect everyone else to do the same.

  And what about this man Ruxley? Despite her bravado, the name left her with a chill feeling.

  If Pagan was right, she was indeed a pawn in their game.

  The only question was whose pawn.

  Her lips clenched in fury. Careless in her irritation, she allowed her toe to snag on a gnarled r
oot hidden in the long, dry grass. She stumbled, managed to right herself, and muttered something very unladylike beneath her breath. “Mr. Pagan!”

  The silent figure halted, then turned to stare at her, his dark eye hooded, his face unreadable in the mottled shadows beneath the jungle’s canopy.

  “Will you slow your steps or are you hoping that I’ll break my neck?”

  “If you’d care for my hand, Empress, all you have to do is ask.” His smile was wolfish.

  “I do not need your hand, lackwit. All I need is for you to slow down.”

  Pagan’s lips eased back into a wide smile. “Ask nicely, Angrezi, and I might just consider it.”

  Color washed through her cheeks.

  Her back throbbed. Her ankle ached, and she was damnably hot beneath a dozen yards of constricting cloth. But more than anything else it was the sight of Pagan’s long-limbed ease and goading challenge that fueled her fury.

  “Forget it!” she snapped. “Forget everything! Let us turn back right now.” With an angry twitch of her skirts, she whirled about and began to stalk back toward the compound.

  “By Shiva, you’re a stubborn woman.” A moment later, Pagan seized her wrist and spun her about. His cold gaze raked her face and neck, where even now tiny beads of moisture had begun to collect. “You’re burning up, Angrezi. Your skin is just aching for a touch of that cool water.” His eye glittered. “And to strip out of those damned, confining clothes. Admit it, Cinnamon.”

  “I—I will do nothing of the sort!” she began to sputter, only to find herself hauled hard against his chest.

  He smelled of soap and salt and a faint smokiness—not quite like tobacco, but greener.

  Tea, she realized. Tea roasted and fermenting.

  It was a lovely, intoxicating smell. Unconsciously she leaned closer, inhaling slightly. Only because of the tea, she told herself a second later, pulling back unsteadily.

  Of course it was the tea! She had always loved tea—green and delicate or black and pungent. No coffee or morning chocolate for her.

  Her breath caught abruptly.

  She had done it! She had remembered something. Her pulse hammered as she caught a ragged breath, eager to share her discovery with Pagan.

  But the words froze on her lips when she looked up to find him studying her. No, not studying. Nothing so tame as studying, she thought dimly.

  For this man never would be tame. And right now his gaze was searing her, devouring her.

  Possessing her.

  Her breath wedged in her throat as he pulled her closer. His thighs lay hard as ropes against her belly, taut with a need unmistakable even through her skirts. His scent wrapped around her, leaving her dizzy. His touch unnerved her and made her feel oddly reckless.

  Desperate to escape the pull of that obsidian eye, she dropped her head, only to feel her nose burrow into the warm V of open skin at his neck. She blinked at the touch of hot man-scented skin matted with mahogany hair. A curling strand tickled her nose. She wrinkled her nose absently and found herself wondering…

  Somehow her tongue found its way to the errant strand. She had meant only to nudge the hair aside, but suddenly she was testing its strength and play instead, tongue to his heated skin.

  Pagan’s hands tightened convulsively on her wrists. He muttered a low, dark oath.

  Her mouth curved in a smile. Prompted by some instinct she could not quite explain, the teal-eyed Englishwoman inched closer. Her teeth caught the dark, springy hair and tugged.

  “Sweet heaven,” Pagan muttered, releasing her wrists to capture her head. “Don’t stop now, Angrezi.”

  His raw plea jerked her from her sensual trance.

  But not before she discovered exactly how he felt.

  Good. Too good by half. All man, a man who made her feel all woman.

  His skin was the warmth of life itself, his voice as rough and elemental as tree bark against naked skin.

  Her naked skin.

  Other images began to burn through her, images of his big, bronze hands upon her heated flesh. Images of his callused fingers, teasing and tormenting. Taking—whatever he wanted.

  And her wanting him to take, more and more, until the wanting became all she was, the waiting a wild madness in bone and blood.

  What was he doing to her?

  Her fingers balled into fists, hammering at his chest. She twisted her head, trying to break free of the fingers anchoring her cheeks. “L-let me go!”

  “Why?” Pagan said slowly. His face hardened. “You liked that just as much as I did. So why the sudden switch?” Ignoring her flailing hands, Pagan forced her face up to his scorching gaze. “Maybe Ruxley didn’t take your training far enough, Angrezi. Let me show you how it’s really done. How to break a man into a thousand, tiny pieces.”

  His face was dark with fury as he bent close. “First of all, when you touch a man, look like you enjoy it. Move. Whisper. Shiver. That gives your performance a look of a

  authenticity.” A muscle flashed at the steely line of his jaw. “Then part your lips and look at your prey like you did at me a few moments ago, all stunned and wanting. All wanton innocence. By heaven, you could bring a man to his knees in seconds with a look like that.”

  Pagan’s gaze burned over her face, his features shadowed by the screening trees, dark lines carved into the darker planes at his brow and mouth.

  His voice hardened. “Above all, my dear, watch his eyes. Note his changing emotions. Calculate his weaknesses. And be careful to make him think he is the only thing in the whole world that matters to you. You cannot imagine how that fires a man’s ego,” he added bitterly.

  She stiffened in his arms, horrified by his cynical recital.

  Could it be true? Were there actually women who did such things for money or power?

  And had she once been one of them, back before her memory was stripped from her?

  A shiver worked through her numb body. She swayed, sick with some premonition of horror too black for words. Even now it lurked just beyond the edge of her consciousness. If only she could remember…

  Pagan gave a low, raw laugh. “Brava, my dear. How quickly you learn. I understand now why Ruxley chose you for this task. But your training is still far from complete.” His hands splayed open upon her wrists, his thumbs kneading the sensitive hollows of her palms. “And if the other things don’t get you what you want, just slant that beautiful head back and wait, all the time pressing those soft thighs against your poor, deluded victim. He’ll have no chance against such an assault. In no time at all you’ll have the poor fool eating out of your hand.”

  “S-stop, Pagan,” she began unsteadily. “It—it wasn’t like that.”

  His lips twisted bitterly. “No? Then tell me how it was, Cinnamon. Behold me, all impatience to hear.”

  This time she heard the bitterness in his voice, and saw in his face the dark ghosts of regret and despair. She had no liking for the man, of course, but honesty compelled her to try to explain what she had just done. “I—I didn’t plan it. I didn’t think, I just—” Wide and shimmering, her eyes fixed on his rigid face. “Somehow it just happened. “

  Pride stopped her from saying more. Not when his reserve was so fierce and complete. She caught her lip between her teeth, struggling for control. “Do not be dismayed. It will never happen again, I assure you,” she said stiffly.

  Pagan’s eyes narrowed on her soft lips. “Ah, there you’re wrong, Angrezi. It will happen again. Whenever and wherever I want it to happen.” His fingers tightened. “And I find, woman, that I want it again right now.”

  A heartbeat later his mouth came down against hers, hard and hungry, crushing and possessing, all teeth and tongue and angry male.

  She tried to scream, but could not.

  She tried to make herself cold, but was not.

  Entirely the opposite. Her heart hammering, she fought to keep from pressing closer, from sliding down into the sensual fury of his touch, like one of those brazen, hateful wo
man he had just described to her.

  Back and forth his mouth ground over hers, rough and commanding. Hot and hard, his tongue probed the locked line of her mouth. And when she did not yield, Pagan changed his strategy with lightning speed. Possession turned to persuasion. Toying, coaxing, his lips roamed over her with slow thoroughness. Sleek. Wet. Like hot velvet.

  Her breath caught in a jerky sigh. He heard it, and laughed deep in his throat. Slowly he tongued her again and this time earned his victory, sliding deep into her satin darkness, tasting her fiercely.

  “Cinnamon…” He groaned the name, and the word was dark with the sound of his own need and his own raw discoveries.

  Her legs grew weak. Her hands rose and clung desperately to his shoulders. All the time she prayed that he would stop.

  And realized that if he did, she would surely die.

  “Say it, Cinnamon. Tell me you want it too.”

  “N-no!”

  But her blood became a fierce, hungry thing. Roused from decades of sleep, it now charged through her wildly, racing into every inch and corner of her body, noisy with rage at being disturbed from the long slumbers of innocence.

  “‘P-Pagan,” she began, only to feel his mouth move. The next instant her lips sheathed his hard tongue.

  He groaned deep in his throat, his fingers capturing her hot cheeks. “By all that is holy, you make an apt student. Harder this time.” His tongue withdrew, then flickered over her lips in light, feathering strokes.

  Until she hungered to do his bidding. But it could not be!

  “Stop it, damn you!” Ashen-faced, she jerked free of his anchoring fingers, then drove a fist flush into his jaw.

  Pagan released her, cursing. His face promised a terrible vengeance.

  “Listen to me, you bloody, wretched man! I’m no whore! And I’m no pawn of Ruxley’s. When will you begin to accept that?”

  One dark brow snaked skyward in disbelief. “How do you know, if you’ve lost your memory?”

  “Very well, I don’t think I am,” his captive beauty countered in angry, scrupulous honesty. “I would never do such a thing by choice, that much I know.”

  “Talk is cheap, Angrezi.”