The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  A woman who infuriated him, tormented him, delighted him.

  A woman such as he’d never met before and would surely never meet again.

  A woman he could never allow a heartbeat closer than this, Pagan thought bitterly. Because she couldn’t remember, and he couldn’t forget.

  Against his bare chest her breasts rose and fell in short, jerky bursts. “W-why? Why are you saying these things?”

  “Why? Because I’m a bastard, my dear Barrett.” Even now the name stung his lips, kindling heated memories. “Because I’m a liar and a cheat and a hardened scoundrel. Don’t ever forget it.”

  “That’s not true! You are none of those things. At least not all the time,” she amended carefully. “And you are capable of kindness—great kindness.”

  “Is it proof you’re looking for? So be it.” With a smothered curse, he lifted her from the ground, driving her against his swelling arousal. “That’s the only thing I care for, Angrezi, there against your belly. It’s nothing personal, of course. Any woman will do. If you believe anything else, then you’re bound for disappointment.”

  It was a lie of course, but some demon drove him to shock her, repulse her. Maybe if he read revulsion in those beautiful eyes he could forget her, forget this tormenting hunger…

  Pagan gritted his teeth as he felt the melting softness of her thighs, heard the ragged rush of her breath. How much he wanted her. Right there on the sand, with her hair wild and glorious, wrapping them in a sweet, silken cloud. With her soft skin on fire and her thighs straining against his throbbing manhood. With her breathy sighs of pleasure like rain in his ears.

  But such a thing was impossible. No one knew that better than he.

  So instead of tossing her down and filling her as his body urged, he dropped her onto the ground and turned away, tormented by all the things that could never be.

  “You’re lying,” she said furiously. “For the last time, I want to know why.”

  “Because your name is Barrett, that’s why,” Pagan said curtly, striding up the beach without another word.

  When they reached Pagan’s bungalow, the lanterns were lit. The moment Pagan strode out of the jungle, Mita darted down the steps, anxiety creasing her fragile features.

  “Sahib! We are all worrying so very much about you! Nihal has just gone for a rifle so that we could search the beach. You have not been hurt, have you? We are hearing the roars of the leopard.”

  Grim-faced, Pagan strode across the small clearing and thundered up the steps to the porch.

  When the lantern light fell upon him, the Indian woman gasped. “But, sahib—you have been hurt!”

  “Nothing serious, Mita. Just three more of Ruxley’s men who cornered us down on the beach.”

  “Where is this foul offal of the Angrezi dog-merchant?”

  “Two fled on foot. The other one is still on the beach. He won’t be going anywhere.” Pagan’s eyes hardened. “Tell Nihal to see to the man’s burial. Unless the leopards have gotten to him first, that is.”

  “Which is only what all the misbegotten jackal-sons are deserving! I go to fetch medicine and bandages, my lord.” She darted back into the bungalow, and Pagan followed.

  At the top of the steps, he turned. In the swaying light of the oil lantern, the scar below his restored eyepatch gleamed in an angry slash of silver. “I advise you to seek your bed early, Angrezi. You’ll need all your strength. We leave at dawn tomorrow.”

  Pagan did not take his own advice that night.

  After cleaning and bandaging his forehead with gauze, he paced, far too restless for sleep. Barefoot, he stalked the polished planks of his room again and again, unable to relax. Irritated, he scowled down at a sheet of paper on his desk. It was in the same pristine state that it had been in three days ago, although it had to be finished and sent off with a runner before they left in the morning.

  But somehow whenever he sat down in front of the ivory sheet, all Pagan saw was Barrett’s pale face when the leopards emerged from the jungle and her proud back when she darted toward the ocean.

  Or her slim thighs, naked and sea-slick beneath his white shirt.

  Vainly he tried to ignore the heat that surged through his unrepentant body and tightened his manhood. Scowling, he tossed three fingers of whiskey into a glass and drank it down straight.

  He grimaced as the liquid fire leaped through him, burning a path down to his toes. It was too bloody long since he’d had a woman, that was all!

  But the whiskey’s heat was not nearly as searing as the fire that mocked him at the thought of the woman sleeping just down the hall. Right now her sunset hair would be spilling over the pillow. Her body would be veiled in a sheer chemise, and her skin would be like warm satin, flushed with sleep.

  Yes, if he went to her now, she would open to him in passion before she knew it.

  In a minute he would have her hot and breathless, panting for his possession, begging for his throbbing invasion.

  With a black curse Pagan smashed down his empty glass and spun about to pace once more.

  How had the witch managed to burrow beneath his skin like this? Was he still befuddled from his last bout with malaria? Or was it because of his long weeks of enforced solitude, far from female companionship?

  Pagan scowled. At that moment he didn’t really care why.

  All that mattered now was that he get free of her, so he could clear his head. Already this damnable obsession had come close to costing him his life—and hers along with it. No one but an utter fool would have allowed himself to be caught without a rifle, after all.

  And the situation was only going to get worse. There would be no relief for him—in mind or in body—until he burned her from his blood once and for all.

  But perhaps there was another way. His eyes narrowed, dark as the shadows outside the bungalow.

  Yes, perhaps Mita was the answer. The girl obviously adored him, even though her worship was based on a heroic image Pagan knew did not exist. More than once since their return from London she had told him he was welcome in her bed, so why did he continue to deny himself? He would be gentle with her, after all, seeing to her pleasure before he took his own.

  The planter’s face hardened as he turned to pour himself another glass of whiskey.

  The notion was utterly repellent to him.

  By Shiva, hadn’t he shed the last of his constricting English morality long ago?

  At that moment a soft rustle from the hall caught him up short. Slowly he lowered his glass, listening intently.

  Again it came, the soft whisper of fine cloth on bare skin. This time there was something furtive about the sound. It was too light to be Nihal or one of the housemen, and Mita’s step was quicker. Which left only—

  Grim-faced, Pagan waited. Outside the footsteps drew closer. He felt his fingers freeze on the cool rim of his glass. Only inches away he heard the faint swish of fabric.

  His heart drumming, he forced himself to wait, motionless. After what seemed an eternity the low footsteps passed on down the corridor toward the front of the bungalow.

  Going outside?

  A muscle flashing at his jaw, Pagan inched open the door. A single oil lamp flickered on a carved teak cabinet down the corridor, spilling golden light across the bungalow’s burnished floor. And in the light appeared a vision of heart-stopping beauty, clad in sheer, flowing lawn, which clung to slim thighs and softly curving hips.

  So it was Barrett.

  As he watched, the white-clad figure glided on down the corridor, her hair wild and golden, shot through with a thousand shades of sunlight. Guinea-gold, amber, and copper it was, like a sun exploding from the shadows.

  In a haze of anger Pagan watched her glide toward the front door. So that’s your game, is it, my sweet? In that case, let’s see just whom you ‘re stealing off to meet.

  As he waited, silent and motionless, the Englishwoman opened the rattan door and slipped out onto the porch. In angry silence Pagan followed, his ha
rd eyes never moving from her back. To her right lay the kitchens, the servants’ quarters, and the rice stores. To her left lay the tea-drying sheds and Pagan’s workrooms.

  Which was it to be?

  For long seconds she stood unmoving, her hands clenched at her sides. Her head tilted, she listened to the myriad night noises of the jungle.

  Louder and louder grew the pounding of Pagan’s heart. With each passing second the fury in him swelled.

  Just a few seconds more, he thought grimly. Then he would have his answers. And he would deal with her treachery exactly as she deserved.

  But the object of Pagan’s fury moved neither right nor left. She merely swayed slightly from foot to foot, the trailing white hem of her gown whispering over the veranda’s wooden planks.

  Some new trick? Pagan wondered as he watched her strange, silent dance.

  What are you waiting for, Cinnamon? The low whisper of an accomplice somewhere in the night? A furtive light shone from the edge of the path to the beach? Or perhaps the rattle of pebbles against the bamboo lattice at the door?

  Does he make your breath catch when he touches you? Do you tremble and sway against him as you do to me?

  Fury surged through Pagan. How well she had deceived him. It had been cleverly done, the whole bloody plan. No doubt even her name was a lie!

  For some reason that thought infuriated Pagan as nothing else had.

  He stalked down the hall. His tread was light, his boots noiseless against the cacophony of the jungle night—insects shrill and ceaseless, monkeys chattering, towering trees creaking and groaning in the wind.

  Even when he came to a halt inches from her back, she did not move.

  “Waiting for someone?”

  Pagan waited for her guilty jump, the rush of checked breath, the blur of her white face flashing around to him in fear and consternation.

  None of those things happened.

  She did not move in the slightest, only continued to stare up in silence at the lantern hanging on a notched post at the roof of the veranda.

  “Turn around, Angrezi,” Pagan ordered brusquely. The farce had gone on long enough!

  She did not move.

  Pagan’s lips flattened to a cold line. “I’m speaking to you, damn it!”

  Slowly her perfect brow creased. Her lips trembled slightly, then began to move, making no sound.

  Pagan could stand no more. With a fierce growl, he seized her lawn-clad shoulders and spun her about to face him. Huge and unfocused, her eyes swept over his face.

  And peered right through him.

  “What new trick is this, woman?” He shook her sharply, goaded nearly past endurance by her act. But he was treated once again to an unfocused stare.

  He felt the first threads of uncertainty curl through him.

  Was it possible that she was not pretending?

  “Wake up, woman!” He caught her cheeks between his fingers, muttering a curse when she gave no sign of noticing.

  The woman was asleep.

  Pagan stared down at her in stunned realization. She was unaware of him and everything else around her. He had heard of such things, of course, but never before had he witnessed it firsthand. Perhaps the loss of memory led her to relive the past in her sleep, exploring events closed to her in waking.

  With fingers suddenly gentle, Pagan tried to turn her face away from the light, but she would not budge. She stared at the lantern as if obsessed.

  And then her lips moved, forming soft, inchoate words. Suddenly she stiffened, then twisted, raising a hand to cover her head, as if warding off a phantom blow. Again and again she dodged, her eyes wide and desperate, fixed on a nonexistent attacker.

  The grim pantomime chilled Pagan to the bone. He realized he was watching something from her past.

  His strong hands cupped her shoulders. “Come, Cinnamon,” he whispered, sliding an arm beneath her cascading hair and trying to guide her about. “Forget all this. It will only give you pain. You must rest now. You are safe here—safe with me.”

  She caught a trembling lip between her teeth. Pagan saw blood pool up on the sensitive skin.

  “M-mustn’t tell,” she whispered raggedly. “N-not ever. P-promised Grandfather.” She flinched, perceiving the hands locked at her shoulders. Wildly she twisted, eyes wide, fingers flailing as she tried to claw free of his restraining grip, taking him for her forgotten attacker.

  Pagan muttered a curse and caught her wrists to his chest, where she could do no harm—to her or to himself.

  She wrenched at him vainly, her lovely eyes laced with tears. “L-let go! Dear heaven—no more! Just let me die!”

  Her choked cry plunged dagger-sharp, straight into Pagan’s heart. It sent rage coursing through him, for the fiends who had done such things to her. “Stop it, Barrett,” he ordered.

  Did her shoulders stiffen at that name or was it merely his imagination?

  “You are safe here,” Pagan said, his words slow and very clear. “But it is late. The moon is nearly mid-heaven. It’s time to go.”

  He heard her low, raw whisper. “G-go where?”

  “To sleep, meri jaan,” he said softly. “To forget—or perhaps to forget that you forget.” With gentle fingers he pushed her about and this time she let herself be guided, leaning slightly against him as they moved inside, back down the hall.

  With every step Pagan’s agony increased. He fought but could not ignore the tormenting outline of her shadowed nipples beneath the thin chemise. The wild throb of the vein at her neck. The golden curl that spilled forward onto his naked chest, making heat pool thickly at his groin.

  And like a thousand other times since his return from London, Pagan found himself cursing James Ruxley’s fanatic obsession. But most of all he cursed himself.

  For being neither strong enough nor smart enough to avoid falling into Ruxley’s last trap, the most ingenious trap of all.

  For loving her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  She slept, tugging the tangled sheet to her cheek like a child with a cherished blanket.

  But Barrett was no more a child. Already her body had begun its sweet, sensual awakening. She shivered, stirred with a strange energy at her limbs. All unprepared, she was swept into an uncharted realm where giving meant receiving, where torment and pleasure were one.

  She slept and dreamed—and knew that she was dreaming.

  She forgot, then forgot her forgetting.

  And in her dreams she wore golden bells and finest silk—and nothing else. Her hair swayed, unbound, catching the light of a thousand candles, and she was the fairest candle among them, her skin glistening with a flame reflected from deep within.

  It was the flame of love, and he its object, a man forged of shadows and steel, his eyes the eyes of night itself. It seemed to her that she had loved him forever, this hard-faced stranger, girded in darkness and in dreams.

  Or in nightmares.

  She gasped, staring at his rippling strength, feeling keenest pain and a hunger for—

  For she knew not what. And desired it still.

  She closed her eyes, biting back a cry. In the next heartbeat his hands were there, holding her, stroking her, learning her.

  Stop, she tried to order, but he did not, for now her voice was low and raw with the soft cries of her own need.

  He bared her. He opened her to hot, shivering pleasure and a thousand stunned discoveries. He closed her to her own past and made this thing between them her only future. In his hands hunger was made solid, pleasure made palpable, breath linked to breath and skin to aching skin.

  In her dream she died, wrapped in burning silence, flaming against the darkness in fiery ecstasy. And he was there to catch her, pillowing her against his hard bronze body. In taut silence he began to move again, with slow, honeyed strokes that showed her this death was only the beginning and that the hunger never stopped, only changed, like the shadows dancing in the tide, like the changing phosphorous trails that speckled the night se
a.

  “Now,” he whispered, bringing the fire deep within her.

  “Mine,” he sighed, burying himself so deep that the fire melted them into one. “Mine, now and forever.”

  Barrett shivered blindly, taking the heat he gave and adding to it her own. She did not fight him now, too rapt with the sudden, shattering newness, wondering at this strange hard man who turned her own body strange and new.

  And ineffably beautiful.

  “Yours,” she answered, not knowing what it meant, nor even caring.

  All she did was forget. And in that forgetting she was whole again, new and strong.

  And completely his.

  She slept for hours or perhaps for aeons, like the fabled beauty in her thorn-locked bower.

  When she awoke, it was not to dreams but to the shrill cry of insects and the sound of raucous laughter.

  Gone the velvet darkness, gone the perfect pairing of sleek hot flesh.

  Now her head throbbed and her back prickled, dry and rasping.

  Her eyelids flickered open, and she saw a large green parakeet sitting on the windowsill shrieking at a lizard.

  Memory—and all her terrible lack of it—rushed over her.

  Her eyes closed and she dug shaking fingers into her forehead.

  Better to forget. No, essential to forget, for there was too much pain lurking there. Sometime, when the pain faded, she might finally begin to remember.

  But for now she had a name! The memory would anchor her until all the other memories returned.

  Outside her window, a tree shook wildly. Slowly Barrett sat up, her back pressed against the rattan headboard. Dear heaven, please not a leopard.

  She had had enough of leopards, beautiful though they were.

  The next moment a furry form dropped onto the sill, where she perched daintily, surveying the room with a piquant little face framed in a halo of silver fur.

  It was Pagan’s inquisitive pet.

  “Magic? That’s what Pagan calls you, isn’t it?”

  The monkey turned liquid eyes on the woman in the bed. A moment later the creature hopped down, darted across the floor, and skittered beneath the edge of the mosquito net. Chattering brightly, she jumped up beside Barrett, her small head bobbing all the while.