The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

  So they were back to that, were they? Barrett squared her shoulders angrily, refusing to be baited. “Actually, the thought never crossed my mind, Mr. Pagan. But then I had no reason to think of it. I’ve never spent time with anyone who would fire a few cartridges first and ask questions later.”

  Pagan’s eyes bored into her face. “You better be damned glad I am that sort, my dear. If I weren’t, you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it out of this jungle alive.”

  The cold certainty in his eyes left Barrett no doubt that he was telling the truth, but pride made her raise her chin. Only with a great effort did she manage to keep her eyes from the bronze expanse of muscle bunching and rippling across his chest. “Since when has privacy become so important to you? As I recall, you have invaded my own often enough.”

  Scowling, Pagan slanted the rifle against a boulder and then leaned back, studying her through hooded eyes. “You have no privacy, Cinnamon. Not here on my land. Not with Ruxley’s men at our heels. No, here you have only what I choose to accord you and nothing else.”

  He watched her eyes flare azure at his words. Shock and something else swirled through their dark depths.

  What else, Angrezi? Is it cunning? Calculation? Or is it something far more primal? Something like what I’m feeling right now?

  Damn it, he wasn’t about to ask her.

  Instead, fighting down his churning hunger, Pagan grabbed his towel and swept his jaw clean of the last lingering traces of soap, then slung the towel over his shoulder. His last task was to slip his black eyepatch back in place. “Now what was so important that you had to charge off into the jungle without an escort? In express defiance of my orders, of course. Not that a little thing like that would bother you.”

  Her eyes wide, Barrett stared at the towel slung so casually over his left shoulder. Mesmerized, she studied the line of pale cloth so different from the dark, heated bronze of Pagan’s skin.

  Skin that would flex smoothly, warm and alive beneath her fingers.

  Pagan lounged back lazily, his eyes never leaving hers, simply waiting.

  Barrett’s breath caught as she realized where she was and exactly what she was doing. The man truly was a pagan, she thought wildly. Worse yet, when she was with him he made her feel like a pagan, too!

  “I simply wanted to know how far it is to our destination,” she muttered with clenched teeth. “To this place you call Windhaven. Nihal will tell me nothing, and Mita very little more.”

  “Does it matter, Angrezi? Surely you haven’t tired of my company already?”

  “I should have known better than to expect even common civility from you. Vile, intolerable man! You can take yourself straight off to the devil!”

  “Ah, but there I’ve already been, Cinnamon. It’s far more interesting to be here with you, dreaming up an infinity of sins.”

  His eyes followed the breeches that hugged every curve of her bottom, every inch of her slim belly. The pain at his groin grew worse every second, but Pagan couldn’t look away, for to look away would have hurt most of all.

  With a defiant little sniff Barrett straightened her shoulders, resisting an urge to twitch her collar closed, to deny him any trace of bare skin.

  Somehow she knew it wouldn’t matter. She would still feel his gaze like a palpable thing, hot and heavy wherever it touched her.

  But she didn’t back down, not by so much as a muscle, even though her cheeks were the color of ripe strawberries. Not even when his gaze raked her heaving chest and the dusky crowns that pebbled in arousal.

  Her hands tightened to fists. “It was vain to hope for your civility, I can see that now.”

  With an angry snort, she tossed back her shimmering hair, which glowed in a fiery halo beneath the pink and lavender rays of dawn.

  Her boots drumming, she stalked back up the dirt trail to camp.

  You’ve got courage, Cinnamon, I’ll grant you that, Pagan thought, his eyes following her retreat.

  Then his face hardened.

  It would take more than courage to get them through the headlands, where the great waterfalls plunged two hundred feet unimpeded to the granite boulders of the plains below.

  Where the temperature dropped thirty degrees only minutes after sunset.

  Where leopards ranged freely by night, and hunting parties would be nearly impossible to spot in the cliffs above.

  Yes, Cinnamon, up there you’d better pray I’m just the sort who fires first and asks my questions later; Pagan thought grimly.

  They walked all through the morning. Frowning, Barrett studied the scattered green thickets and boulder-strewn washes rising upward at a gradual slant. Higher up lay trees and more trees, and beyond that the jungle faded into a white, shimmering haze.

  In growing weariness she listened to the bearers’ quiet songs, to the slap of bare feet on the arid earth, to their grunts when they shouldered their burdens up an incline.

  And after a while even those sounds seemed to slip away, the world growing bright and very silent. Her body felt strangely light, as if she were floating rather than walking.

  Rather a pleasant sort of feeling, she decided.

  The funny thing was that she couldn’t quite find her feet.

  Several yards back, Pagan squatted by a giant banyan tree, pointing out a pattern of marks in the white dust.

  Beside him Nihal frowned. “It is surely a party, as the Tiger says. Five or six men, I am numbering them. From the uplands, perhaps?” His chocolate eyes studied Pagan. “But who? And for what purpose?”

  Pagan frowned, studying the trampled prints. He was lucky to have found them at all, for the trail had been swept clean everywhere else but here.

  Now he knew two things. There were five of them. And their mission was not an innocent one, or they would not have gone to so much trouble to conceal it.

  Rising to his feet, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and studied the rocky hills rising in the distance. Somewhere three days hence rose the first real mountains, and beyond them lay the rich green slopes of Windhaven.

  “The two guards by the pool fell asleep last night, Nihal. I had to wake them twice. Tell the men that if there are any more such lapses they will all be fined two months’ wages. If it happens a third time, the penalty will be six.”

  The slim servant bowed silently, hiding his surprise.

  It was a very great amount, Pagan knew. The bearers would be very angry.

  But it was necessary, if they were to make it out of the jungle alive.

  He scowled as he watched Nihal’s retreating back, considering the one other piece of information he had kept from his headman.

  This morning by the pool he had found another print.

  It was the mark of a boot. An English boot, judging by its size and cut.

  One of Ruxley’s hired mercenaries? Or just an independent, out to find the Shiva’s Eye for himself?

  Impossible to say. But tonight he would be watching the trail himself, Pagan decided. He would camp high overhead in the shielding branches of a tree.

  And when the bastard came past, he would be waiting. Frowning, he turned, watching the bearers pick their way over the rocky ground. As always his gaze was pulled to a burnished mane that flashed with all the heat of the sun. She ought to have braided it, he thought irritatedly. If it caught in the underbrush it would only slow them down.

  With a graceful gesture he watched her sweep her hair from her shoulder, swaying slightly as she moved.

  Pagan’s fingers tightened and he heard a sharp snap. Looking down, he saw the casuarina branch in his fingers break beneath the force of his grip.

  Smothering a curse, he tossed the pulped wood down, watching dust rise like fine ash where it fell.

  Inexorably his gaze returned to the woman on the trail. She stumbled, then began to walk into the jungle.

  Scowling, Pagan saw the bearers move ahead, leaving more and more distance between her and them.

  Where was Nihal?
he wondered angrily. And where were the two armed bearers who were supposed to be always at her back?

  But the path behind her was empty except for a wary hare and a pair of screeching, orange-tipped mynahs.

  From the vantage of the higher ground Pagan could make out signs of recent digging at the next turn in the trail. Just beyond, he noticed a mound of carefully heaped leaves.

  A curse ripped from his throat.

  The next moment he was plunging down the hill, shouting a string of orders to the laggard bearers.

  He reached her side mere inches from the mound. His eyes hard with tension, he jerked her back onto the trail and forced her face up to his.

  Her teal eyes met him, glazed and unfocused. She blinked, muttering a dry croak that sounded remotely like his name.

  Relief coursed through Pagan, and in its wake came anger. “What were you trying to do, get yourself killed?” His voice was low, harsh with the knowledge of how close she had come to dying.

  Slowly Barrett’s eyes focused on Pagan’s granite face. “I … I was simply following orders.” One white hand rose in a slow, mocking salute. “Aye, aye, Admiral. No delays here, sir.” As she spoke she swayed slightly, stumbling back against him.

  Pagan muttered a dark and very graphic curse. “You were also three feet off the trail when I got you, woman! Or hadn’t you bloody noticed?”

  “Im-impossible,” she murmured.

  Scowling, Pagan tugged her back across the trail to the spot where he had found her. With one arm clenched about her waist, he dragged a log from the ground and tossed it toward the scrubby patch of leaves.

  There was a hiss, followed by the rush of falling leaves. A moment later the greenery caved in completely, and a black pit gaped before them.

  The sight cleared Barrett’s haze. “W-what is that?”

  “A boar pit. An old native hunting practice. Only this one was a little better concealed than most.” Grimly Pagan stared down at the nine-foot recess where spiked lengths of bamboo rose up at two-foot intervals. The points were sharp and newly honed, he saw. Somehow that did not surprise him as much as it should have.

  What Pagan didn’t tell Barrett was that he was nearly certain this pit was dug not with boars in mind, but humans.

  More of Ruxley’s work? Or was it simply native hatred finding a covert vent?

  Barrett studied the lethal rows of bladed bamboo, realizing how narrowly she had escaped death. She shivered, imagining the razored points plunging into her body. “You—you saved my life.” Sheet-white, her face rose to his. “And from such a death—” She halted as a shudder ripped through her.

  Pagan fought down a wild urge to crush her to him and stroke the warmth back into her cheeks, to tongue the haze of unshed tears from her haunted eyes.

  But right now there was no time for anything but moving on. He calculated that they had only three hours of daylight left and he wanted them in a safe spot when they camped tonight. He knew just the place, in fact, but it would require a sharp pace if they were to get there before darkness.

  His eyes pored over Barrett’s face. “We’ve got a way to go before we can camp, Cinnamon. It would be very dangerous to stop here.”

  For a moment he considered telling her his suspicions, but decided against it. No female of his acquaintance could be counted on to take news like that well, and he couldn’t risk a scene that might frighten off his already anxious bearers.

  The headless jackals spiked beside the trail this morning had nearly accomplished that.

  “Can you manage it? If we rest here for fifteen minutes first?” His voice was low. “I’m bloody sorry, Angrezi, but…”

  Barrett blinked at the urgency in his voice, hearing for the first time the worry he tried to conceal. Her lips curved in a rather unsteady smile as she realized this was the first time he had ever asked—rather than ordered—her to do anything.

  She offered him a wobbly salute. “Aye, aye, Admiral. Lead and I shall follow.”

  Pagan came very close to smiling. Even with her hair full of twigs and stray leaves, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, a perfect vision of fire and loveliness. “I mean to hold you to that promise, sailor,” he said huskily, smoothing a twig from her hair.

  A vein beat at Barrett’s temple. A strange, wild drumming filled her ears.

  She gave him her best, blinding smile.

  Then she slowly collapsed in his arms.

  Fifteen minutes later, against all better judgment, Pagan ordered camp made for the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Barrett shifted restlessly and opened her eyes to purple shadows. She blinked, confused at first, trying to make out where she was. She turned her head slowly and her breath caught.

  Across the narrow tent, working in the golden glow of a flickering palm-oil lantern, sat Pagan, his broad, strong hands moving over a set of papers, busy with some sort of calculations.

  Barrett frowned, feeling her heart trip wildly in her chest. There was something about him, something she ought to know but never could quite pin down.

  Was it something to do with her past? Or was it simply a premonition about the future?

  If they had a future, she thought grimly.

  She had not missed the bearers’ growing tension nor Nihal’s tight-lipped urgency as they made camp. And unless she had miscalculated, there were two less bearers on the trail today.

  All of which added up to trouble—with more trouble yet to come.

  Her eyes sought out the man who worked in silence, his face a shifting play of bronze and black in the lamplight. A dark comma of hair fell forward over his brow, feathering across his black patch, and he brushed it back impatiently.

  It was a hard face, Barrett thought, and a remarkably handsome face. It was also a face that revealed nothing, its secrets buried deep. Even the silver scar twisting over his cheekbone seemed to mock her with its mysteries.

  Her eyes narrowed as she realized he was once again wearing English dress. What did it mean?

  But her thoughts soon turned to other considerations as she realized he did not know she was awake. Bold in the knowledge that she was unobserved, Barrett gave free rein to her curiosity, studying the broad shoulders encased in a crisp white shirt and the hair-dusted chest beneath. His cuffs were rolled back to reveal muscled forearms, the one on his right marked by long jagged welts.

  As she studied the long, powerful fingers which eased open a scrolled map, she felt her heart skip a beat.

  It was madness. It was folly, pure and incalculable.

  But it was true, and she was far too honest to deny it.

  She loved this man, this hard-faced adventurer who tormented her cruelly and who had thrice saved her life.

  A man who gave no hint of feeling anything for her beyond raw male lust.

  Barrett felt her face flame at the discovery, feeling vulnerable, trapped, like a bird caught on the ground with a broken wing.

  Love? What did she know of love? Even her own name was denied to her, along with the details of her past. How, in the midst of that dark, empty universe could she possibly summon up an all-encompassing emotion like love?

  But like the miracle it was, love unfolded, plunging deep roots into the barren, rocky soil of her being and casting its brilliant buds up to flower in the warmth of hope. Trembling, she felt its green leaves unfurl, felt its soft, trembling petals unfold in lush silence, casting their perfume into her very soul.

  Her fingers tightened convulsively on the wooden rim of her cot. A hot tear trailed down her cheek as the full import of her discovery washed over her.

  Longing welled up in her. She knew a raw need to feel those strong, scarred hands tangled in her hair as his lips melted into hers, drinking every cry. To feel his hard body crushed to hers, just as they had been that night on the beach beneath the dark canopy of heaven while the fish had sung to her of their magic.

  Barrett heard that strange lilting song again now, pouring through her vei
ns, flooding out from her heart in a rich, cascading torrent. Every note and beat held a different memory, a different emotion. Put together they formed a dense, wild harmony, like her feelings for this strange, brooding man.

  Love? If so then it was not by her choice, and ran against all reason.

  But it was also real and undeniable.

  Who was she to give her heart, she who had no past and little more of a future? And why to this man, who was as hard and impenetrable as the jungle itself?

  She frowned, searching for answers and finding none. Instead she found a thousand memories: Pagan hauling her to safety from the edge of the boar pit; Pagan, his face bloody and calm as he taunted Ruxley’s men so he could draw their attention away from her; Pagan guiding her ear to the branch slanting into the black waters of the lagoon, while rippling notes of magic danced around them.

  And always, in back of those images there drifted something else, an unexplained lightness, a warmth of familiarity that she could never quite trace to its source.

  Memory? Or simply the self-delusion of a desperate mind?

  She sighed, her head beginning to ache just as it had on the trail.

  At the desk, the tall Englishman released his map, letting the scroll ends snap together. Barrett watched him frown, his eyes narrowing on the curved hilt of a native dagger lying at the edge of his camp desk.

  Her lashes drifted down. She feigned sleep as Pagan muttered something beneath his breath, his face hard. For long moments he watched the lamplight play off the dagger’s jeweled hilt.

  Suddenly he looked up. Without warning his dark eyes swept over her.

  So intense, so piercing was his gaze that Barrett was certain he must have penetrated her masquerade. But no word left his lips, which flattened to a thin, bitter line.

  And this time she read the darkness in his face, the unmistakable hardness at his jaw. Regret she saw written there, along with the weight of harsh and terrible memories. All that she saw, raw and dark on his face now that he felt unobserved, and the naked force of his pain reached out to grip her heart like a vise.

  His hands shifted, tightening on the dagger. A muscle flashed at his jaw.