The Tiger's Lady

by Skye, Christina

A low sob broke from her lips. “Nothing. Always nothing. Will I never remember?”

  It was the hopelessness in her voice that decided Pagan. What she needed now was to feel calm and protected, not to be faced with new problems. “Never mind, falcon. I just thought that you might have begun to feel something. I … I was wrong.”

  “Perhaps I never will. Perhaps—perhaps I’ll stay this way forever, trapped somewhere between past and future, between waking and d-dreams.”

  “That still leaves the present, and there are worse things than living in the present, Angrezi. Everyone has memories that are better left forgotten.”

  A single tear slipped down Barrett’s cheek. Quickly, she made to scrub it away, but Pagan caught her hand and pulled it back. His face dark and brooding, he lifted the silver jewel on his finger and brought it to his lips. “Once again I hurt you. I only meant to—” With a harsh curse he pushed to his feet.

  Barrett’s breathy whisper caught him up short. “Wait, please!”

  His shoulders stiffened. “More questions, falcon? I’m afraid I’m a bad choice for a confidant.”

  She marshaled her courage. “Have you—that is, do women often—” She couldn’t finish.

  “Feel such passion?” Pagan’s face turned hard. “Not half so often as you think, Angrezi. Many women feign their pleasures, you see.”

  “But why—”

  “Why?” He gave a dark, bitter laugh. “Because it makes a man feel unimaginably powerful to know he can kindle such ecstasy. Fools that we are,” he muttered.

  Barrett’s cheeks swept crimson anew. Her hands tightened, the shirt clutched protectively to her chest. “But then—”

  Pagan cut her off with a curse. “No more questions, falcon. Not now. I don’t think I’m up to them.”

  For long moments he stood looking down at her, his face hard and shuttered, his raw power held in barest check. “You see, perhaps you’re younger than I realized, Cinnamon. Perhaps the problem lies in my being older than I thought.” He seemed to bite back a sigh, his hands clenched at his sides. “One thing is certain, however. Any one of your tears is worth a thousand rubies. Garner them well, falcon. Don’t waste them on men, for we are miserable creatures.” His voice hardened. “Especially don’t shed them over a pathetic illusion like love.”

  With that he whirled about and disappeared into the restless, windswept night.

  For long moments Barrett sat unmoving on her cot, oblivious to her half-naked state, oblivious to the tears glazing her eyes and spilling down her pale cheeks.

  She loved him.

  She loved him and yet he had no feeling for her, could not get away from her soon enough. After giving her such beauty, how could he calmly speak of the other lovers she would take one day?

  With a wild cry she surged to her feet, scrubbing away her tears and staring out at the square of darkness where Pagan had disappeared.

  The night, like the jungle itself, seemed to go on forever.

  Grimly Pagan strode across the clearing, his eyes glittering and chill as the dark vault of heaven above.

  For inside the heated tent he had made two discoveries this night, and the second far outweighed the first.

  There was someone else. He could feel it in Barrett’s restless tension, in the blind pain in her eyes. It could only be thoughts of a man that drove her so. Perhaps she did not feel it, did not even know it, but he was too experienced not to recognize all the signs.

  Her heart was given already.

  The thought made his fingers clench.

  Had they been lovers already? Or was it desire long suppressed that had surfaced in his tent?

  But Pagan had no answers. All he knew was that he would have given anything to teach her how to enjoy her priceless gift for passion.

  And to delight in watching her grow confident in her power.

  The possibility that her lover could be Ruxley, Pagan simply refused to consider, for the thought of those cold, foul fingers on her skin made him gag. Nor did he allow himself to think about the lush sweetness of her desire, the wild breathless cries she had made in her passion.

  No, that way lay madness.

  So instead he shouted for Nihal and made for the cliffs above, focusing savagely on the work to come.

  For there were many traps to lay before the moon rose above the jungle.

  An hour passed, and then two.

  Barrett washed and dressed in frozen silence. When Pagan returned she would be ready.

  She was just starting to braid her hair when she heard the sharp stamp of boots. A moment later the tent flap was thrown open.

  His face was hard, beaded with sweat, dirt streaking his jaw. “Have you eaten?” he demanded curtly.

  She nodded, thin-lipped.

  “Good.” Already he was at his trunk, jerking things out and tossing them onto his cot. First came a pillow, then trousers, shirt, and hat. Without a word he shoved the pillow inside the shirt and stuffed the trouser legs into both sleeves.

  That done, he molded the pillow up into the neck of the shirt, then set the hat down upon it.

  Barrett watched in frozen silence. What was the man about?

  Satisfied at last, Pagan lay his creation back in the trunk and then turned to face her. “By now I’m certain you’ve guessed we’re being followed. By whom or how many I cannot say.” His voice hardened. “I expect an attack tonight. Nihal and the bearers are ready. It seems that you know how to use a gun, so take this.” He tossed her a double-action percussion revolver, his face grim. “Keep it with you at all times, even when you sleep.”

  Barrett felt fear trickle down her spine. She gestured to the clothes in the trunk. “And those?”

  “Just a little masquerade. One never knows which trick will be the deciding one.” Outside the tent Nihal murmured a question and Pagan answered with a quick burst of Sinhalese. “Get into bed. I’m going to douse the lamp.”

  Barrett did not argue, not when his face was so hard and closed. Not when she could feel the danger press close around them, silent and threatening.

  Pagan continued tautly. “In a moment or two, after I’ve gone, you’re going to relight the lamp. That stuffed figure should leave a fairly creditable shadow of me upon the wall of the tent. Later Nihal will bring you something to eat, and then you will extinguish the lamp for good. After that you’re to remain here in the tent. And be sure you keep that bloody revolver near at hand.”

  Barrett’s irritation, for the last hour churning at a slow boil, exploded to white-hot fury at these flat orders. Yes, before he left, she meant to clarify one thing at least.

  Slowly, her eyes glittering, she raised her hands and gathered up the ends of her unbound hair, watching Pagan’s face. She saw his eyes darken, and felt the instantaneous flare of his passion like a hot tropical wind.

  It pleased her. Yes, it pleased her infinitely.

  So the man was not as distant as he pretended, was he?

  With cool, provocative grace, she brought her hair higher and began to work it into braids, perfectly aware of how each motion molded her shirt to her breasts, revealing the dusky, up-thrust tips of her nipples.

  Pagan’s eyes burned. “What are you up to now, witch?”

  “I?” Barrett repeated breathlessly, praying her voice would not fail her. “Just making myself comfortable. And, Pagan, about what happened earlier—it was just a question of physical release. Simple, uncomplicated lust. I’d been so long without a man, you see. You must know the feeling.” Barrett’s head slanted back as she studied him, teal eyes glittering. “But I suppose I needn’t explain such things at all, not to an experienced man like yourself. A man who knows the ways of the world…” She allowed her voice to trail away suggestively.

  Through lowered lashes she saw his features darken. And then, still not content, she let fury drive her the last, wild inch so that she would taste the full draft of her revenge.

  With cool deliberation she stretched to finish the long burnished braid, ar
ching her back slightly so that her high, full breasts were clearly displayed before him. She felt her nipples harden at his scorching scrutiny, and knew he saw it too.

  A moment later, with slow, heated movements she reached down and began unbuttoning her shirt, her eyes sultry upon his face. Only inches from her waist, her slim fingers stilled.

  Her lips curved up in the faint suggestion of a pout. “Surely you have finished, Mr. Pagan. I find I am really quite fatigued after the day’s, er, exertions, shall we say? Had you anything else to discuss?”

  She heard herself as if from a great distance, her voice low and throaty behind the wild hammering of her heart. The performance was really quite good, she thought dimly, watching Pagan’s hands clench at his sides.

  He stood rigid, his back to the lantern, fury coursing from him in palpable waves. “Douse the lamp.” It was an iron command.

  Had she been entirely in possession of her wits, Barrett would have known a hint of fear at that moment. But fear was entirely beyond her, locked as she was in the grip of hurt and rage and shame.

  And perhaps it was just as well, considering the night that beckoned, holding terrors beyond all those that had come before.

  So when Pagan snarled out the order to douse the light, she only offered him a slow, sultry smile before bringing her palms together upright, in an exaggerated mockery of the polite bow she had seen Mita use to him so often. “I quake before your wrath, great lord. And your wretched slave will most certainly hear and obey.”

  His eyes glowing coals, Pagan favored her with one last, lacerating glance as she trimmed the wick, plunging the tent into darkness.

  Blackness enveloped her. Silence inched close.

  And then slowly night gave way to separate shadows.

  In the hot still air, tension fed back and forth between them in sharp, electric arcs. For a moment Barrett almost fancied she saw a spark shoot from Pagan’s fingers where they clutched his thigh.

  And then, moving soundlessly like the predator he was, he was beside her. His hard hands locked on her wrists.

  His teeth sank with barely checked ferocity into the lobe of her ear as he hauled her against his chest. “I don’t know what bloody game you’re playing, Angrezi, but I mean to find out. Remember that when dawn breaks and this night is done. For when you hear a hand at the tent flap it will be mine and I’ll be coming for you.”

  Though her blood was pounding, Barrett managed a low, sultry laugh. “Oh, I hear you, Tiger-sahib. Behold me all atwitter.”

  For a moment Pagan did not move.

  And then with a savage curse he sank his fingers into her buttocks and hauled her against his taut body, driving her full into rigid thighs and a rock-hard erection.

  He took her mouth savagely, with none of the sweetness nor circumspection he had showed before. He ground his mouth to hers, caught her lips and nipped roughly. He savaged her sweetness, driving his angry tongue between her teeth until he tasted all the rest of her.

  The night exploded into flame. Barrett felt heat burst from every pore, spill through every naked inch of skin.

  Anger, not passion, she told herself blindly.

  Fury and stony revenge. Yes, better this than that raw, bleeding wound, that infinite vulnerability she had felt beneath his oddly gentle fingers.

  Yes, far better, for she knew now that he bled too.

  Reckless, she arched her hips, driving her woman’s softness against the rigid swell of his manhood.

  His fingers tightened on her buttocks, locking her to him. Everywhere she felt his raw anger and the savage brand of his desire. And dimly Barrett felt her body answer with a wild, shocking response of its own.

  Yes, better this. This, at least, was safe. In this there would be no vulnerability and no regret.

  Her nipples hardened, thrusting against his chest. Her fingers circled his back, trailed down his hips, then splayed apart over his taut buttocks, in brazen mockery of the way he had held her captive.

  Pagan went rigid, his breath a raw hiss between clenched teeth.

  The next moment she was tossed back onto her cot.

  “At dawn, witch,” he promised.

  And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  She was in the middle of a dream, a wild dream of a city night. Hansom cabs clipped past while snow swirled beneath gaslight, all velvet darkness and cold wind.

  Crystal facets flashed from the darkness. And then the pleasure of soft breath, hard hands.

  And two words that lingered. “Meri jaan.”

  Suddenly the dream splintered and fled, cold wind giving way to hot, steamy darkness. Around her the jungle whispered and hissed.

  And then it came, the wild, keening cry.

  Barrett jerked upright, her eyes straining, her ears tensed.

  At first she convinced herself it was no more than a monkey’s cry. Then she heard another shout, raw with fear. Abruptly it was choked off.

  It was the sort of sound that could only have been made by a man in mortal fear.

  In its wake a quivering silence gripped the jungle. And that silence was infinitely more frightening than all its cruel, ceaseless din.

  For long moments Barrett did not move, while fear twisted in her gut.

  Damn it, the man couldn’t die! Not yet anyway. She had just begun her task of making his life miserable.

  She felt tears well up behind her eyes and brushed them away roughly.

  Through her mind came the blurred dreams. Or were they memories?

  Snow and golden light, dark streets where danger prowled. A city—London? A danger that walked on two legs.

  And one word. A name? A rich, exotic name…

  Barrett frowned as the dim filaments of memory melted away.

  Empty and afraid, she sat silently in the darkness, listening to the shrill din of insects around her. Waiting. Waiting.

  A scratching came at the base of the tent.

  “Memsab?” It was Mita’s voice, low and uncertain.

  “Over here,” Barrett answered softly.

  She heard the rustle of canvas.

  “Memsab heard?”

  “Yes. Was it—” Barrett’s voice faded away; she could not pronounce those grim words.

  Silence followed, thick enough to touch. With a woman’s instinct Mita read Barrett’s fear precisely—and shared it. “No,” she said finally, “it was not the Tiger. It was one of the bearers. The forward sentinel, I believe.”

  Barrett said nothing. They both knew what that ragged cry meant: whoever stalked them was creeping closer with every second and soon would be at the door of the tent.

  The night pulsed around them, a furtive, threatening thing. Their ears strained for any unnatural sound, a muffled shout or a snapped twig, that would herald the attack.

  He will be back, Barrett told herself blindly. He promised.

  “Oh, your ladyship, I fear I am most disgracefully afraid,” Mita said unsteadily.

  In the darkness the two women’s fingers met, then meshed, a prayer for the same man on their lips.

  They burst from the night without warning, in a storm of bare feet and shaking leaves. Shrill cries rang through the encampment, terminating in raw, choked grunts.

  A dagger pierced the canvas tent wall, hissing downward and slashing the fabric in two.

  From outside came a low, guttural curse. Fighting down her terror, Barrett jerked Pagan’s revolver from her lap.

  The tent began to shake.

  She fired into the darkness, toward the center of the din.

  A grunt, and then the muffled thump of a heavy body. Perhaps more than one.

  Suddenly the sounds seemed to ring out all around her. The whole tent pitched violently as unseen fingers tore at the jagged hole left by the knife. Grimly, Barrett fired again.

  Instantly the scuffling ceased.

  Barrett’s hands began to shake. She had just fired upon a man, perhaps even murdered him. And it was not over yet.

  H
er heart slamming at her ribs, she waited for the next attack.

  This time it came at the tent flap.

  Urgent fingers tore at the canvas fastening. She strained to make out a shape in the darkness, deciding she would have time for only one shot.

  She closed her eyes, refusing to consider the possibility of failure, knowing she had to buy a little time.

  For them. For Pagan, somewhere out in the jungle.

  Without warning the tent flap was wrenched upward. Cool air swept through the dank heat.

  Her fingers tightened. Not yet, she told herself, feeling sweat break out on her brow. Let him get close enough to ensure that the shot would not be wasted.

  She trained her ears, knowing her eyes would be useless in the dark.

  She heard a dull thump and remembered that some instinct had made her push a chair before the tent flap.

  He was inside, then.

  Her heart pounding, she calculated the distance between her attacker and the spot where she and Mita crouched in leaden shadows.

  Five feet. Four seconds, or a bit less, if the man knew where he was going. And that was more than likely, since they had surely been spied upon all day.

  Four seconds then. Her hand rose shakily.

  Three. Two. Beside Barrett, Mita’s breath caught in a low gasp.

  One. Her forefinger tensed. Barrett fought to control the sudden tremors that rocked her hand, knowing that in a heartbeat it would all be too late.

  Do it, she ordered. Do it now before he does the same to you!

  Her finger quivered. Across the room she made out a dim, silent shadow. A shadow that inched slowly toward her.

  Barrett gulped down the sour taste of her fear and fired.

  For an instant the darkness flashed silver-white. The acrid tang of gunpowder filled her lungs. For a millisecond a tall figure in a Sinhalese sarong stood outlined against the night, his back and face obscured as he doubled over in pain.

  Dimly Barrett heart him growl a raw, guttural curse, just before his rough fingers circled her wrist and ripped the revolver from her grip.

  Before she could draw another breath, her attacker’s heavy body plunged forward and pinned her breathless to the dirt floor. For long seconds Barrett lay stunned, fear churning through her. From a great distance she seemed to hear Mita scream, then Nihal’s answering shout.