The Tiger's Lady (40 page)

When her hand brushed his sweat-slick chest, Pagan reined in the voice that was clamoring for him to wrest her to the ground.

He could almost feel those slim fingers rise to close with surprising force upon his neck.

And when they slid down over his ribs, as light as a dawn wind, he had to fight to keep from jerking upright. Sweat slid in a silent stream down his forehead.

She traced each bone, and then each rigid, bunched muscle. Her fingers slid softly through the springy fur at his chest.

When she brushed his flat male nipples, he nearly leaped from his cot.

Her fingers hesitated, then circled slowly.

“No more,
Angrezi.
” His voice was a low growl, and he said what he
had
to say, not what he wanted to say.

But it didn’t matter, for the slim shadow gave no sign of hearing. Her tormenting circles only grew wider, until they edged his taut stomach.

Pagan cursed when she brushed the edge of his breeches. He felt his manhood throb, begging for her touch.

“Enough, woman,” he rasped, surging to his feet and capturing her wrists.

Her eyes were wide and fixed, staring into the darkness.

And she was a million miles away from him.

Where? Pagan wondered. In a lush London boudoir? In some drafty ruin of a castle in Kent? In another life where she was cherished and protected?

In that moment he believed, knowing such oblivion could not be feigned. And Pagan found himself wondering as he had so often before exactly what buried memories drove her to pace in the night, to seek his heat for protection.

Before he could move, she turned silently and glided to the center of the tent. There she slid to her knees and curled up in a ball on the pounded earth floor. Fast asleep.

Leaving a stunned Pagan to stare down at her in brooding silence, a look of unquenchable longing in his eyes.

A crimson-tailed macaw shrieked through the treetops overhead. Barrett jerked upright, her eyes huge and frightened in the half-light of predawn.

Her breath caught as she fought to separate dreams and truth.

Her eyes sought Pagan’s cot and found it empty. With a little sob, she pressed trembling fingers to her face.

Dreams again, followed by the old pain. And always the fragments of memory, shard-sharp, in which she heard the sound of her own sobbing.

Gasping, she sat bolt upright in her cot. All around her came harsh, unfamiliar noises—the shrill whine of insects, the rasp of unseen wings, the low call of an owl.

She was lost, adrift from herself and all who might help her. Only one man remained.

Though his cot was empty, it was as if Pagan stood only inches away, his big body flexed, his shoulders bare in the hot, still night.

And Barrett finally admitted to herself that she wanted him. She wanted his hands, his mouth, his low, raw moans. She wanted to know the sleek friction of his aroused body.

Somehow she wanted that more than anything she had ever wanted in her life.

They broke camp while the first streaks of dawn crawled over the treetops. Pagan walked in front, his long legs striding with effortless speed over the dry, trampled
beru
grass. Behind him came two bearers with provisions of rice and other food stores strapped on their backs. Next was Mita, silent and beautiful, her brow faintly creased.

With every hour the heat grew.

Now sweat ran in little rivulets down Barrett’s forehead, pooling on her neck, in the valley between her breasts. Only grim pride kept her moving, always moving, her eyes fixed on Pagan’s broad back.

Yes, by all the saints, if
he
could keep walking, so could she!

Grim-faced, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and forcing her way forward though every muscle screamed for rest. On and on she moved by willpower alone, until all she heard was the pounding of her own blood, and the forest blurred to a green tunnel around her.

She must have swayed. A second later she felt hard fingers grip her elbow. Somehow she managed to right herself, refusing to look at the man beside her.

“You may release me. I am quite all right, thank you,” she snapped.

The next second she was free. The ground pitched, and she nearly fell. She caught herself an instant before she reached out for Pagan’s broad, bronzed shoulders.

Somehow she managed to right herself and stumbled forward, every step the product of pure female recalcitrance.

“Bullheaded, that’s the only word for you, Cinnamon. That stubbornness is going to get you into a vast amount of trouble one day.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“But you can’t help it,
Angrezi.
Trouble might as well be your middle name.”

Gritting her teeth, Barrett plunged on, determined that
she
would not be the one to quit first.

“Oh, very well, damn it. We halt here.” A moment later Pagan shouted a terse order to Nihal, who relayed the command down the line of thankful bearers.

Instantly there was organized chaos as the Tamils began peeling off their packs and settling boxes.

When Barrett turned around, he was gone.

That night, Pagan didn’t trust himself to accompany Barrett to the bathing pool he had found.

Instead he sent Mita and Nihal, who carried a gun.

He’d watched them leave, oddly restless as the minutes wore on.

Then a sound made him tense, the crash of a sloth bear lumbering through the underbrush in search of honey. Slow and lazy at most times, the creatures could be provoked to frenzy, and in their ire were more dangerous than an elephant.

Quickly Pagan shouldered his rife and plunged down the path the party had taken.

A few moments later he saw the bear. After sniffing a clump of bamboo, it turned and ambled down an adjoining trail that led back into the jungle.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Pagan turned to leave.

And felt his breath slammed from his gut.

He hadn’t meant to watch.

By Shiva, watching was the very
last
thing he’d meant to do.

But suddenly Barrett was there, framed in a break in the foliage, a golden Venus at her toilette. Like a slim bright goddess she stood, curved and proud at breast and hip. As she undressed, her hands moved in a slow fluid dance, more evocative than any ancient ritual of dark seduction.

Pagan felt beads of sweat break out on his face, and yet he could not look away.

He caught the scent and the texture of her presence, felt the lightness of her being reach out to him from the green curtain of the forest. Her hair was a slide of gossamer and her body a smooth, sleek line of ivory just made for a man’s touch. For
his
touch.

His pulse quickened as he watched her release the ribbon at her neck, loosing a cascade of burnished hair over her ripe curves and valleys.

Pagan’s breath wedged in his throat. Spellbound, he watched her belt loosen, then fall to the ground, followed a moment later by her breeches. Clad only in her trailing white shirt, she moved to the water, rippling it with her fingers and staring down into its crystal depths.

Like an exquisite, pensive mermaid, her face was distant, her thoughts elsewhere. Slowly she unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged it off. The straps of her camisole came next.

Silently, Pagan watched, unmoving, breath fled.

As if loathe to part with all that sweetness, the silk clung provocatively, molding every luscious curve.

His heart stopped. He felt sweat beading over his brow.
Don’t stay!
a desperate voice ordered.

Don’t stop now,
Angrezi, another voice answered, this one darker, more primitive.

She didn’t stop.

The fine straps trembled and then fell. Fresh and glowing as jasmine petals, her nakedness opened to his devouring eyes.

And to his everlasting horror, Pagan felt himself begin to tremble. A bead of sweat dropped onto his nose at the same moment that she stepped into the water.

Utter and absolute stillness descended on the glade at that instant, as if nature, too, held its breath and watched.

Pagan waited, paralyzed; somehow his hand rose, only to drop a moment later.

What was there to say, after all? He could bring her only pain, and despite all his angry threats, that was not what he wanted for this woman.

Nor
from
her.

He would have called out to her, but his voice was wedged in his throat.

He would have strode through the green barriers and jerked her, dripping and naked, from the water, but his feet were frozen, rooted to the ground by a thousand dark memories and the weight of his own savage past.

He would have preferred to do
anything
but what he was forced to do—stand in silence and watch her when he would have given everything to touch her just once more, to share her sweet passion.

But Pagan knew that was something he could never taste.

Slowly the camp settled in for the night. The bearers squatted to trade stories on the far side of the clearing while Pagan and Nihal sat at a camp table with a map unfurled before them, their expressions carefully shuttered.

“Four days, do you make it then?” His eyes narrowed, Pagan studied the well-handled parchment.

“Four if there are no upsets,
Mahattaya.
Perhaps five.” Nihal turned measuring eyes on Pagan. “Do you think the Veddas were as they indicated, merely hunters searching for game?”

“I think so, Nihal. I
hope
so. Unfortunately, we will only know for certain in retrospect.”

The head servant frowned. “The next day’s journey will be through the lower passes. As the Tiger surely knows, it is a fine place for an ambush. But if we take the eastern route and pass around it, we will certainly lose three days.
Aiyo,
what to do?”

Pagan’s features darkened. “We go as planned, Nihal. I’ll scout the trail ahead tonight and then post extra rifles to the front bearers. We can’t take a chance of three extra days on the trail.”

Slowly the old servant nodded. “As you wish it, Tiger.”

After Nihal left, Pagan sat studying the map, measuring the dangers that lay before them.