The Tiger's Lady (5 page)

Staring into that harsh, shadowed face, Barrett felt a jab of fear. Then her lips settled in a determined line. “You are right, of course.” Her head slanted back as she countered with a challenge of her own. “You could do all of that … but somehow I do not think you will. Something tells me you have too much pride to possess a woman by force.”

For long moments he did not move, glaring down at her in the darkness. Then with a hard curse he lowered her to the ground—but slowly, thigh to thigh, breast to chest, molding her to the heat of his arousal. “Perhaps I have less pride than you think, stubborn one. I am not one of your docile English gentlemen, after all. I know no fealty to the laws of your land. Shall I prove my power over you? Shall I pull you down and take you beneath me? Right here and now?”

Barrett’s lips trembled slightly, but she did not draw away from the angry steel of his body.

And her careful restraint seemed only to feed his anger. With a low growl, the stranger gripped her face, holding her captive as he crushed her mouth to his in a cold, punishing kiss. This time there was nothing of persuasion or teasing in his touch; now he was all hard, dominating male.

But Barrett did not flinch, nor fight him in any way. Her body was motionless, unyielding beneath his fierce onslaught. Even then, when she knew she should have been afraid, somehow she was not.

The next moment his fingers tightened. “You owe me,
Angrezi
! Never forget that.” He jerked away, his fingers digging into her arms. “What sort of woman are you? You do not fight; you do not scream or whine or plead for me to free you?” He glared down at her, measuring the chiseled line of her chin, a mere flash of ivory against the darkness. “By the Lord Shiva, why do you not say
yes
to me?”

“I would have…” Barrett’s voice trailed away as she studied his face. She was tempted. Oh yes, she was beyond tempted by this strange man with the hard face and the oddly gentle hands.

But she must never let him know that. Something told Barrett that this man could convince her if he set his mind—and his body—to the task.

Her chin rose, stiff and resolute. Her life had made her so. “Yes, once I think I might have agreed. But I see now that I have run too long. And it is you, my lord, who taught me that I must run no more. I must fight.”

The man muttered something in a language Barrett did not understand. His eyes narrowed to dark slits. “You are very unwise to cross me, falcon. In the country of my birth men have suffered slow death for less than what you do now.”

In stiff silence Barrett returned his ruthless gaze, retreating not a whit from the challenge in his eyes.

His breath teased her cheek. His fingers dropped, capturing her slim wrists and pressing them back against the brick wall. His thighs drove into the softness of her belly. “Say yes, damn it! Give pleasure to us both! You say there is no husband, no jealous lover. Then what holds you here? Whom must you fight in this devil’s city, this place of fog and snow?”

Even as he spoke, an errant white flake floated down onto Barrett’s cheek. The heat of her flushed skin soon set it to moisture, and in a silver line the bead slid slowly downward.

He followed the salty trail with his lips.

Barrett shivered at the slow glide of his rough-soft tongue. She felt the fire and fury of the man, the confidence of his touch. Even she, who had so little experience in such things, realized his touch was magic.

But she had no time for magic.

So instead of leaning closer, she forced her eyes shut, fighting the compulsion of that rich voice, fighting her own heart, which whispered for her to yield—to allow him to protect her from the terror that waited in the darkness.

She summoned up her pride, stubbornly refusing to ask for his help. Driving her hands apart, she shoved wildly at his broad, hard-muscled chest.

“Lat-sahib?”
A low voice, harsh with urgency, came from the darkness at the Indian’s back. “My lord!”

Suddenly an extraordinary vision filled the night—a giant of a man, black-bearded and dark turbaned, gripping a huge, curved scimitar in his paw of a hand.

Barrett gasped. “
Behind
you!”

The rajah only chuckled. “Do not fear, little falcon. Singh is
my
man. He will not harm you.” Pulling away slightly, he turned his head and barked a guttural order to the towering Sikh bodyguard, who bowed low, then trotted off to the far side of the street, where he awaited his master’s pleasure.

Barrett’s mind was whirling. What would the man do next, order the sky to open so he could pull down a golden staircase? White-faced, she tried to force down a raw wave of hysteria.

Control your folly! After all, this is London in the twenty-seventh year of the enlightened reign of the great Victoria, not the Dark Ages!

But Barrett could not escape the feeling that she had stumbled headlong into a dream.

Wild laughter spilled from her throat. “I s-suppose you have heard of Captain Richard Burton and his strange Arabian tales?” She’d never forgotten the dark, gypsy-eyed adventurer, whom she’d met at one of her grandfather’s eclectic scientific evenings.

The rajah’s dark brows knit in a scowl. “I have, as it happens. But what has
that
to do with anything?”

Her laughter came then, ragged and raw. “Only that you might be his strangest—and his very best creation!” She must get free, Barrett thought. A few minutes more and she would lose the last shreds of her reason!

“Stranger than you know,
meri jaan.”
The words were low, aimed more at himself than her. “And now I, too, must go. The hour is nearly come for—”

He did not finish. His jaw tense, the Indian stared down at the pale blur of Barrett’s face. “Your answer remains? You will stay here?”

She could only nod, not trusting herself to speak.

For some reason she thought then of miracles, and realized that this was as close as she would ever come to one. But even with that certainty, she did not relent.

She owed her grandfather too much.

A strange glitter flashed in the charcoal depths of her protector’s eyes. “Not even if I promised you a look at the stone you were admiring through the window? What if I offered you twenty such stones, sweet one?”

Across the street the Sikh rose from his stoic squat, a mute reminder to the rajah that his deadline had come.

There was a rough urgency in his voice and an edge of self-mockery. “Even for the Shiva’s Eye you will not reconsider? Does not the great ruby tempt you,
Angrezi?”

“It tempts me—
you
tempt me.” Barrett’s face flushed at her frankness. Somehow, staring up at those dark, smoldering eyes, she found she could be nothing less than honest. “In spite of that, I cannot. Honor forbids it.”

The man before her made a low oath. His hands slid up to cup her flushed cheeks. Barrett shivered, caught by the enigma of the man.

“Do you fear me? Is that why?”

“No.” Her voice was oddly husky. “To my eternal shame. I—I only wish I did.”

He made a noise that might have been laugh or sigh or curse. Perhaps it was all three. “Then you are wrong, falcon, for there is no shame in this rare feeling we share. It is as old as man himself, as natural as the circuit of the moon or the rising of the monsoon winds.” His head slanted down slowly until he spoke against the flushed skin behind her ear. “I find you remarkably honest—for a
memsahib
girded in corset and stiff petticoats. And you gird yourself in even stiffer notions of propriety, I think. But I feel all the answers I need right here,
Angrezi.
In the pulse that leaps beneath my lips. In your little tremors. No, such a one as you cannot lie easily.”

He trailed his tongue along the line of her jaw, inching up to tease the curve of her ear. “Come with me,” he commanded, skin to her skin, heat to her heat, never ceasing his drugging onslaught.

Barrett’s breath caught in a little moan.
Danger lies here
, she thought wildly. And this danger was even greater than all the rest, for this turned her traitor to herself.

“S-stop,” she managed. But somehow the fingers that should have been shoving him away had moved and now were kneading his shoulders.

Urging him closer.

“Kiss me, Empress.” It was both harsh command and raw plea, and the dark force of his need broke over Barrett like warm rich rum, loosing a tide of longing.

For all the things she had never had—and never expected to have.

So easy, fool. Just say yes.

Her heart lurched. Her breath caught. Heart and blood and skin raged, clamoring for her to yield.

His teeth grazed her ear, and she shivered. “Ah, my heart, were you mine, I would garb you in little silver bells and seat you on a jeweled elephant. You would wear gold-shot silk and emeralds beyond counting. And then, my beauty, you would wear nothing at all—only steamy, scented tropical air. For me. While I showed you pleasures you cannot even imagine.” His words came in a dark rush, pressed hot to her skin. They tested Barrett’s resolve as nothing before had.

Her surrender trembled on her lips before she knew it. Her body answered first, softening to his hardness, molded to the throbbing steel of his desire.

“Come with me.”

“N-no,” she stammered abruptly. “I—I cannot. I
must
not!” In the last weeks she had seen too much to believe any longer in magic or in dreams. Her body rebelled, but her mind was stronger, fixed upon the image of a frail, white-haired old man.

A man of arrogance and genius and total abstraction.

A man who would die unless she could find a way to save him.

Long moments passed, harsh with tension. Finally she felt the big fingers loosen, felt the Indian curse and then step stiffly away. He made her an exquisite, formal bow, the great sapphire on his turban winking down at her in chill mockery.

Barrett did not speak, sensing the pain beneath his anger. Afraid of what she might do to soothe it.

The strange dark eyes narrowed upon her face. “It was madness, of course. Forgive me. You need fear the jackal no more, for I shall send Singh along with you.” He hesitated. “And if you should change your mind before morning—”

Barrett shook her head sharply, closing the door on temptation. The offer was too sweet, and she wanted no chance to change her mind. She stiffened her shoulders and raised her chin proudly, unaware that the movements only enhanced her fragility and stirred the rajah’s desire more keenly than ever.

“No, do not send your man with me—nor after me. I shall only lose him in the twisting streets, I assure you. It is one trick I have learned well since they—” She shook her head, as if to deny bitter memories. Her fingers clenched, locked over her waist. “Good-bye,” she said abruptly.

He seemed to fight the urge to seize her, to force her to accept his protection.

But she was right. Pride forbade such a thing.

A muscle flashed at his temple. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Name?” Barrett’s hands twisted restlessly, helplessly. Her eyes glittered, bright with unshed tears. She searched his face, as if to fix his features in her memory forever.

She whispered something to the wind, something faint, given with reluctance.

Her lips moved one last time. And then she was gone, her skirts swirling out in a black cloud as she pushed past him into the darkness.

Behind her she left only sadness and the soft, sweet scent of spring hyacinths.

The tall man in the gold-shot turban cursed softly.

He could still force her to his will, this fiery English beauty. It would be the work of but a moment to drag her into his arms and kindle her passion until she forgot all else. It was no more than what she wanted herself, after all. Every sweet husky gasp, every wild leap of her pulse had told him so.

Females!
the rajah thought, swearing blackly. By the Lord Shiva, they were the gods’ own curse upon men. But of all women, let him especially be spared from
good
women! They were as pleasant as leeches and even harder to get rid of.

But this woman is different,
a voice whispered.
This one is magnificent. Her passion is rare and true.

Not for long, he thought sourly. A few months of marriage to one of those stiff-lipped little English squires would drive all the light out of those haunting teal eyes.

He scowled, refusing to think about it.

But what was that word she had whispered before she left? A name, perhaps? Bridget? Barbara?

No, it had been something else.

Now he would never know what.

Ah, falcon, I would have shown you a very different sort of life,
the rajah thought, watching her lift her stiff petticoats and dart across the windswept street. Even now he had to struggle not to follow her.
Though you are proud, sharp-tongued, and far too stubborn, you fire my blood as no other woman ever has.

Then he shrugged.

Kismet
, the Indian told himself bitterly.
So be it
.

His eyes hardened as he watched the slim figure melt into the night. He was still watching, grim and immobile, when she came to the last turning, her body no more than a faint smudge against the greater smudge of the London night.