The Tiger's Lady (60 page)

Once more Hadley blinked. “Come along, m’dear. I’ll see you snug to your quarters. And I’ll see you have the only
civilized
room in this great heathen palace that the Tiger insisted on constructing. Moorish arches, indeed! A monument to his colossal vanity, that’s what I tell him. Aye, since he stood knee-high to a terrier, the lad’s had a vanity matched only by his stubbornness.”

The colonel patted Barrett’s chill fingers, tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and led her into the house. “Cold, are you, m’dear? Not that I wonder at it. Leave it to that young hotblood to have you jaunting through the hills before dawn. A fine way to contract malaria!”

Barrett frowned, feeling as if she’d fallen into a kaleidoscope where images spun and danced wildly. Here was friendliness and normalcy mixed with stunning strangeness. Like a drug she felt the house’s beauty seep into her blood while she and the colonel walked down a polished corridor of teak and rosewood. Even the air was soft and rich, redolent with lemon oil, camphor, and sandalwood.

So lovely, she thought. And so utterly alien…

She frowned, realizing her companion was speaking to her.

“…nothing to do now but rest, m’dear. No doubt you’ll want to put yourself to rights,”—here Hadley gave a gruff cough—“freshen up and all that. I’ll have Mita see to it. Then you need do nothing but rest.”

Barrett’s lips trembled as she fought for control, finding the colonel’s flood of inconsequential chatter comforting but terribly disorienting after the harshness of the last days.

“It—it sounds like heaven. You are … very kind.” Her answer was stiff, and she could not quite muster a smile. It was too much, too great a change too fast. Yesterday she had slept in an airless tent in a harsh jungle. She had even found a modicum of comfort there, surrounded by exotic natives and a garish, alien terrain.

Today she walked in splendor through an exquisite palace of a house fitted out with every sort of luxury. And yet all she saw was Pagan’s locked lips, his cold shuttered face.

And though she tried desperately, she could not forget the flat determination in his voice when he had announced his plans to see her away from Windhaven as soon as possible.

It was no more than she had expected, but it hurt brutally nevertheless.

“Now, now, don’t you fret over Dev. He’s a brute at times, but he’s got a soft corner or two underneath.” The rough old fingers patted her hand. “Aye, tough on the outside but mushy within. Only problem is getting past all those barriers, don’t y’ know?”

Barrett didn’t know. Nor did she care, she told herself.

All she cared about was a soft bed and a hot bath, and then sleep—sleep for a year.

Pagan’s study was dark, rich with leather and mahogany. Very much a man’s room, it was full but not cluttered, its chairs arranged in seeming disarray but in fact with every detail chosen for comfort and practicality.

Two large dented leather wing chairs faced each other across the center of the room. Right now Pagan was sunk, legs outstretched, in one of them.

“All right, Deveril, what in the name of bloody hell have you gone and done now?”

Hadley stood before a massive rosewood desk littered with a month of correspondence, bills, reports, and the bundled newspapers sent weekly from London. His affability was strained, his craggy face harsh with disapproval. “You barely said a word to that young woman, and she said less than that, but even a blind man could see the antagonism between you.”

Pagan strode to a mahogany cabinet stocked with cut-glass decanters and tumblers. His face grim, he poured out two fingers of whiskey and tossed the drink down.

“A bit early for that, isn’t it?”

“Merely a small toast to myself in celebration of our arrival. In one piece,” Pagan added grimly.

Only he wasn’t in one piece, the planter knew. There was a welt on his cheek and teeth marks on his shoulders where she had bit him in her passion. There were the scars at his eye and the newer wounds at his shoulder. But the only wound that mattered was the one that did not show.

And that was the gaping hole in his chest where his heart should have been.

But none could have told the gravity of Pagan’s thoughts as he slid his glass down on the polished cabinet and threw open a shutter to stare out at the fast brightening day. Dew glistened like scattered diamonds along the grass between the house and the tea fields several hundred feet below. The cloud-swept air was heavy with perfume—jasmine, frangi-pani, citron, and rose.

Pagan frowned, looking down at the empty glass, forgotten in his fingers.

Dear Lord, why did every look, every bloody smell remind him of
her?

“Did you bring her here against her will?” Hadley stood stiffly beside a Chinese lacquer screen, his expression unreadable.

“My dear Adrian, you have some notion of my character to ask me such a question.” Pagan’s voice was dangerously soft.

There were few men who would have dared speak to Deveril Pagan in such a way, but Colonel Adrian Hadley was one of them. Long years of friendship amid both the best and worst years of their lives gave each man the right to candor. In view of that, Pagan bit back his anger, eased his long frame into the well-used wing chair, and stared fixedly at his gray-eyed friend.

The craggy-faced Scot did not hesitate to take advantage of that familiarity now. “It’s precisely because I
do
know you that I ask, man! The woman’s a beauty and well bred to boot, unless I miss my guess. But her face was every bit as hostile as your own when she came up the path with Nihal. And you, I notice, have yet to answer my question.”

Pagan considered lying, but only for a moment. He raised one dusty boot and studied it fixedly for a moment before settling back with a sigh. “Very well, Adrian, you shall have the whole sordid story. Only fix us both a cup of the newest flush to fortify me for the tale. And try, if you can, to get your hackles down.”

The white-haired colonel sent for a servant, who soon returned with a full tray. Silence ensued as he rinsed out a creamy white
blanc de chine
teapot with boiling water, then carefully added tea and water—almost but not
quite
to the boil.

It was an honored ritual here at Windhaven, one that tested the results of the arduous work Pagan had undertaken. The brewing of Windhaven’s tea was never taken lightly, for both men knew how long and difficult was the process that brought the green gold from seedling to bush to table.

For long moments Pagan sat with a steaming porcelain mug in hand, sniffing the pungent aroma. His eyes narrowed. He studied the cup intently, swirling the amber liquid gently, then inhaled again. Only then did he take a taste, rolling it back and forth across his tongue.

And then, unlike the tasters who disposed of their brew once the assessment was complete, Pagan swallowed the rich amber infusion with a reverent sigh.

“That’s a damned good cup of tea, old friend. Brisk but not too pungent. Young leaf with good body. Fine highlights, too. Yes, it should fetch a decent price in London. By the way, I’m glad to see that it’s been cool here over the last week. This lot will be from the lower third acres.” His eyes narrowed with concentration. “The southern slope, I believe.”

Hadley couldn’t suppress an unwilling smile at this fresh example of Pagan’s skill at evaluating teas. Only the most experienced tasters could discern such details. But tea was Pagan’s life and livelihood now, and he had approached the work with his customary vigor, learning all that the experts—English, Indian, and Chinese—could teach him.

The rest Pagan had set out to teach himself. And so he had, after only five years of careful experimenting.

But impressed or not, Hadley was not about to be diverted from his subject. “Bravo. You are right again, of course. Your skill sometimes frightens me, in fact. Only a few centuries ago you might have been burned for such skills, you know. But now I mean to hear about your companion. Miss Brown, you called her?”

Pagan stared out at the green tea rows rising and falling over hill and valley as far as the eye could see. Long moments later his hands locked on his half-filled cup and he began to relate all he knew of the tawny-haired trespasser who had washed up on his beach. Only one part of the story did he omit, and that was what had happened between them in the glade after he had discovered she was safe.

With every word Hadley’s brows rose, until Pagan thought they would lock in a permanent frown.

“But this is the nineteenth century! Who could have done such a thing? And the poor, defenseless creature has no idea of her identity or how she came to be lying on your beach?”

Pagan slanted Hadley a faint, mocking smile. “That ‘poor, defenseless creature,’ as you term her, gave a performance that struck terror in three fully grown men and can handle a rifle as well—and possibly
better—
than I can. She also saved my life on two occasions. Even without any memory, she is the
least
defenseless female I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“Is that admiration I hear in your voice?”

“Most assuredly. Miss, er, Brown, is a most
singular
female.”

“But…” Hadley prompted.

With a low curse Pagan surged to his feet and began to pace the room with barely leashed energy. “But she is also quite possibly the most dangerous agent James Ruxley could send in search of the ruby.” He ran rough fingers through his hair, reducing it to an unruly mane. “Not that I have the
faintest
idea where the bloody stone is. But at least we know Ruxley doesn’t have it, or he would not put himself to all this trouble.”

“These are serious charges, Deveril.” Hadley’s face was grave. “You can back them up with proof, I suppose?”

“Of course I can’t, damn it! When was Ruxley ever so careless as to leave any trace of his involvement? No, it’s instinct that tells me she is Ruxley’s pawn, along with the certainty that her appearance on that particular stretch of deserted beach was far too unlikely to be mere coincidence.”

Hadley scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “You might just be right.”

“Of course I’m right. Don’t let that angelic exterior fool you for a second. Barrett, er—Brown is a cool-headed schemer who is more than capable of taking care of herself. Even when she can’t remember exactly what she was sent here to do. And I am certain that her memory will soon return to tell her.”

Plainly shocked, Hadley muttered something beneath his breath and bent to pour himself another steaming cup of tea. “I can’t bring myself to believe it. She looks such a biddable, well-bred young thing.” He shook his head.

“But then looks can be deceiving, as we both know.”

The Scotsman sighed. “You mean the young engineer who turned up on the doorstep last month, claiming to be suffering from a bout of malaria. Aye, he did seem too good to be true when he offered his expertise at clearing that stretch of lowland jungle with some new sort of explosive gunpowder.”

“And he was just that, too good to be true. Fortunately, I caught him before he set fire to the tea sheds and all the native bungalows. I have no doubt that
we
would have been next—after we had told him where the ruby was, of course.”

“I don’t like it, Tiger. I don’t like it one bloody bit. What’s to keep this Barrett from regaining her memory and trying the same sort of thing?”

Pagan’s face hardened. “Leave that part to me.”

“Very well.” Hadley’s eyes narrowed for a moment. Then with a muffled oath he emptied his cup and snapped it back on the side table. “But, I don’t have to like it, do you hear? Not any part of it.”

Pagan made no answer. How could he, when Hadley merely voiced the same thing he was thinking himself?

“I am bringing water for your bath,
memsab.
So sorry for disturbing you, but sleeping will be better when you are clean.”

Barrett jerked up with a start, realizing she had fallen asleep where she sat, in a dainty chintz-covered armchair just beside the door. In her exhaustion she hadn’t even stopped to loosen her shirt or pull off her boots.

Mita stood in the doorway, followed by two curious Ceylonese servants dressed in graceful draped skirts and midriff-baring blouses. She issued brisk orders in Sinhalese, which sent the women fluttering to open the shutters and slide the twill dust covers off the furniture. Feather whisks in hand, they swept through the room, removing infinitesimal specks of dust from gleaming rosewood armoire and tables, before darting out to the hall to fetch towels.