The Tiger's Lady (73 page)

“Hurry!” Pagan said urgently, dragging her forward.

And then a tall figure stepped into the mouth of the cave, his craggy face oddly distorted. “You escaped.” It was a flat monotone.

Pagan shoved Barrett forward. “The whole mountain’s going to go up, Adrian. You’ve got to leave!”

Hadley’s eyes blazed with strange lights. “Not without the Eye of Shiva.” His rifle slowly fell, until its muzzle centered on Pagan’s chest.

“Forget the ruby, Adrian! It’s gone. Let it go, or it’ll kill you too.”

“Sorry, old man. You’ve got other things, things I’ll never have. For me there’s only the ruby—and it must be mine.”

“The stone is evil. It will destroy you, just as it’s destroyed everyone who’s touched it!”

“All through the siege at Cawnpore I dreamed of it.” Hadley’s voice was a low sing-song. “It was the one bright thing amid all that horror. I’m afraid I didn’t really escape, you know. The Nana
-sahib
let me go. It was an exchange for all the information I’d given him, you see.”

Pagan gasped. “I don’t believe it!”

“You still don’t understand, do you? It was
I
behind you when you and your party set out through the jungle. The Nana
-sahib
wanted to be quite certain that no one escaped to tell the English what he’d done. Your mother, unfortunately, caught a glimpse of me. It was her mistake to believe I was part of your party. I’m afraid I had to kill her. She would have screamed, ruined everything. You
do
understand, don’t you, Dev?”

His gray eyes were flat, pleading.

Just like a little child’s.

Barrett felt Pagan’s body tense with fury. “You bastard—”

Hadley went on as if he hadn’t heard. “You never really knew her, did you? She was as English as you are, but took up the sari after she gave her heart to some bloody Hindu up in the north.
He
was your real father, not the duke. The proud old fool threw her out, of course, but only after she gave birth, for he wanted a son more than anything else. She never forgot you, from what the
Nana-sahib
told me. And though she loved her heathen husband, she still risked all to come back disguised as a native ayah. She had to see you one last time—to warn you that the Mutiny was coming.”

Pagan’s fingers bit into Barrett’s wrists. “It … it can’t be true.”

“It’s true. You’d find all the details if—”

“Leave it, Adrian,” Pagan growled. “I
don’t
believe any of it!”

“The rajah knows. The Rajah of Ranapore—ask him!”

Barrett dug her fingers into Pagan’s hand. “We—we must go, Pagan. The next charge will go off any minute!”

“She’s right, Adrian. You’ve got to leave! Leave the foul thing with Ruxley, where it belongs!”

But the white-haired man merely shook his head. “Where is it?”

“Ruxley had it. But he is—”

Already Hadley was gone, melting back into the darkness of the tunnels.

Barrett felt Pagan’s fingers tense. “Good-bye, old friend,” he whispered softly.

And then they turned to plunge through the shimmering veil of water out into the starlit night. Behind them Barrett heard the dim ring of boots on stone, followed by the shrill echo of Ruxley’s curses.

Far below at the base of the cliff she saw a faint flare of light, heard Mita’s soft cry of warning.

Too late!

With a strength born of desperation she threw herself forward, catching Pagan’s back with the full weight of her body and driving him forward over the edge of the cliff.

Down into darkness and rushing wind they fell. Twigs and stones and foliage ripped at their faces and arms. They hit the ground with bone-jarring force and began to roll, gaining speed with every second.

They were still rolling when the ground began to leap, the air to scream.

And then the mountain ripped apart in a cloud of smoke and splintering stone behind them.

Slowly Pagan clawed his way up out of unconsciousness. His shoulder was cradled on cool, damp earth and a cluster of bamboo shoots dug into his cheek.

He grimaced, straining onto his side and managed to sway to his knees.

“Barrett?” Smoke and fine rocky powder drifted down around him as he searched through the darkness. “Where are you,
Angrezi!”

When he heard no response, his fingers tore blindly at the foliage. And then softness, a silken curve of skin, a gentle heat.

He tensed, his fingers cupping what appeared to be a knee. “Wake up, Barrett!”

As the moon spilled silver from behind a fringe of clouds, Pagan saw her eyes flash open, dazed and tremulous.

“Thank God,” he whispered.

Their eyes locked, onyx plunged into restless teal. Without a word Pagan pulled her into his arms, crushing her to his dust-covered chest. “I’ll never let you go again, my heart. I warn you now, I mean to build a harem and lock you inside. I’ll forge a golden chain and a silver lock. A dozen of them.” Each dark threat was punctuated by a hungry kiss. “I’ll drug you with orchids and jasmine and bury you in seas of silk. You’ll never, ever be able to escape me again.”

Soft laughter spilled through the night air. “Is that a threat or is it just your notion of a marriage offer, Lord St. Cyr?”

Pagan’s breath caught. He held her carefully, very carefully, as if he feared she might shatter.

His lips moved against her neck, loosing a dark torrent of sound that might have been prayer or plea. “Ah, how I’ll love you, little falcon. In perfumed sheets and clear mountain streams. With rose petals and shining jewels. And I mean to offer you any sort of inducement, all manner of forbidden enticements, just as long as you say you’ll stay. Tell me you forgive me for my stupidity, for all my clumsy attempts to drive you away.”

“I’m thinking about it.” Gritting her teeth against the pain in her right shoulder, Barrett eased closer and slid one arm around his neck. “Persuade me some more,” she urged huskily.

A low growl worked from Pagan’s throat. Barrett felt the warm straining of male muscle against her thigh.

Her smile was silken against the glory of her face.

Pagan’s breath caught at the sight. The old fires raged through him anew. His fingers curved over her cheek, grazed her neck, then slipped to the dark valley between her breasts.

And there they stayed, moving in slow, heated circles.

Barrett gasped and fitted herself closer, while a dark, knowing smile inched across Pagan’s face.

Even when she arched her back, tugging his head down to hers, he did not move up over the silken curves to the place where she most wanted him.

His lips eased over her cheek, teased the corners of her mouth, skittered agonizingly over her swollen lips.

Each feather-light touch was ecstasy—and growing torment.

“P-please, Pagan!”

He laughed, low and deep. “Is this not persuasion enough, little hellcat?”

“You know that it is, and nearly more than I can stand. Now come down here and let me kiss you properly, you devil!”

His laughter rumbled over the little depression where they lay, thighs crushed together, bodies singing with the splendid race of rekindled fires. “Properly? What do you know about propriety, soul of my soul? From the very first second I saw you, you flaunted propriety, kissing me with all the hot abandon of a beautiful and most accomplished courtesan.”

Barrett’s breath caught. Her teal eyes began to flash. “Indeed? And who was the one thumbing his nose at English propriety by wearing an Indian turban, I wonder?”

The viscount’s fingers skimmed her lips gently, achingly. “Ah, but I’m no Englishman,
meri jaan.
I obey a very different set of rules. Does that make you reconsider?” His voice was rough, deadly serious now.

“Regretting your offer already, bounder? Well, you’ll not be rid of me so easily, I warn you! You’ve kidnapped me, tormented me, and disgraced me most shamefully. Now you’ll
have
to take me in!” Her lips feathered over the warm, bare skin at his chest.

Pagan’s breath caught harshly. “Is that truly what you want, falcon? I must know now, before—”

“How many times must a woman
seduce
you, lackwit! Of course that’s what I want,” Barrett answered with a watery sob. “And if you ever, ever, try to get rid of me again, I swear I’ll set my next formula atop that great house of yours and blow it all the way to Colombo!”

Pagan’s hands tightened upon her chest. “Are—are you sure then? You don’t care about my past—that I’m—”

“That you’re arrogant and utterly incorrigible?” Her eyes shone with suspicious moisture. “Kiss me and I’ll show you, wretch,” she whispered.

Slowly Pagan’s head slanted down.

She caught his neck and tongued the center of his lips, easing deep into the warmth beyond. He groaned and opened to her, shuddering when her lips teased and stroked and challenged him quite mercilessly.

His hands shifted to cup the hungry swells that instantly tightened to hot pebbled crests beneath his rough palms.

“Pagan—how do you
do
this to me?” Barrett mumbled, as desire swept through her in hot, silken waves.

“It’s an ancient Hindu secret,
Angrezi.
One must have the right formula, the right setting, and the right incantation, you understand.”

Barrett crooked a tawny brow. “In the dirt? With your clothes ripped in two and your head throbbing? It sounds a very counterfeit sort of magic to me.”

“Ah, but I’ve left out the main ingredient…” Pagan’s eyes smoldered.

“Nitrate of glycerol?” Her voice was a low purr.

“Something just as potent.” Pagan’s eyes went dark and bottomless. “As I’ll soon prove to you.”

Barrett’s breath caught at the dark passion that surged in his eyes, in the wild race of his heart against hers.

“It works anywhere, you see. Wherever two hearts are matched, bound as one. Just as mine has been to yours, ever since I first met you shivering in the snow. So will you come with me now? Will you let me show you all the things I wanted to show you then?”

For the first time Barrett tensed.

“What is it, my love?”

“I—” She pressed her face into his chest, hot tears spilling down her dusty cheeks.

Pagan’s fingers inched beneath her chin and forced her face up to his gaze. “Well, soul of my soul? Don’t turn all prim on me now.”

Her eyes were haunted pools. “You—you don’t care that … about Ruxley—about all the times—?”

In a harsh hiss Pagan released the breath he hardly realized he’d been holding. Was
that
her only worry? “I don’t give a bloody damn about James Ruxley! What happened between you means nothing. No more than the mist hugging the dawn tea fields or the heat lightning that plays through the clouds before the monsoon sets in.”

Barrett caught back a watery sniff. “But you were enemies. He tried to—”

Pagan silenced her with a dark sound, somewhere between a growl and a groan. His lips locked to hers as he plundered the sweet warmth of her mouth.

Slowly he eased her back into the dew-hung ferns and warmed her with the heat of his need and the fire of his love, lip to seeking lip, thigh to restless thigh, until Barrett shivered and felt the past fall away, her heart unfolding lush and perfect like the silken petals of a young spring rose.

High above, light arced over the mountains but the lovers barely noticed, fingers eager, breaths unsteady, aflush with a need that went far beyond the clamor of sense and sensation.

For their need was of mind and soul, of secrets shared and old fears laid to rest. With every touch they healed; with every glance they affirmed.

“Sweet Shiva, Cinnamon, take me, touch me. Closer—ah, there!”

“But your hand, Pagan. Your poor fingers!” Barrett flinched as she saw the swollen, abraded skin which had suffered so terribly beneath first Rand’s and then Ruxley’s foot.

“Forget my hand!
I’ve a greater torment to think of now, sweet love. And I’m going to explode like that mountain if you don’t take pity on me and—”

A moment later the remains of Barrett’s dress hissed to the ground in a silken pool and Pagan’s eyes burned over the ivory splendor of her skin. “So beautiful, falcon, truly a rajah’s fantasy come to life. But are you sure, Brett? After all, I am a stranger to your world. I am no soft and civilized man. Long ago I forsook those rules that your proper English gentlemen live and sleep and breathe by. Are you so certain that—”

Barrett stopped him with a finger to his mouth. Her other hand slid to the black patch at his eye. Her cheeks hung with tears, she feathered a trail of kisses over the ugly scars that ran in a silver trail down to his cheekbone.

And beneath her loving touch the scars became beautiful, the marks of worth of a warrior tested in battle, honors worthy of deepest pride.

Fire knifed down to Pagan’s groin. “Sweet Lord, Brett. No more or I’ll—”

Her teal eyes glinted beneath a curtain of tawny lashes. “More talk, is it, my lord St. Cyr? I’ve heard nothing but talk about the ruby’s wonderful powers for months now. What
does
a poor woman have to do to get a sample of these vaunted powers?”

Pagan’s breath caught in a hiss. He wanted her then, more than he thought he could ever want a woman.