The Tiger's Lady (37 page)

Surprisingly, the breeches fit rather well, riding snugly at her slim waist. If they were his, they must have been many years old. His legs were much fuller, she thought dimly. They rippled with muscle at thigh and taut buttocks, only to taper down to—

Red-faced, she cut off her unruly thoughts before they could progress to further ignominy.

Last to come were the boots, which slipped perfectly over her feet. As she straightened her shirt Barrett caught the smell of smoke and looked out to see Pagan braced against a
sal
tree, smoking comfortably on a cheroot.

“I ordered them in Colombo. Paid the tailor three times what they were worth to have them ready them by today. You’re bloody lucky I could guess your size,
Angrezi.
But then, I’ve seen so much of you. There was nothing left to the imagination, I suppose.”

“The viscount must pay you well to afford such things,” she said stiffly. Her eyes narrowed. “Or did you charge this to
his
account?”

Pagan’s expression was unreadable. “The viscount and I have an understanding. I take care of his estate and in return he allows me the run of things, accepting my chits without question. A very tidy arrangement, all in all.”

Barrett mumbled something pointed beneath her breath, thrust the last folds of the shirt inside her waistband, then stalked back to the trail, blinking as the sunlight streamed into her face.

Pagan’s silence made her go still, frowning.

“Sweet Lord above, now that’s a sight.” His voice was low and husky. “With any luck, you’ll start a new style in Colombo. But I think I must forbid it, for the sight of your thighs in those tight breeches would drive men mad within minutes, Empress. But we’ve chatted long enough,” he said abruptly, tossing down the smoking end of his cheroot and crushing it beneath his boot heel. A moment later he kicked a lump of dirt over it, then stamped the mass down again.

Barrett wondered at his excessive concern over a single cheroot.

Seeing her frown, Pagan pointed out at the restless wall of green. “The jungle’s a bloody powder keg right now. One spark and everything will go up in smoke for miles. There will be no fires at night. It will be too dangerous until we get up higher where things are not so dry.”

Barrett was still digesting this new bit of danger facing them when Pagan turned.

“Oh, there’s one last thing.” He crooked a finger. “Come here,
Angrezi.”

“More delights in store? I can barely contain my excitement.”

“It will be four months before the next magistrate arrives, remember?”

Fury coursed through her, but she had no choice but to obey. She crossed the path in a posture of frozen disdain, her lips compressed to a flat line. Inches away from him, she halted. “Well?”

Pagan’s eyes were hooded, unreadable. “Kiss me, Cinnamon.” He couldn’t resist, though he knew it was terribly dangerous. Somehow he had to find out if she truly was the woman he’d rescued on that London street corner.

Barrett only stared, her nostrils flaring with anger.
“Kiss
you! You must be mad! I’d just as soon—”

“Four months,
Angrezi.
Maybe five, if the monsoon comes late.”

She caught her lip between her teeth, streaks of color darkening her cheeks. Five months here in the middle of nowhere, with no companions except a group of tea pickers who spoke not a word of English?

Her chin rose. “I hate you, Deveril Pagan. Just remember that,” she hissed. “I am not like your Mita.” Quickly, before she could change her mind, she rose to her toes and pressed tense lips against his mouth for the merest space of a second, then backed away.

His brow rose. “You call that pathetic gesture a kiss? I hope for your sake that you never kissed your husband in such a way.”

“Husband!
I am
not
married!” Once again her teeth worried her full underlip. “At least, I don’t
feel
married.”

“I can see why, if you treated your suitors to such a chill display. Now try it again, this time as if you meant it.”

She trembled on the edge of refusal, her hands clenched to fists, her eyes locked on Pagan’s face.

“Afraid?” he murmured.

“Of
you!
Never!” With that she caught a sharp, jerky breath, then catapulted toward him with such force that they both nearly toppled to the ground.

Then somehow her hands were clinging to his taut shoulders.

Somehow his fingers were buried in the glorious weight of her hair.

“Hold still, you arrogant brute.”

“I’m trying to,
Angrezi.
But you make it damnably hard.”

The next minute her belly fit snugly into the arch of his thighs and her breast thrust against his chest. She screwed together her eyes and leveled her lips in the general direction of his face, distaste evident in every rigid line of her body.

The kiss landed somewhere atop his jaw.

Barrett’s eyes flashed open to low, dark laughter. “Not much better, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, you wretched, contemptible
worm
!” After a second’s delay she grasped his head and dragged it down to hers.

This time her lips hit home, locked to his with angry vehemence. In fact, so intent was she upon succeeding in her mission she barely noticed his hands slipping around her waist.

A moment later, despite her punishing vigor, Pagan’s mouth softened. His lips molded to hers, coaxing, welcoming.

Barrett felt her breath catch, felt her blood begin to whine crazily. She clutched his shoulders as the earth pitched, then melted away beneath her.

She opened her mouth to cry out, and instantly his tongue slid deep to tease her own. The sleek, wet movements left her dizzy, left her hungry for more. Unconsciously she fitted her mouth around him, shivering when he stroked the tender skin inside her lip.

His hard fingers clenched against her waist and Barrett felt him stiffen. Dimly she felt a tug at the waist of her trousers and then a cool sliding sensation against her naked skin.

The next moment she was slipping along his granite chest, deposited back on her feet. Only then did she realize she had been dangling above the ground, anchored to his chest.

“There. That should do it, I believe.”

Wildly Barrett fought for control, even as the sweet, hot taste of his tongue and lips continued to haunt her. “You vile, depraved—” Abruptly her tirade ceased. She looked down at the loosened waist of her breeches which now rode just above her navel.

And there above the twill hung a chain of beaten gold links, with an odd, serpentine plaque dangling from the center. Dimly Barrett realized this was what she had felt seconds before.

Speech eluded her as she stood stunned and furious in the face of Pagan’s newest villainy.

“It suits you, I believe. I’m delighted to see that my estimate of your size was correct.” He studied his handiwork with patent triumph. “Of course, my estimates usually are.”

With stiff, angry movements Barrett jerked at the offending chain, seeking a clasp but finding none. “Take it off,” she snapped, unable to find the closure.

“The chain stays,
Angrezi.
It marks you as my property, property of the Tiger. If you are somehow taken from me in the jungle, that chain might be the only thing that saves your life. The natives know that I protect my possessions well, you see.”

He might as well have waved a red flag before an angry bull.

“Property? You pompous, arrogant ass! I’m no man’s property, do you hear?”

Pagan’s eyes narrowed. “You are now, Cinnamon. You were from the first moment you set foot upon my beach. And don’t try to tell me you didn’t like what just happened between us every bit as much as I did, because I know better. A moment ago you were just about as hot and willing as a woman can get.”

But Pagan knew it was a lie. Her reaction had lacked the sweet fiery innocence and rare honesty that he had known four months before on a London street corner.

But the kiss had taught him one thing, at least.

She was indeed his falcon, the woman he had dreamed of every night since leaving England.

And it infuriated him that she did not know it, for in some way he had hoped the kiss might awaken her, rekindling old memories.

So much for childish fantasies, he thought grimly.

He turned then, afraid of the things he might say next.

Instead he wadded her corset and dress into a misshapen mass and thrust it beneath his arm.

He looked at her then, his face harsh. “I hope, by the way, that you don’t plan to make a habit of sleepwalking while we are in the jungle.”

Instantly Barrett stiffened. “Sleepwalking?” she repeated softly, feeling faint tendrils of memory skitter through her mind. Fear rushed against her in cold waves, and she found herself shivering. “I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Pagan,” she managed coolly.

“Don’t you?” His eyes were mocking. “I only hope that in the jungle it is myself rather than a leopard who finds you first.”

Their direction changed soon after. Neither Nihal nor Mita would speak of it, but Barrett noticed by the sun’s position that they were going northwest now rather than due north.

After a while the riverbank narrowed and disappeared altogether, leaving them to pick a tortuous route through tangled, brown underbrush and dry, rattling thickets.

Now Barrett understood Pagan’s concern about the dry terrain before the onset of the monsoon rains. A fire would sweep through this sere world in seconds, unchecked by any trace of moisture.

What a horrible way to die, she thought, repressing a shiver.

She frowned, studying the rippling play of Pagan’s bronze shoulders. Something told her no threat from plant or beast could compare with that of the brooding predator who stalked silently before her.

They made camp when the sun hung mere inches above the treetops. Barrett was hot and sweaty, longing for a bath.

The salt tang of the air was unmistakable now. When Barrett spotted Pagan at the far side of the camp giving curt instructions to the bearers, she strode across to him determinedly. “May I speak with you?”

He turned, one sable brow raised in inquiry.

“I wish to bathe. Mita tells me we are near the coast,” she added deceitfully, sure he would not admit the fact otherwise. “I would like for you to arrange it, please.”

The dark brow rose higher. “Just like that? A royal command?”

“I am hot. I am tired. I am sweaty, Mr. Pagan. It is the smallest of courtesies that I ask.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. I could do with a plunge myself.” His face hardened. “After our last experience on the beach, you must realize you can’t go alone.”

Barrett had suspected that would be his answer, though she had hoped that Mita and one of the armed bearers might be protection enough. Right now, however, she was far too hot to argue.

“Very well. May we go immediately?”

After a quick order to Nihal, Pagan shouldered his rifle and strode off through the brush, leaving her to keep up as best she could.

Only then did she notice the two armed bearers who followed discreetly.

“They’ll keep watch from the edge of the jungle,” Pagan said tersely.

With a sinking heart, Barrett realized that her hoped-for privacy was not to be. Still, the thought of being cool and clean, even for a few minutes, made the other annoyances tolerable.

Far more than tolerable, she decided minutes later, when they emerged from the jungle onto a windswept cove of white sand ringed by towering talipot palm trees. Wordlessly Pagan dropped his satchel and rifle and handed her a length of fine, crimson cloth.

“It’s a water cloth, a
diya redde,
as the Sinhalese call it. The women use it when they bathe in the reservoirs or up-country in the waterfalls and pools. They’ve quite perfected the art of modesty in public bathing, though I suspect it takes a bit of getting used to. At any rate you’ll need it, for you’ll have to sleep in those clothes tonight. We may have to break camp without any notice, and I won’t be held back by you scrambling about searching for your breeches in the dark.”