The Tiger's Lady (48 page)

At that last word, Pagan’s arms stiffened beneath Barrett’s fingers. Frowning, Barrett traced slow, rhythmic circles until he relaxed again. “That—that place you spoke of, Mita. Cawn—” She broke off, her eyes on Pagan. “Tell me about it.”

Mita’s face darkened. “An evil place. A place of pain and treachery,” she whispered. Her voice came closer to Barrett’s ear. “The Nana
-sahib,
who ruled when the mutineers rose, was a jackal who promised the English safe passage downriver. But instead—” Abruptly her voice fell away.

“Tell me, Mita. I must know if I am to understand—to help him when the dreams come.”

The servant seemed to shiver, recovering herself with an effort. “Very well. In spite of his promises, the boats were fired upon as the
Angrezi
left their moorings. In a matter of minutes it was over. All but one boat in forty were destroyed at the
ghat.
Then the river ran red, red with the blood of men, women, and children.”

Barrett’s breath caught. So this was the specter that Pagan lived with? Had he loved ones who perished there? A wife even? “All died?”

“No, over a hundred survived, and them the
Nana-sahib
marched into the city.” Mita’s eyes fixed on the distant line of the jungle. “There the men were shot or run through. The women and children were driven together into a bungalow at the city’s edge. But when an
Angrezi
rescue force drew close two weeks later, the Nana
-sahib
grew afraid of the tales his English prisoners might tell.” Mita’s slim hands twisted. “He—he ordered them shot down as they huddled in their miserable jail. When even his own troops refused to obey such a foul order, the
Nana-sahib
sent for butchers from the bazaar to do his bidding. Over a hundred women and children died that morning, my own lady among them, for I was
ayah
to one of the officer’s wives then. It is said that those sad ghosts haunt Cawnpore still, in spite of all the efforts of Brahman,
saddhu,
and priest to give them peace. And after the
Angrezi
troops arrived, there was yet more horror.” She passed a trembling hand over her brow. “The mutineers were cut down and some were shot from cannons. I and a score of other women were forced into a boat and taken to Calcutta. On board we were made to—to submit to our English captors. At Calcutta we were taken aboard a ship for London, where we were sold into a brothel. It was there that the Tiger
-sahib
found me … bought me … gave me back my life and hope. By then I’d heard the stories of the wild-eyed
Angrezi
who had appeared from the jungle after the massacre, herding a sickly band of women and children to safety. Afterward he had almost died, had lain for days in delirium at Lucknow. But ever after, he would not talk of those dark weeks, nor of the things he had seen and endured during that terrible trek.”

Silently Barrett clasped Mita’s cold fingers, feeling her pain ebb out in waves. She offered no condolences, no words of sympathy, however.

In the face of such horror, what sympathy could be given? All she could offer was life and the comforting pressure of living skin.

The servant blinked and roused herself from her reverie. “Your
Angrezi
holy book has a phrase, does it not? ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ I have learned to bury my ghosts from Cawnpore, but the Tiger has not. And one day I fear his ghosts will most surely claw him to pieces and devour him.”

It was said so flatly, so reasonably, that the servant might have been discussing a problem with the tea crop or the changeable weather.

Barrett watched Pagan shift restlessly on his cot, driven even now by dark visions. Suddenly she felt helpless and clumsy. “But what can we do for him, Mita? There must be something!”

“Very little, I fear. What is to be done must be done by him and him alone. In that dark place where the
sahib
drifts now the demons will either conquer or be conquered. I cannot tell which.” With a low sigh, Mita rose to her feet, lines of weariness marring her usually tranquil features. “But I do know this. It is
your
name that he whispers in the night,
Angrezi,
your touch whose comfort he craves. Not mine.” The servant’s voice hardened. “Were it otherwise, I would bar your presence here and tend him alone. By the holy breath of Shiva I have prayed often enough that it would be so.”

And then her thin body sagged. “But my gods do not hear me, and so he is yours now,
Angrezi.”

She looked down at Pagan’s face longingly.
“Jo hoga; so hoga,
as the
Tiger-sahib
is liking to say. Perhaps this is my cursed fate—to want and be always denied.” Mita flashed Barrett a last, piercing glance. “We can stay here only a few more hours. Nihal says there is too great a risk of another attack. So the
sahib
must be made to rest now, to gather his strength for the journey to come, and you must reach him, for he does not hear me. But know that if you fail, you will lose two friends this day, since I will join him. And then you will have two deaths hanging on your conscience instead of one.”

After a last, lingering look at Pagan, Mita moved slowly to the door of the tent and disappeared.

Mita did not return. In her place Nihal came with one of the other Tamil workers, bringing clean cloths and warm broth for Pagan.

Their grim silence made Barrett uneasy, as though they already counted Pagan among the dead.

But he would not die! She would not let him. He had too many things to repay her for, damn the man!

With renewed vigor she swept the sweat from his broad shoulders and chest, willing him to stop shifting, stop fighting the healing process.

When she heard a rustle by her foot a moment later, she paid no notice until she felt a tug at her sleeve.

Black-eyed and pensive, Magic stared up at her, her intelligent face dark with pain.

Without a word Barrett took the monkey up into her lap, strangely comforted by her warmth. The little creature made a low, churring noise, her eyes fixed on Pagan’s restless form.

“Don’t worry, Magic. He
will
live,” Barrett said resolutely, stroking the creature’s soft gray fur. “I do not intend to let the arrogant creature die. I’m far from finished with him.”

He was there again, in that place of darkness where the air shimmered with hatred and the waters ran blood
red.

Bile rose in Pagan’s throat, for the memories were as fresh now as they had been eight years ago.

First the waiting, enforced silence beneath the sullen, pounding heat of a July sun. Then the slow horror as the
Nana-sahib’s
troops lined the road to the
ghat,
rifles, pistols, and swords glittering in the sunlight.

“No,”
he wanted to shout as the English swarmed toward the river. “Come no farther!”

Instead he ground his teeth together, and forced down the raw cry, knowing that six women and a child huddled in the underbrush behind him, and that his warning shout would be the death warrant for them all.

So he waited in gut-wrenching silence, watching the macabre scene unfold, helpless to prevent it in any way.

First the women and children stumbled down to the waiting boats, weak and pale from dysentery and three weeks of constant bombardment by the mutineers’ guns.

Then the slow, wrenching horror as the rebel troops began to fire and one by one the English fell. As Pagan watched, gagging, the mutineers rode into the water and hacked up any who resisted.

Cawnpore.
As fresh as it ever had been. Relived in all its chill reality on a regular basis for eight years.

When it was finally over Pagan had twisted to his side and retched up the contents of his stomach, what little there were, for he and his band of stragglers had already passed a fortnight hidden in the jungle.

And when the slaughter at the
ghat
was done, he was dead too. Dead from the things he had done, and even more from the things left undone.

“No. Turn back!”

Barrett’s eyes flashed open as a hoarse shout burst from the darkness. She lurched upright, realizing she had dozed off. Startled, she reached out for Pagan, and found him sitting bolt upright in his cot, his breath coming fast and jerky.

He was burning with fever, his body racked by shivering, as it had been for hours.

“R-run, damn it! No, not to the boats! Not there! They’re hidden, can’t you see them?
No, not to the boats
—” His voice broke in a low, grating moan.

“Pagan!” Barrett grasped his face, determined to reach him. “It’s—it’s over now. You are safe here,
safe;
the horrors are past!”

Grim-faced, he stared into the past, locked fingers digging into his rigid thighs. “Please let them see…”

“It has stopped. You are safe now.” Desperately Barrett searched for a way to rouse him. “You—you are at Windhaven,” she finished breathlessly.

His jaws clenched. “Windhaven?”

“Windhaven. Green fields thick with tea. Blue mist curling over the mountains. Can’t you see it, Pagan?”

“Windhaven,” he repeated slowly. A question and a prayer. And then a benediction. His fingers loosened slightly. “Nihal?”

“Waits nearby.”

Slowly the breath hissed from lungs. Eyes closed, he sank back wearily onto his cot.
“An—grezi?”

Barrett’s throat was suddenly raw. She barely managed a low croak in answer.

His fingers shifted, searching. When they found Barrett’s hand they tightened, their grip so fierce that she nearly cried out with pain.

And then, his fingers still locked around hers, Pagan drifted off at last to a place where there was neither past nor future, only the deep, soundless corridors of sleep.

“I am just managing the loan of two elephants from a hill country village,
memsab.
The beasts are being packed now and I am most frightfully sorry, but I can allow you only two more hours here.” Pagan’s small, leathery headman shrugged unhappily. “Indeed, that is two hours more than is safe, considering…” His dark eyes hardened. “You will understand that the Tiger gave me strict orders in the event of his—his illness. He was very determined for us to arrive safely back at Windhaven. With him—or without him.”