The Tiger's Lady (59 page)

Blindly, Barrett turned, sweeping away tears as she tugged on first breeches, then the shirt Pagan had left her.

Beyond the glade she heard Nihal call excitedly to Pagan, who answered in a harsh foreign staccato. Her hands moved numbly, securing the row of buttons down her chest, tucking in the long tails of the shirt, smoothing her hair back and plaiting it into a thick golden coil.

All the time she was unaware of doing any of those things, her wild thoughts focused on Pagan’s last harsh words.

Bastard … half-caste … murderer.

The words struck hard and fast like a hail of sharp pebbles. The pain of his betrayal and the ache of her own loss both lost importance before that revelation.

Was it true, any part of it?
Could
it be so?

She flung back salty tears and sank down to pull on her boots, trying to forget the piercing sweetness when he had finally thrust deep inside her, raining hoarse, dark love words upon her naked skin.

Which was he, champion or betrayer, dark hero or coldblooded beast?

Could he somehow be all those things at once?

Her thoughts in chaos, Barrett moved blindly toward the line of bamboo at the mouth of the glade, where Pagan and Nihal stood waiting impassively.

She did not even look at Pagan as she moved past, then continued, automaton-like, downhill toward camp.

Behind her the feeble remnants of light bled away and night fell upon the jungle in earnest.

As silence returned to the glade once more, a frond of ferns above the waterfall rustled slightly, then bent flat. From behind the veiling greenery there appeared a polished black boot.

A cold, hard eye raked the glade. Its mate was gone, leaving only a hideous empty socket bisected by a jagged red scar running from temple to jawbone.

So, my dear Pagan, I have you in my sights at last. Repaying all those old scores will be sweet, especially now I have seen this new element to our game.

And taking the woman slowly and with infinite cruelty while you watch will be the very best of it.

Ruxley’s instructions had been more than clear about the ruby. Find it and he could name his price—any price at all. About the woman, Ruxley had been less explicit, leaving her management to his employee’s discretion.

As long as she was returned to Ruxley alive.

Or at least in some
semblance
of life.

The man in the greenery smiled, but there was no warmth in his eye or face, only cold calculation.

And now the woman made an unexpected bonus. Her body was quite exquisite, really, especially now that the native women had begun to grow stale. Yes, she was quite the passionate little bitch, in fact. And soon she would moan for him as she had moaned for Pagan.

Only
he
would teach her more ingenious ways of impalement.

Hidden and forgotten, the ancient stone sparked and flashed, its great crimson heart aflame. Swords of light played across its dark facets where it lay, crushed and forgotten in arid darkness.

And still, like a perfectly tuned instrument, it captured the harmonies and vibrations around it, transforming their energy into sparks within its blood-red depths.

Its facets were duller than usual, its hues dimmed slightly in this netherworld where it lay hidden. But even in the darkness its great energy persisted, registering the sounds and movements around it and imprisoning them within its crystal faces along with all the other centuries of information stored there.

In those facets two figures swayed and strained, caught in the ancient dance of love.

From an adjacent face another image flashed, where long, slender fingers stroked an empty satin-lined box. Light glinted against the darkness for a moment, and then a shrill cry seemed to explode from the gem’s dark heart.

Soon that image, too, disappeared, leaving only one figure to dance across the ruby’s surface. A thin man, he wore only a hempen loincloth while he stared into the flames of his campfire, his eyes the eyes of the jungle and his face that of night itself.

Staring still, he intoned a single word. Instantly the flames crackled and flashed up. The ruby, too, answered his call, resonating with a deep, subsensory hum.

Even when the sparks burned themselves out and the firelight began to die down, he still sat in a silent vigil, patient as a spider playing out its deadly, invisible web.

A wise man, he knew that time was forever. Perhaps that is why his face wore a mask of infinite patience as he contemplated the last, crucial steps he must take to make his beloved island safe.

Part
Three

Windhaven

There are people who will tell you that they have no fear of the jungle, that they know it as well as the streets of Maha Nuwara or their own compounds. Such people are either liars or boasters, or they are fools…

~
Leonard Woolf,
The Village in the Jungle

Anger has no eyes.

~
Hindi proverb

Windhaven.

As proud as its name, the great house rode on the crest of fog-swept hills, a glittering jewel on an emerald sea. Hundreds of windows caught the light of the rising sun and threw lavender and coral brilliance back over the valley which the house commanded.

Its splendor was blinding, unexpected amid the lush wooded hills and the rich green acres of tea that surrounded it.

Cramped legs, itching arms, throbbing head—all were forgotten as Barrett stared in speechless wonder at this remarkable house. Fashioned of rare hardwood and pinkish granite, it showed the clear influence of the Mughal East in its exquisite pointed arches, in the intricate stone trelliswork along the sweeping verandas which ran along its south face.

Massive, it was given a sense of lightness and grace thanks to the myriad windows studding its two floors. Not quite Western and not quite Eastern, Barrett found herself thinking.

And for that very reason, she realized it was the perfect reflection of Deveril Pagan.

Last night had been hell and worse as she lay rigid on her cot, determined to ignore the hard-faced man sleeping—or perhaps not sleeping—on the other side of the tent. And she was determined not to sleep for fear she would walk in dreams again.

But all her efforts had been for naught. Somewhere in the dark hours between moonfall and sunrise, she had pushed from her bed and glided out into the insect-shrill night.

She knew only because Pagan had gripped her harshly, swept her up into his arms, and carried her back to her cot. There she had come awake, shaken from a tangle of images real and imagined, breathless from a dark, erotic mix of memory and fantasy and longing.

And Pagan had been at the center of each shifting tableau.

Even when he’d awakened her, flushed and breathless, she had said nothing, nor had he. Indeed they had not exchanged a single word since their last, brutal encounter at the waterfall.

Just as well, Barrett told herself numbly. If he spoke, she would surely begin to cry. But neither he nor any other man would ever have her tears, she swore.

So instead she straightened her shoulders and lifted her fragile, chiseled chin, concealing both pain and longing beneath a mask of indifference.

She had had an incomparable teacher, after all.

“Ah, Hadley, I never before appreciated how bloody good it feels to be home.” Pagan swung up the steps and grasped the hand of the white-haired, craggy-faced man who waited before Windhaven’s polished teakwood door.

The lean, beak-nosed man, steward, aide de camp, and friend, offered Pagan one of his rare smiles as he shook his hand tightly. “It’s bloody good to see you too, Tiger, if I may be so bold.”

Pagan’s brow quirked. “It’s never stopped you before, as I recall, you hard-faced Scot.”

“Aye, but then ye’ve naught before bain fleeing armed natives, leopards, and assassin’s bullets anytime in my near recollection, either.” The broad accent was matched with a cocky smile.

“Damned nearly got me this time, too.” Pagan’s voice turned hard. He started to say more but stopped as he saw Hadley’s craggy face furrow in a frown.

“What in the name of—” The older man blinked and rubbed his eyes. “A woman, as I live and breathe! Good Lord, a
woman?”

Pagan stiffened, feeling Barrett’s presence behind him as surely as if she’d touched him. The air shimmered, warm and lush with her presence, sweet with the faint scent of jasmine.

Pagan’s face hardened to a dark, brooding mask. “Hadley, meet, er, Miss Brown. Barrett, you may call her, since we are informal here. She will be staying here for several days until I can arrange an escort for her to Colombo.”

“Tiger, where did you—that is, you never said a word about—” The Scotsman recollected himself with a low oath, shaking his head to clear his muddled thoughts. “But—of course, Tiger.” He extended rough, gnarled fingers, which Barrett shook numbly.

“Miss Brown, I have the pleasure to introduce Colonel Adrian Hadley. He will see you to your rooms and provide assistance in anything you might require.”