Authors: Christina Skye
With a man who’d like nothing more than to rip off every shred of those proper clothes and crush her soft body beneath him until he found a hot, shuddering release!
Didn’t she realize her danger?
Pagan’s features hardened. He studied her face while she was not looking, trying to find some imperfection, some hint of coarseness to disgust him.
But he found nothing but beauty and a vision fit to stir any man’s dreams. Her eyes were arresting, the color of a dawn sky, and her hair had all the bright splendor of a tropical sunrise.
Seemingly innocent, but innocence combined with a tantalizing hint of unawakened sensuality. A lethal combination, Pagan decided.
Maybe
he
was the one in danger.
“You are awake.” He glided from shadow into sunlight, coming to rest with fluid grace. His riding boots gleamed in the sunlight flooding through the uncurtained window, their polished black leather rising to meet tight khaki trousers.
He saw her start. Quickly her face regained its composure.
“So it would appear. And now that you have returned, I demand that you assist me in leaving this wretched place.” Her eyes darkened with determination.
They were the color of the ocean at twilight, Pagan thought. “Sedan chair or horseback, madam?”
She blinked at his unexpected acquiescence. “Whichever mode of transportation is swifter.”
“Oh, sedan chair, most certainly. But you’ll need ten coolies to make the trek from here along the coast to Colombo. I suppose you might make it in a week—if the leopards didn’t get you, that is. Or the bandits who lie in wait for careless travelers. By horseback you might hack your way through the jungle to the Kandy highlands in ten days or so. Bullock cart is possible too, I suppose, though you’d find it deucedly uncomfortable.”
He leaned back lazily, one shoulder braced with casual arrogance against the doorframe. “Well?”
“Any way will do, I assure you. I’d crawl on my hands and knees to escape from you,” the woman on the chair hissed.
“Would you indeed? As it happens, you won’t be called to, for you are not going to do any of those things. I have neither horses nor coolies nor bullock carts to spare. In case you haven’t noticed, the monsoon is nearly upon us, and I have a tea crop to harvest before the rains set in.” Pagan’s jaw hardened. “If there is anything
left
by then. No, for now you stay with me,
Angrezi.
Perhaps later I might see fit to let you go—if you can prove that you’re not one of Ruxley’s henchmen. Or perhaps I should say henchwomen?”
“You bloody, bull-headed swine!” The Englishwoman’s fingers clenched and unclenched in her lap. “You can’t possibly—”
Pagan made a clicking sound. “Such want of delicacy, my dear. I’m afraid those oaths of yours sadly disturb the image of propriety you affect.”
“I
affect
nothing, you scum! I am entirely what I seem—a decent Englishwoman trying to escape from an arrogant fool who seems to have been unhinged by an excess of tropical sun!”
Her slim white fingers clenched into fists.
Not so cool as you pretend, Cinnamon? Before this day is over, I promise you’ll be more uncomfortable still,
Pagan thought. “Turn around and let me see what Mita has done with your back.”
Her lips set in a mutinous line. “Go to bloody hell,
Mr.
Bloody Pagan.
I want to leave here.
Now.
Didn’t you hear me?”
Pagan watched her color fluctuate wildly. Damn, she was too beautiful by half! She was a woman to make a man remember dreams and hopes he’d thought long and safely buried.
Slowly he pushed away from the door and stalked toward her, his burning gaze never leaving her face. “You’re going nowhere, honey-hair, and you’d better get used to the idea.”
“Stay away,” she hissed, her eyes dark with fury.
And with just a trace of fear? Pagan wondered. “One way or another I mean to have a look at your back,
Angrezi.
I assure you it will be far more dignified for
you
if you don’t try to fight me.”
She crossed her arms mutinously atop her chest.
Enough was enough, Pagan decided. “Turn around and let me see your back,” he growled.
She did not move.
“Now,
woman.”
“You, my good man, may go straight to bloody hell!”
Pagan’s onyx eyes glittered. “And here I was thinking how much of a lady you looked, rigged out in all your finery. But you’d better learn to keep your mouth shut if you intend to keep the impression intact.”
“I haven’t the slightest concern what impression I make. Certainly not on you!”
“Indeed? Perhaps you’d better consider your situation more carefully, Cinnamon. Right now you’re sitting in my bedroom, on my lands, on the very edge of fifty miles of untamed jungle. If I choose to throw you out, my dear, you’ll find yourself knee-deep in crocodiles within minutes. Or leeches…” His eyes narrowed. “Have you ever
seen
a leech?”
She couldn’t quite conceal a shudder.
“No? You won’t like them, I assure you. Some are longer than your hand. They are quite exquisitely attuned to vibrations, and can sense the movements of a man nearly half a mile away. By the time you approach, they are gathered in a mass, standing upright on the jungle floor. It’s nearly impossible to keep them out of your boots, I’m afraid. You won’t feel them, other than a slight chill on your skin. But when you look down a few minutes later, your boots will be red with blood. Your
own
blood.”
Her face paled. “I—I don’t believe you.”
He went on relentlessly. “And if the leeches don’t get you, the leopards will. Or the Kadabara dragon. Their poison is so intense that it kills by its very smell. Yes, the more I think about it, Cinnamon, the more I suggest that you consider your next words to me very, very carefully.”
Her face was turning steadily paler, Pagan saw. Good! It was about time she started to realize how precarious her situation here really was.
Not that he truly intended to toss her out on her beautiful derriere in the jungle. She wouldn’t last there for an hour. But if she were properly accommodating, he would see to her safety.
He watched her eyes darken, the cool color of twilight pools.
Too
cool, Pagan thought. A man might slip deep into those velvet depths and rock there forever.
He gave himself a mental shake at that bit of fancy, shifting his eyes abruptly. The next moment he found himself staring at the full breasts which strained against her tight damask bodice.
Instantly the heat was there again, pooling up thick and heavy at his thighs. Suddenly all Pagan could think of was those perfect breasts spilling free, naked beneath his mouth and fingers.
He smothered a curse. “Well?” His voice was harsh with his struggle to tamp down his desire.
And he realized that he was losing.
The thought made him furious. In thirty years, no other woman had
ever
affected him this way!
He watched, half mesmerized and half furious, as a vein hammered at her throat. In the nick of time he stopped himself from reaching out to tongue that silken inch of warm skin.
“Who,
Angrezi
?” A muscle flashed at Pagan’s jaw.
“Who brought you here?”
“I don’t know! I’ve never heard of this man you call Ruxley. I’ve never heard of this place you call Windhaven. And I
wish
I’d never heard of
you!”
Her eyes went wide and dark. “All I want to do is go home!”
Wherever that was, she thought wildly. She was completely alone, with no
hope
of rescue.
Suddenly it was more than she could bear. The pain, the disorientation, and the terrible sense of unfamiliarity she felt about everything swept up to choke her. “Maybe it was you!” she cried raggedly. “You were the one who found me, after all. How can I be sure that
you
did not do it?”
He was across the room in a second, fleet and powerful as any of the jungle’s great cats. His bronze fingers seized her chin and drove her face up to his. “You can’t believe that.”
She twisted wildly, too distraught to be effective. “Did you enjoy it? Did it give you p-pleasure to beat me?” she cried raggedly. “So sorry to cheat you of your triumph, but if you describe the scene perhaps my memory will return and I’ll relive it for you all over.”
She was nearly at the breaking point, Pagan realized. “Stop it,” he grated, capturing her wrists between his strong fingers.
She only laughed, throwing back her head until her long braid slapped against his arm. “Tell me, did I cower properly? Did I promise you I’d do
anything
if you’d release me?”
“Stop, damn it!” His fingers tightened.
“You’re—you’re hurting me!”
He smothered a curse.
From the door behind them came a soft rapping. A moment later Mita’s voice broke the tense stalemate. “I am bringing bandages and water for the
memsahib.”
“Put them on the table and then leave us, Mita.”
The dark-eyed servant hesitated, then bowed her head. “As you are wishing, Tiger
-sahib.”
“Where is the viscount, Mita? He must be told of this ruthless maniac’s plans to—”
“But the
sahib—”
“Leave us, Mita,” Pagan interrupted grimly.
“No wait!
Please!”
The Englishwoman’s fingers dug furiously at Pagan’s taut forearms, but to no effect.
“Now, Mita.”
Undecided, the servant stared from one face to the other, frowning at the heavy crosscurrents. Finally, after a last hard glance from Pagan, she turned and slipped soundlessly from the room.
“You devious, depraved, degenerate—”
With a smothered oath, Pagan pulled her against his chest. “What was Ruxley’s plan?”
“Ruxley, again! How many times do I have to tell you that I know
nothing
about him?”
Pagan’s dark brow rose in a mocking slant. His eyes searched her infuriated face. “Tell me his plan and I might just give you a few bits of information in turn. Not all but enough to keep Ruxley hungry for more.”
It was a lie, of course. Pagan simply wanted to see the greed take fire in her eyes.
But fury was all he saw flashing in those teal depths.
“I don’t give a damn for your rubies or your vaunted information! All I want to know is where to find the nearest constable—or magistrate. Whatever you call representatives of justice in this forsaken place!”
“Brava, my dear,” Pagan muttered. “You almost begin to make me feel some doubt. But unfortunately for you, the malaria has not yet addled all my wits.”
“Let me go, you devil’s spawn!”
“When it suits me, Cinnamon. And you may be certain that it does not suit me just yet.”
The woman in his arms glared back, speechless with fury. She still could not believe that this was happening. “You—you—” For once in her life words failed her.
She knew that unshakably. Something told her she had never before lost an argument.
And that small memory renewed her courage. “Do they hang kidnappers in Ceylon or do they draw and quarter them?” she hissed. “For you, I much prefer the latter. I would gladly do the honors!”
“Save your energy, Cinnamon. You’ll need it tomorrow, believe me. Considering where we’re going.”
“And just where might
that
be, blackguard?”
“To Windhaven. Four days through the jungle, then five more upcountry. You’ll need all your strength and then some, for we go on foot, you see. In utter secrecy, far away from any roads or paths. I’ve no intention of losing my payroll to wandering bandits the way two other planters did last month—along with their lives.”
She stared at him, stunned, her determination swept away in a wave of shock at this new revelation.
No choices left. Dear heaven, what was she going to do?
“Let me see your back and then I’ll leave you alone.”
Dazed and strangely listless, she offered a bare murmur of protest when Pagan pushed her into a chair and loosed the tiny buttons over her chest. His fingers were skilled and practiced; each sure movement told her this was something he’d done many times before.
For some reason that thought hurt her most of all.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, his fingers going still at her ribs. “Am I hurting you?”
“No more than you did last time.”
Pagan’s jaw clenched. Grim-faced, he pulled open the bodice and strode behind her.
Angry welts snaked from her shoulder blade down to her rib. The thick linens were already soaked through with blood. There would be ugly scars there, he thought grimly. Nothing he could do would change that.
“Well? Did he do a good job?” Her voice was unsteady.
“Whoever did this ought to be staked out for a few nights in the jungle,” he said grimly. Gently his fingers probed the outer edge of the wound, where the skin had begun to knit. “Still painful, is it?”
She stiffened at his movements, gentle though they were. “Not so m-much.”
But her fingers were locked in her lap, their knuckles outlined in white.
Pagan smothered a curse. “Bend your head forward.” He stretched a clean length of linen atop the wounds. “This may hurt. I’ll try to be as quick as I can.” Gauze in hand, he fought to keep his eyes to the task at hand.
And failed utterly.
Sweat trickled down his brow. Perhaps there was a curse on him after all, just as the old shaman had warned, for this woman tormented him as no other woman ever had. She was pleasure and endless torment, and he couldn’t seem to drive her from his mind.
His fingers hurried at their task.
But there was no escaping the warm silk of her skin. The indefinable perfume of her body.
Her shoulders stiffened as he drew the edges of the bandage closed. Never once did she flinch or cry out.
A
very
brave woman, he thought, securing the last inches of gauze.
He heard the thunder of his heart, felt the tremor of his fingers. For a moment, naked longing swept through him. Dear heaven, how sweet it would be to trust again.
Around him the air seemed to congeal, pressing down in a heavy curtain. Grimly he pulled her dress back in place, careful to avoid her proud breasts. Her thick golden braid spilled over her shoulder, scorching his naked chest.