Authors: Christina Skye
Barrett shivered, imagining the dense oblong nestled in her palm, feeling its cool heft, its chill red fires. With such a stone she could be free forever. She could buy passage to the far corners of the earth, to a place where her pursuers would never find her.
The man inside turned, gesturing to another interested buyer. Abruptly he carried the ruby out of sight.
It was as if he had snatched all warmth and beauty from the earth.
Barrett’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion and despair settling over her.
Impossible dreams. Has my whole life been nothing but dreams?
Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Gran? If only I had realized…
With a start she straightened. The streets around her were empty. Flakes of snow drifted peacefully beneath the gaslit globes at the corner.
She must go! What madness had kept her so long? It was dangerous beyond imagining.
Without warning some cold instinct of alarm jolted down her spine. She shivered and spun around.
But it was too late. The rough hands were upon her even before she could cry out, a hard wall of male muscle slamming into her shoulder.
“No! L-let me—”
Powerful fingers locked across her mouth in silent warning. Dimly Barrett caught an elusive scent—an exotic fragrance she could not quite place. Patchouli? Musk?
“Hush,
Angrezi,”
the man behind her whispered. “Someone watches, even now. Did you not know you were being followed?”
The voice was deep, rough-tinged, foreign. Dear heaven, who was he and what did he want with her?
Barrett struggled against his taut fingers, trying to speak.
But his had been a rhetorical question. He did not mean for her to answer, not with his large hand clamped to her mouth.
Barrett’s heart slammed against her ribs. So they were closer than she’d known. Perhaps this man was one of them…
She swayed, swept with dizziness. She felt the fingers tighten, felt the tension of her captor’s big body, smelled once again that elusive hint of spice.
Sandalwood? Her mother had once had a little carved box with just such a scent. She could remember it faintly.
Be careful with it, Brett darling.
Her mother—the first one to call her Brett. It might as well have been a lifetime ago…
Her eyes darkened with pain. Gasping, she jerked against the hard hands anchoring her mouth and shoulders from behind. Somehow she managed to turn her head and caught a blurred glimpse of bronze skin and night-dark eyes. A soft black cape with shimmering purple silk. A
turban?
“Stop,
Angrezi.”
His breath was warm, loosing an unexpected wave of heat in the cold night. His body, too, was warm, and beneath his silk shirt Barrett could hear the steady
thump-thump-thump
of his heart.
And then she felt something else, something that told her he was more conscious of her presence than he might admit.
Innocent though she was, Barrett understood this was a male response of desire. Her cheeks flushed crimson beneath her concealing veil. Instantly she tried to pull away from the hard line of his ribs—and the unyielding male muscle that rose stiff at his thighs.
She felt him flinch, then mutter a curse.
But his fingers did not loosen. Swiftly he swung about, capturing her against his side with infuriating ease, away from the telltale sign of his desire.
Wild-eyed, Barrett fought him, but his strength was beyond imagining. And she was appallingly weak.
How many hours had it been since she’d eaten? Five? Ten? She swayed for a moment, feeling hard fingers grip her shoulder.
In the gaslight she saw the odd ring circling his left forefinger—hammered gold twisted in the gleaming, sinuous coils of a snake. And within the cobra’s open fangs flashed an egg. An egg made of one giant emerald.
Her breath caught. Who
was
this man who swept out of the night to hold her captive? Was he rescuer or betrayer?
The powerful fingers tightened. “He is just across the square.” And then, as she struggled to turn, “No—don’t look, little fool.” Inexorable, he raised her chin, lifting her veiled face to his gaze. “I shall do the watching, English. He will never suspect in the least, I assure you.” Although the man’s face was in shadow, Barrett had a sudden glimpse of glittering, slate-dark eyes. “Meanwhile, we must convince this watcher that we are far too occupied to care who might see us.”
As he spoke, his thumb slipped beneath her veil, seeking first the arch of her chin, then moving to trace her lips.
Barrett’s breath caught in a rush. “You cannot—”
Gently, lingeringly, his callused thumb moved over her mouth. Barrett swayed slightly. Her skin was chill—and on fire. Dizziness swept over her. Strangely enough, instead of making her weaker, it left her feeling strong, wonderfully strong.
And alive as she had not felt in weeks.
She heard him murmur a rough foreign phrase. Slowly his thumb tested the center of her lips, challenging and yet oddly persuasive.
Barrett gasped. Her lips parted of their own volition. She might have been no more than straw in his hands—straw which he now set his match to. Her pulse flared; her skin burned. She had never thought, never known…
She struggled, trying to protest. In the process her tongue grazed the rough pad of his thumb.
This time the hoarse gasp was his. “By serpent kings and all the Naga tribes,” her captor muttered. His finger slipped deeper into the warm haven she had offered all so unconsciously. His arms tensed. “Like an English flower, you are. Delicate. Impossibly sweet…”
Dimly Barrett felt his other hand slide to her hips. There his fingers splayed open, molding her to his muscled breadth.
Suddenly the night was hot, and she trembled uncontrollably.
A dream? Yes, it must be so.
How else to explain such heat in the chill night? Such longing and life, after weeks of fear and regret.
Her breath caught.
Don’t be a fool,
she told herself.
He’s probably one of them!
Gasping, she jerked free, stumbling back from the dark strength of his body. She began to think she was losing her sanity, along with everything else.
“S-stop!” she sputtered.
Her captor stiffened, muttering a curse. Suddenly his fingers cupped her arm, taut with warning. “The jackal draws close for the kill,” he whispered, all trace of passion gone.
Barrett shivered, sensing the cold presence nearby.
They were coming. Once again they had found her.
Her face bled white. She fought him, straining madly to be free.
“Stop,
Angrezi!
You will come to no harm while you are with me. This I promise you, little one.”
It was sheer madness, Barrett thought. And yet somehow she knew it would be as he said. She tilted her head, trying to see the man’s features more clearly through her thick veil and the darkness of the night.
But she had only a vague impression of slashing ebony brows, charcoal eyes, and a bearded, unyielding jaw. His was a face full of shadows and secrets, a face it would take a lifetime to understand.
Suddenly Barrett wished she had a lifetime to spend in such a task.
“Who is he?” the stranger whispered, his voice all storm and midnight silk, rich with the strange cadences of the East.
Yes, it was his voice that held her, Barrett told herself. Low and rough and unforgettable, it was a voice to make women shiver and men obey. A voice that could make a person forget—anyone or anything.
As it almost made her forget now that she must be careful. That she could trust no one but herself.
“Tell me,” he said harshly, giving her a shake. “I must know before it is too late.”
Like cold steel, his voice slashed deep, sending Barrett plummeting back to earth. “I—he’s followed me for four weeks. H-he—” She swallowed, struggling to continue, while memories swept over her, harsh and cold.
But she could not say the words. She could never explain, for that would mean revealing her secret.
“Your husband?” There was fierceness in the question.
“Husband?” A wild laugh burst from Barrett’s lips. “You think he is my
husband?”
“Stop. There is no time for female weakness.” The man’s dark eyes narrowed. “Have you run away? Is this man your brother? An uncle, perhaps?”
Barrett clenched her teeth, fighting down the ragged edge of hysteria. Wildly she shook her head, struggling to be cool and logical.
“Tell me, woman!”
“N-neither!”
Keen eyes scoured her veiled face. “Then he is no one who has a lawful claim upon you?”
“No! Now let me—”
“It is good.” His grip loosened fractionally.
Something about the triumph in that harsh voice made Barrett shiver and feel almost sorry for her faceless pursuer.
Almost.
“Who—who are you?”
“I am many things. For you, I am protector.”
Barrett’s heart began to pound. She could feel the force of his gaze focused upon her heated face.
“Now, little falcon, you must do exactly as I order. You must kiss me—wild and hard, as if your very life depended on it, which perhaps it does. Bring to me every inch of your fire, so that this mongrel dog suspects nothing. Do not stop until I tell you to.”
Was he mad? At a time like this he could think of—
“Do you hear me,
Angrezi?”
the Indian asked harshly. “I shall have mere seconds, and I must know that you will obey me completely.”
“I cannot. I
will
not!”
His hands tightened. “The dog nears the next corner. Give me your answer.”
Barrett shivered. And then, because of the danger, because his voice was rich and commanding, dark with strange cadences, she found herself nodding. There were few who could resist such a voice as this one, she found herself thinking.
“Then do exactly as I tell you. Wind your arms around my neck and touch your body to mine,” her captor growled. “Kiss me, little falcon.
Now.”
Barrett’s heart began to hammer with the audacity of what she was about to do. Her fingers quivered. But she inched forward, conscious of the faceless danger waiting only footsteps away.
Trembling, wary, she raised her hands, bringing them to his shoulders. A jolt of sensation burst through her as she felt the corded muscles bunch beneath her fingers.
Her head tilted, and she pressed closer, feeling his body tense at her movement. The wind swept down the street in chill eddies, tossing his cape up and wrapping the dark folds about their joined bodies.
In the cold silence of the night, heat leaped back and forth between them, shocking and primal.
Slowly Barrett rose, conscious of this man’s great height and overwhelming strength. And then, with a soft sound that was part sigh and part gasp, she molded herself to him recklessly.
This time it was he who flinched slightly, he who groaned as if with pain. “How well you please me, little falcon.” His laugh was dry and deep. “But you must raise your veil, I think. To see you, to touch your soft skin will please me even more.”
Barrett hesitated, fearful of revealing her features to this calm, ruthless stranger. Something told her he was a man who could track her to the ends of the earth.
But if he was her enemy, then it was already far too late to escape.
With unsteady fingers she raised the black length of lace at her face.
“By the Eye of Shiva!” The slate eyes narrowed, probing the pale blur of her face. “But I must see more.” He shifted, trying to pierce the darkness. Suddenly he tensed, smothering a guttural curse. “No time—the jackal comes! Press close now, and kiss me as a woman without shame. Be wanton for me. Be hungry and reckless. More than anything, that will make him curious and careless. Then when this lump of goat dung comes close, I shall teach him the
true
meaning of fear.”
Even as he spoke, low and harsh, Barrett felt his right hand leave her side and creep down her thigh. Something cold pressed into her soft skin, drawn from the pocket of his cape.
Her heart pounding, Barrett did all he asked, fighting to forget the terror of the last weeks, fighting to forget the shadowy figure creeping ever closer.
For here was fire and forgetting. Here in this stranger’s arms was a sweet, blinding hunger. And though it was wildly illogical, she
did
trust him.
Her head fell back. One dark curl spilled over her shoulder. And then the night shattered into surging wave and blinding sun as his lips opened and he dragged her against him, thrusting his tongue deep and tasting her very soul.
Blindly with desire, Barrett pressed closer, knowing it was madness to slide her fingers into the dense hair at his neck, knowing it was recklessness itself to open her mouth to him.
Knowing, too, that if this was madness, then she no longer cared.
A soft moan broke from her mouth and he caught it with his lips. His mouth was sweet with brandy and fruit, more drugging than any wine.
When she felt the cold metal blade press against her side, Barrett froze, certain he meant to turn its lethal point upon her.
“Do not stop now, sweet flower,” the stranger muttered raggedly, his mouth to hers. His body was hard with need, taut against her softness.
What sort of man are you?
Barrett wanted to ask. Then his next words drove the question from her mind.
“By the Lord Shiva, how I wish—” He growled a guttural curse. “Careful, English. The jackal is nearly upon us,” he whispered in warning.
With fingers iron-hard yet infinitely gentle, he caught her chin and guided her slightly to the left.
Freeing his right arm to strike
, Barrett thought. The knowledge of her danger broke over her then, making her shiver.
Suddenly, with a movement so swift that it ripped the breath from her throat, he thrust her to one side and lunged past her, his right hand gripping the dagger that had been concealed within his cane.
As if in a dream Barrett saw the dark swirl of his cloak, saw the blur of his hands as they wrapped around a man with a scarf drawn up about his face. His eyes glinting, her rescuer tossed the man back against the wall of wrought iron and leveled his blade against the man’s neck.