The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind)

by Vanak, Bonnie

  She'd called him by his first name. Flustered, she quieted.

  Bernard shook his head mildly, haughtily amused. "Forgive Lady Jillian, Your Grace. She is usually not so gauche."

  The duke did not return his smile. His eyes grew cold. "I rather think her introduction was correct. Graham is my name—a name I ask certain people to call me."

  Bernard blanched. "I apologize. I did not realize Lady Jillian was familiar enough to address you by your given name."

  "We shared a wonderful dance, and that certainly makes her familiar enough," he replied, glancing at her.

  "I do hope she didn't step on your toes, as she did mine," Bernard said lightly, to Jillian's mortification.

  "On the contrary, I found Lady Jillian quite accomplished at dancing. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves."

  Jillian shot him a warning look. Graham ignored it, his dark eyes dancing now.

  "Do you dance often, Mr. Augustine?" he inquired.

  "I'm afraid I'm not as skilled at dancing as some," Bernard admitted. "I do not enjoy it."

  "Indeed?" The duke lifted his dark brows.

  "Dancing is necessary, but it can be quite dull," Bernard continued, oblivious to the conversation's subtext. Graham refused to let up.

  "I daresay you are wrong, Mr. Augustine. With the right partner—such as Lady Jillian—a man must find it a very pleasurable experience." His sensual, full lips lifted in a crooked half smile. A hot flush lit Jillian's cheeks.

  Graham couldn't help biting back a chuckle. Bloody hell, Jillian had spirit. He sensed it brimming beneath her calm surface, stifled by her upbringing. The dull gray gown she wore hid everything. She looked like a stern governess. But the covering intrigued him as he imagined stripping it slowly from her to reveal ivory-white skin that gleamed as it had last night in the dull glow of the brothel's lamps, kissing each inch of her white skin, coaxing a throaty little cry from her long, slender throat now concealed in a froth of severe lace.

  Ah, but the passion he'd coaxed from her last night... surely it still burned within her. He hid a smile, contenting himself with mentally stripping Lady Jillian nude, waltzing with her on the mattress, this redheaded woman with green eyes blazing with desire... laughing at him in the desert as she trapped him there—

  His fantasy ended abruptly. Graham's smile faded. He must leave their liaison a secret and swear off ever meeting her again. Every cell inside him warned she was dangerous. Even the question she'd innocently asked: Why did you not turn and walk away?

  It mattered not. After tonight, after he found his quarry, nothing would matter. Not even one sweet night in her soft arms. Passion and heat. That would die with him as a memory when he hanged.

  His icy composure broke. Never again to taste her, to experience such bliss as they had, tangled as one...

  The self-important little prig who called himself Bernard was saying something. Graham forced a smile to his lips and inclined his head.

  "Lady Jillian and I plan to honeymoon in Bath, Your Grace. Have you ever taken the waters there?"

  What? Jillian was to marry this pasty-faced fop? Shock gripped Graham, but he managed a noncommittal answer as he stared at her. Two delicate roses of color stained her cheeks. She looked away.

  An unexpected surge of male possessiveness shook him. If she'd known of her engagement, why had she surrendered her innocence to him, a virtual stranger? In a whorehouse?

  Unless she had a good reason for not remaining a virgin... His troubled gaze returned to Jillian. Ah God, she was beautiful, her slender figure standing so proud, those delightful white shoulders he'd adored kissing now hidden by ugly, dull gray.

  Jillian paled. She gave a curtsy and murmured, "Please excuse me." Then, pivoting on her heel, she turned and pushed off through the crowd, as if to leave the ballroom.

  Bernard shrugged. "Wedding jitters. Every bride has them."

  Graham watched her go. After a polite moment, he excused himself and wended his way through the crowd, following her discreetly. It was easy, too, after all the years learning stealth as a Bedouin warrior. His tread, despite his hard-soled polished black shoes, remained as light as sand. As Graham trailed her down the hallway to a set of double doors, she opened one and stepped inside. He followed.

  A library. And silhouetted by glistening moonlight streaming through French doors on the other side of the room, Jillian stood gazing outside. Graham closed the door softly behind him.

  "Lady Jillian," he said roughly. "There is more to say."

  Dread pooled deep in her stomach. Jillian recognized the deep, confident voice, the tone demanding and expecting answers. Her trembling hand smoothed gray silk. Graham wanted answers she could not give him.

  She did not turn but felt the heat of his body press near her, like a banked coal fire. A shiver born of longing raced along her spine. His voice was deep and angry.

  "Are you quite mad? Why last night if you are to marry?"

  Jillian closed her eyes. She inhaled a lungful of air. "It's none of your business... Your Grace. I have my reasons."

  "None of my business?" His harsh laugh grated in her ear. "You give yourself to me, a total stranger in a whorehouse, and you dare to say it's not my business?"

  Now she did turn, feeling desperation and anger rise within her. "You paid money for discretion, and conducted the transaction. Your business ended this morning when you left."

  A rough note filled his voice. "It was a business arrangement where the executor failed to deliver on all the terms of the contract. I did not want a redhead."

  Jillian shivered, his heat turning into a chill that frosted her. She whirled and met his stormy expression with a defiant look. Her words held the volcanic anger building inside her for a long while.

  "If you feel cheated, then work out another arrangement with Madame. I gave you your money's worth, Your Grace. Now go away and leave me be!"

  He did not move. She glared at him. "I told you to go."

  The duke regarded her with a solemn look. "Such spirit. How strange. You appeared such a meek mouse standing next to your betrothed."

  Jillian sighed.

  Silver moonlight streaming through the windows sharpened the raw hunger on Graham's face. After a moment he said, "Our paths shouldn't cross again, but I can't resist whatever fate keeps us colliding together."

  "You never wanted to see me again," she reminded him in a whisper.

  "I did not. But my good sense takes leave of me when I see you. I can't think of anyone else," he said roughly.

  "You must. I'm to be married. What happened between us is best left a memory."

  Graham went still, studying her. His nostrils flared, as if he could scent her distress. Jillian felt a touch of unease. Instinct warned her this man was dangerous when crossed.

  "A well-bred lady comes to a whorehouse, seeking to lose her virginity. The next evening, the same woman stands beside the man she's to marry..." he mused.

  "Sell it, not lose it," she corrected bitterly. She bit her lip, wishing she could bite back the words.

  A pained smile touched his mouth. "Of course. Sell her virginity. But why? When her father has money, and she has—"

  "Nothing. I needed the money. Now please, I wish to be alone."

  "Why would a well-bred young lady need money so badly?" He began circling her, making her ache with tension.

  "Your Grace, please leave. If you're found here..."

  "Why, when her father can provide her with everything she needs, and then her husband can? Perhaps she would need it because there's something she can't ask them for."

  "A gown, a hair ribbon, fripperies," she agreed, whirling as he circled. Oh please, why wouldn't he leave her alone?

  "But such a drastic means to obtain funds? Selling her body to a stranger? That sounds like the act of a truly desperate woman."

  She joked weakly, "One must do what one must do to remain in fashion."

  "A woman who wants to run away."

  He halted. Her
shoulders sank.

  "That's it, isn't it, Lady Jillian?" Pity filled his voice. "Is that why you did it?"

  Her voice broke. "Bernard is wealthy. He's to give Father a very large marriage settlement in exchange for me." In exchange for a pure bride. Ha! Pure no longer.

  "Is your father in financial trouble?"

  Jillian looked away, hugging herself. "Many families in England are during these trying times."

  "And where were you running to?"

  "Away."

  "Why run off? Just tell him no."

  "I cannot."

  Graham gave a gentle smile. "It's a simple word, no. Very easy to say."

  He was a powerful duke; he couldn't understand the restrictions of living under the iron thumb of a demanding father, or what it was like to be a female with a thirst for knowledge. He, like others, assumed women in her station lived only to marry well and produce children. Even though this duke appeared different, he would laugh at her dreams. Gently-bred aristocratic ladies did not attend colleges to improve their minds.

  "Hasn't there ever been a time in your life when you wanted to but simply couldn't say no?" she asked brokenly.

  Graham fell dumbstruck. How many times? No. He'd wanted to say the word to Al-Hamra. He had not. He breathed deeply to contain his emotions.

  "My felicitations on your nuptials," he muttered. He started for the door then turned for one last look.

  Silver tracks of tears shone in the moonlight on Jillian's pale cheeks. Taken aback, he went to her, touched a pristine drop. She scrubbed the rest away with a furious fist.

  "Why are you crying?" he asked quietly.

  "Nothing, it's nothing. Please leave."

  He studied her, troubled by her obvious distress. Instead of obeying, he cupped her tear-streaked face in his hand... and kissed her.

  Her lips tasted like warm honey. She jerked back slightly, but he bracketed her head with his hands and held her still, deepening the kiss. She responded, opening her mouth to the urgent, tiny thrusts of his tongue. Graham coaxed her mouth with his, boldly tangling their tongues. Intense thrill raced through him. Blood rushed to his loins, hardening him to stone.

  No other woman had ever caused such an instantaneous reaction. Bloody hell, he wanted her. God help him.

  Graham broke the kiss, stepping back with a feeling of self-loathing. He was secretly kissing another man's intended.

  Yet, he had claimed her first. His blood stirred at the memory. Graham touched her mouth, swollen from their embrace. His first woman. His worst nightmare. Yet he had slept like a child with her in his arms. No more violent dreams.

  "What will you do, Lady Jillian?" he asked.

  She gave a half shrug. "What I must. A woman's life is ruled by her father until she marries, then she becomes her husband's property. Even if the husband is a pompous boor."

  Her despondent tone roused in him a fierce protectiveness to shield her from pain. Graham had never felt such for a woman before. Even with Badra, when he had been her bodyguard before she married Kenneth, his protectiveness was not this consuming. He realized with rueful dismay that Kenneth was right. His brother had warned that you never forgot your first.

  Kenneth had failed to mention she could also slip into your brain, infiltrating everything like tiny grains of sand.

  "Not every husband is a pompous boor. A considerate man could make you happy," he observed.

  "Perhaps. But you are the only man who was ever considerate of me. Last night..." Two scarlet roses bloomed on her cheeks.

  "A man who is otherwise is a fool. You deserve tender, careful consideration," he growled.

  She glanced shyly at him from beneath those incredible long lashes. "I did enjoy our dance."

  "Both?" he teased.

  "Both. You would never tread upon my toes." Jillian smiled.

  Wistful regret coursed through him. For her, forced to marry a man she detested. For him, forced into an act where he'd surely hang. Graham brushed a knuckle against her petal-soft cheek, feeling the dampness still there.

  "Good-bye, Lady Jillian," he said quietly. And he left her standing alone in the moonlight.

  * * *

  He paced restlessly in the hall before forcing himself back into the ballroom. Once inside, Graham snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman. He sipped, grimacing. His years of not drinking alcohol among the Bedouin were hard to change.

  And I don't make a splendid drunk.

  But tonight, he just might change that.

  Movement toward the front of the ballroom caught his eye. Jillian emerged, seemingly composed. There was no trace of her earlier distress.

  The musicians had stopped playing and the pasty-faced Bernard caught Jillian by her elbow and led her to the dais to join Lord Huntley. A balding, redheaded gentleman in black formal wear emerged from the crowd and joined them. Their beaming host made introductions.

  Graham choked on his champagne. He squeezed the delicate stem of the glass so hard it threatened to crack.

  No. No. No.

  It could not be.

  Not him.

  But there was no mistaking that face. He had seen it hundreds of times over the years in his darkest dreams.

  Graham croaked in a whisper of disbelief. His champagne glass tilted. He vaguely felt chilled liquid splashing onto his trouser leg.

  His heart thudded harder against his chest. He stared wildly at the red-headed Englishman on the dais: Reginald Quigley, the Earl of Stranton. Al-Hamra. The redheaded Englishman from his past—and the father of Lady Jillian.

  Graham tensed. The little boy inside him—oh, how he wanted to run screaming from the ballroom and weep. The grown man wanted to howl with anger, to crush Stranton to a pulp with his bare fists. Instead he saw himself as if through a thick lens, very calmly watching his right hand dig into his pocket. He slid his miniature dagger from its leather sheath.

  The handle felt cool in his sweating palm as he slipped it inside the left cuff of his jacket. It felt right. He had waited twenty years for this moment, which had now arrived. It was time for the panther to move in for the kill.

  Chapter Four

  Trapped. Caught like a bird in a cat's claws, Jillian frantically scanned the ballroom. No escape. Father would make her betrothal public, force her to acknowledge what she did not want.

  She had expected to escape—pleading an ache of the head—before Father made the announcement. But seeing the duke had severely rattled her, and by the time she recovered her composure, Bernard had summoned her father, consulted with their hosts, the Huntleys, and ordered the musicians to stop playing.

  Her hands were clammy and damp. Jillian had tried to protest as Bernard hustled her onto the dais, but it was no use.

  Lord Huntley's sallow face took on a new light as he faced the crowd. His voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have a splendid announcement! It is my honor to announce the formal engagement of Lady Jillian Quigley, daughter of the Earl of Stranton, to Mr. Bernard Augustine!"

  Bernard's pink face shone with glee. Jillian saw a life stretch before her: her father still ruling over her like a lord, her new husband joining forces with him, closed doors, dark secrets... Pain pressed behind her eyelids. No! She fought the darkness threatening, the cloudy haze of memories behind the thick oak door.

  Jillian scanned the room for her aunt but could not find her. Oh, if only to find one single understanding face in the massive crowd to feed her courage to escape! To flee the wild applause and delighted faces. There was none.

  Then she caught sight of an elegant figure clad in black silk. Standing alone, regal and proud. The Duke of Caldwell.

  Jillian's gaze riveted to the duke. She forced a smile to cover her fear, but her mind mouthed a quiet cry. Help me.

  Sweat dampened Graham's palms. His pulse quickened. The Earl of Stranton would die today. He must.

  Forcing himself to take a tiny step, his eyes didn't leave the small dais. Focus on your quarry. No emotions. The words
taught to him as a warrior echoed through his head. Graham took another step, then, out of the corner of his eye, noticed Lady Jillian standing beside his enemy. Her face was pale. Her smiling lips moved as if in a plea.

  Graham hesitated. The terror shining in her eyes masked by a brave smile—oh, how he recognized it! He had seen it enough in the mirror. He knew that helpless fear of being trapped in an inescapable quandary. Bitter anger clogged his throat. No matter. The father would pay.

  But her look—ah, so pitiful!

  No one had taken pity on that eight-year-old boy twenty years ago. What if someone had?

  The haunting possibility diverted him. Graham looked down at his elegant cuff, at the knife hidden inside. His muscles tensed for action, but his feet did not take any.

  Jillian's wide-eyed look had summoned a distant memory, pulling him back....

  The al-Hajid tribe had called the visiting Englishman al-Hamra—The Red. Escorted by heavily armed warriors, he had arrived at the camp to purchase one of the tribe's beautiful, sleek Arabians. The eight-year-old Graham had stared at the Englishman, the first he'd seen since his parents died two years before. Fleeting hope took wing. Surely this man, whom they said was powerful in the land of the English, could rescue him.

  He hovered silently near the circle of men as they talked. No one noticed him, the small, invisible child; he was ignored by most but the warrior who kept him like a prized dog. Graham held his breath, waiting for the chance to talk.

  The opportunity came—when the redheaded Englishman went walking and stumbled off to rocks in a canyon to relieve himself. Graham trailed behind. When the redheaded man finished, Graham approached.

  "Please, sir, help me. I'm English, like yourself, but a prisoner. I was captured by the al-Hajid as a slave. Please, get me out of here." Speaking his native tongue for the first time in two years, his voice had cracked, filled with so much desperation and hope.

  The man buttoned his trousers. "And why should I believe you or help you and risk my friendship with the al-Hajid? Do you have money?"