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

by Vanak, Bonnie

  He had not shouted, just looked at her with that cold grimace of disgust.

  She was a disgrace.

  "Habiba, don't shut me out. You're so cold," Graham whispered.

  She forced herself to reply. "What are you doing here, Graham? It's certainly an odd time to pay a social call. I'm afraid it's a bit late for tea."

  He did not smile at her little joke. "I want to steal something from your father."

  Jillian looked at him, startled. "Steal what?"

  "You. Leave with me, Jillian. Tonight. We'll run off and marry in Gretna Green. You can't remain here with him for a day longer. Not when he treats you like this."

  Tempting, oh, so very tempting. She liked Graham, and the way he made her feel, but she also wanted to be her own woman, educated and independent. If she caved in and went with him, her dream would die. Just a while longer, a steamship to America and she'd be free. And she'd march naked to the docks if she must.

  "Please go. Servants will find out, and they will talk"

  "No," Graham said softly, brushing a finger along her compressed lips. "Not until you let it out. You're like china, habiba. And if you keep everything inside, you'll shatter. Don't let him break you. Let the pain out now, while he can't see."

  Squeezing her eyes shut, trying to will away the enormous pressure inside, she shook her head. Graham's arms settled about her. He pressed his lips to her temple, murmuring soft words. His compassion undid her. Jillian felt a treacherous tear slip from one eye. Like with a leaky dam, the flood threatened. She pushed faintly at the muscled arms holding her close. He only stroked her hair. He would not let go. She did.

  The dam burst in a violent gush. Tears flowed down her cheeks as great, choking sobs escaped. Jillian rocked back and forth, moaning as she wept into her hands, all the pain of past years finally spilling out. Graham continued to hold her, stroking her hair.

  "Yes, let it out. Let it all out. It's all right."

  The outburst did not last. Jillian felt utterly drained as he wiped her eyes and nose with a corner of her bed-sheet. Well, he'd seen the worst. But the duke simply looked at her.

  "Are you angry?" he asked.

  God, yes, she was. She wanted to break things, scream and rage, but years of quietly suppressing her emotions held her temper in check. Her breath came in great, ragged gulps of air.

  "I want to hit something," she gasped.

  The duke picked up one of the bed's large pillows. "Go on, punch it," he encouraged. "It will feel good to release your rage."

  She stared at the pillow in horror, her stomach clenching. "I can't. That's totally preposterous."

  "Sod preposterous. Punch it," he ordered. "Hit it until all those emotions are out of you."

  Jillian acquiesced. She took it and threw it on the bed, banging it against the edge with wild fury.

  "Harder!"

  She flung the pillow against the bed. The aging yellow case suddenly split. Feathers burst out, covering him in a spray of white. She stared, goggle-eyed, at the duke. Graham blew out a breath. A feather floated upward from his lips. He gave a wry smile.

  "Well, perhaps you're right. It does look preposterous," he said.

  Jillian collapsed beside the duke and laughed.

  "Feel better now?"

  She nodded, realizing he had been right. But still, the shame crept back. He had witnessed her humiliation, and now this violent outburst....

  "Why did you do that?" she whispered.

  "Because I know what it's like to be caught in a situation where you need to release everything bottled up inside you."

  They both lay down on the bed. He enfolded her in his arms, which felt wonderful. She became aware of the hardness of his long frame, and of a different hardness below. Jillian tensed.

  Graham gave a rueful smile. "Oh, right. That. Relax. It's a normal male reaction I have around you. But I promise I won't demonstrate my, ah, affection until we're married."

  He pulled her closer. His muscled chest became her pillow. Jillian felt the springy hairs tickle her cheek.

  "You smell so nice," she mumbled against his warm skin. "What is that scent?"

  He caressed her hair. "Sandalwood soap. A leftover habit from my days in Arabia."

  Jillian inhaled the delicious smell, utter exhaustion replacing her tension. "Graham, you must leave. Father... he cannot catch you here," she protested sleepily.

  He placed a single forefinger upon her lips. "Shhh," he said softly. "Sleep now. All is well."

  "But, Graham..."

  He merely tightened his grip about her. "Five minutes. Five minutes more and I'll leave," he promised.

  Graham listened as Jillian's breathing became deep and even. Why did he feel so peaceful with her, as if everything slid from his shoulders and he could sleep? No nightmares. No dreams. Just utter peace.

  Just close your eyes. Five minutes, he told himself.

  He closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Something was dreadfully wrong. In the dream she stood, as always, in the hallway before the heavy oaken door. The forbidden door. She wanted to touch the gleaming knob, but she was too afraid. Yet she must. She had to open the door!

  Jillian quivered with terror as her fingers went to graze the pretty glass knob, and a disembodied voice drifted inside her mind, filled with savage anger. "Go away, or you will suffer the consequences."

  A faint click sounded, and the brass key turned in the lock.

  Jillian could not move or think; she could only stare in horror, knowing terrible things would happen.

  And then it came. A faint, but high-pitched sound of distress from behind the door. A muffled cry from within. A cry that—

  Jillian awoke with a loud gasp. Sweat drenched her body. Her heart pounded wildly as she slowly became aware of her surroundings. Willing herself to calm down, she counted slowly. The nightmare had returned.

  She had not experienced it since childhood. Why now? Why had she started dreaming again of the locked door? Something was terribly wrong. The weight of another body pressed against her. She glanced over.

  Muscled arms surrounded her. Jillian lay still, processing her thoughts. The duke. He had climbed into her room last night and he was still here.

  Wildly she struggled to sit. A grayish, smoky London dawn shone outside.

  Oh, goodness! Graham had slept the night away. Here, in her bed! Soon the undermaid would come to rouse her. Father always insisted on rising early and breakfasting together. Hysterical laughter bubbled up. What would the maid say upon seeing the handsome stranger in Jillian's bed?

  She jostled Graham. "Your Grace, wake up! You've got to leave now!"

  He roused so instantly she wondered if he had been sleeping after all. He lay back down, his finger tracing dampness on her cheek. He gave her a thoughtful look.

  "Did you have a nightmare? You were crying in your sleep."

  "Oh heavens, never mind that! Please, you must leave. Now!"

  Graham rolled over and stretched, yawning like a contented cat. Taut biceps bulged as his large frame straddled her. She felt the hard bulge of his erection on her belly.

  "Answer me, Jillian. Did you have a nightmare?"

  "Doesn't everyone have nightmares? Please, you must leave!"

  His heavy-lidded gaze caught hers. "Don't I deserve a good-morning kiss?" he drawled.

  "Not until we're married. If we marry."

  "Are you planning to run from me as well, Jillian?" he asked, looking surprised.

  Her gaze automatically shot to the floorboards that concealed her hidden money. The duke followed her gaze, and he gave her a knowing glance. He sprang out of bed and walked on the boards, testing their weight. Oh no... At the board closest to the wall, he tapped his foot.

  In minutes he had her hiding space revealed, the money in his hand. Graham fingered the treasure as dread seized her.

  "Running away still," he observed.

  "I don't wish to marry," she blurted
.

  He remained silent a moment, weighing the currency in his hand as if weighing something much heavier. When he spoke, his voice was low and earnest.

  "I'll make you a bargain, Jillian. If you give marriage to me a chance, for three months, and you still wish to leave, I'll let you. We can obtain an annulment and I'll give you money enough to be free on your own, for good."

  Confused, she stared. "You mean, you won't... touch me?"

  "I didn't say that. If you're my wife, I expect to exercise my husbandly rights." He dropped the money into its hiding spot. "Money will secure the annulment. Money can buy anything."

  Suspicion flowered. "Why are you so intent on marrying me?"

  His expression remained blank. "Having an English wife whose father is well-regarded would be a tremendous asset to my family. My brother's wife is snubbed because of her Egyptian heritage. I fear little Jasmine will suffer the same. You can help Jasmine learn social graces that will help her gain acceptance when she has her coming out."

  Jillian remembered Bernard's sneers about Lady Tristan. Her gaze met his. "I understand. But what if... I become with child?"

  "The child remains with me. I'll raise him as my heir."

  She thought rapidly. A chance for freedom. But she would be long gone before then.

  "He won't let you get away before then, you know." Graham's gaze was sharp and calculating. Jillian drew the sheet up to her chin. A fierce intensity appeared in his eyes. She knew he would not let her escape. He would have her. Jillian swallowed hard.

  "Is it a bargain? You'll marry me and become my wife, in every sense of the word, for three months. If you're not satisfied, you're free to leave."

  "I will try to flee before then. I must," she whispered.

  Silent and catlike, Graham crossed the room. He seized her chin with one warm, firm hand. "Don't run before my three months come due. I will find you if you do."

  Startled at the deep warning in his velvet voice, she shivered. "You want me that much?"

  He took her hand and gently placed it over the bulge in his trousers. Her eyes widened.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  He bent his head and brushed her lips gently with his. Against her better judgment, Jillian's hands slid around his neck as she clung to his warmth. The hardness of his arousal ground against her quivering body. With wry amusement she realized she was equally aroused.

  Gently he removed her hands and brushed her cheek with a knuckle. The duke turned, heading for the French doors, clad only in rumpled black silk trousers. She watched his taut, round bottom move with each elegant stride.

  "What are you doing?" she cried.

  "Leaving, as you asked."

  "Not like that. Put on your clothing!"

  He looked down. "Oh, quite right. I'm dreadfully un-attired. Perhaps I could ask your father to borrow one of your gowns since you're not presently using them."

  Despite the gravity of the situation, she laughed, and the duke smiled.

  "That's more like it," he said. He dressed rapidly. "Now then, I need a favor. The map downstairs, the papyrus one framed in the drawing room. I need a tracing of it."

  "Why?"

  "Because I think I may have the missing half. I don't want to tell your father, on the odd chance I could be wrong. But if I have a tracing, I can tell for sure."

  "You mean it actually might be worth something?"

  Her fiancé looked pensive. "Yes. It is a map leading to an ancient buried treasure. A myth that could be true."

  Excitement coursed through Jillian. Buried treasure? "I can do it. But having it delivered to your house may prove challenging, as Father is having my correspondence closely watched these days."

  Graham smiled and lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to it. "Then hide it carefully among your things and bring it with you when you become my wife."

  She almost sobbed. But I will never become your wife, Graham.

  He kissed her, his lips hard and ruthless, and she sagged against him, clutching his coat lapels. Footsteps sounded on the carpeted hallway outside. Jillian started.

  "Graham, you've got to leave."

  He frowned at the door. "Perhaps I should remain and let him know what I think of his treatment of you."

  The footsteps halted. Jillian's frantic gaze whipped to the door. The knob rattled. "Lady Jillian? Why can't I get inside?" a female voice called out.

  "Just a minute, Dotty." She bit her lip.

  The sound of a familiar male voice made her blood freeze. The door rattled on its hinges as a heavy weight pressed against it. "Jillian! Let me in at once!"

  Father.

  Her gaze caught Graham's, which was filled with anger. Graham quickly laced his shoes. He stroked her cheek lightly.

  "Stay strong for me," he murmured, then he ducked out the French doors.

  Jillian looked frantically about. The room smelled of him, sandalwood and pure male. She ran to her bureau, took a bottle of heavy French perfume and spilled it, staining the wood and scenting the air. She pulled up the rumpled covers and ran to the door, snagging her wrap along the way.

  Jerking the chair away and opening the door, she looked into her father's infuriated face. Jillian drew her wrap close about her shoulders. Her father stormed inside. His hard gaze scanned the room. It landed on the disturbed floorboard. He ran to it.

  Oh no, no, no. The duke had forgotten to cover...

  In his hands, her father held all her money. Her freedom.

  "Why have you secreted money away?" Pound notes fanned the air as he waved them, a fan fashioned from selling her flesh.

  "It's... it's mine, Father. I've been saving."

  "There's no need to squirrel money away. I provide for all your needs. I'll take it."

  A silent scream echoed inside her head. But she bit back her cries, watching in dumb grief as he pocketed her money.

  Her hard-earned pounds and pence. Her education.

  Her dream died, shriveling to a blackened crisp, just as those books had burnt in the fire.

  Watchful green eyes, mirrors of her own, studied her. A chill seized her spine. "Jillian, were you planning on running away?"

  Her mouth went dry. Wordlessly, she stared.

  "You will not. You will marry as planned, Jillian." A cold smile slid over the earl's face. "Proper young ladies do as their fathers bid. As will you. Or else."

  The threat hovered in the air between them, but a kernel of courage surfaced. Jillian thought of her passion in Graham's arms. She found courage to do what she must. What else could he do to her? Jillian forced a brave note into her voice.

  "Or else what, Father?" she challenged.

  Surprise flared in his eyes. The earl straightened, calmly assessing her. "You truly wish to know?"

  She felt her courage flicker like a lamp flame. With all her strength, she fanned it. "I'm a grown woman, Father. Not a child anymore."

  The corners of his mouth pulled downward. "You are my daughter, Jillian," he began. Then he stopped. The look in his eyes scared her. She had seen it before, once, a long, long time ago.

  The creak of a door slowly closing...

  Jillian swallowed hard. Sweat dampened her temples, cooling in the mild breeze wafting through the open French doors. Her heart thundered in her chest. She remained motionless, even when he pivoted, almost gracefully. He silently assessed her.

  The crack of his palm against her cheek did not hurt as much as the words following. His face twisted in ugly anger as he said, "You will marry the duke, Jillian. You will, or you will find a cell in Bedlam very confining. Yes, very confining indeed."

  "You wouldn't," she whispered.

  "A father has every right to commit his daughter when her lusty, wayward behavior endangers her." He turned sharply on his heel and, at the door, spoke over his shoulder. "Think of it, Jillian. Marriage to the duke, or a cell in an insane asylum. The choice is yours."

  Cold dread seized her as he closed the door behind him. The key turned o
utside. She was locked in.

  Chapter Ten

  The day after breaking into the earl's house, Graham paid Stranton a polite visit. He voiced two objections to the earl's marriage settlement. Graham told Stranton he wanted to marry by common license, preventing a reading aloud of the banns—it was better not to draw attention to Jillian. But the earl balked. He wanted the public to know exactly whom she married. He did finally agree, reluctantly, to Graham's proposal of a small church wedding with only the immediate family present.

  That Sunday in church, Graham quietly watched from a distant pew as Jillian flushed in agonizing shame as the banns were read. Heads turned to look at her. They knew why she was marrying the duke.

  Two weeks later, the earl, his wife and Jillian sat stiffly in the duke's immense drawing room for an engagement tea. Jillian had once more lost her inner spark. Her eyes were dull and lifeless. Graham shot a quick, hard look at the earl. Bastard. He wanted to wring Stranton's neck for the cruelties inflicted on Jillian.

  Instead, he engaged the earl in talk of politics, pretending rapt interest in his proposed legislation. Then he struck, the first step to ensnaring his enemy.

  "Perhaps your proposed bill would foster public support if you demonstrated the good it can do," Graham suggested.

  Stranton leaned forward. "What do you suggest?"

  Graham kept his tone deliberately casual. "Why don't you find a victim of the vilest of the sex trades—say, a young boy—and reform him? Teach him a trade and create a living model of the good the bill could achieve."

  Silence filled the room. Graham ignored Kenneth's worried look. He focused all his attention on the earl. Stranton steepled his long, thin fingers and nodded.

  "Excellent suggestion. A young child living in the streets, given a new chance and turned into a model citizen. Where would I find such a child, though?"

  "I could help you find one. My groom, Charles, used to live in St. Giles, an area known for such wretched activity."

  "I would greatly appreciate your support, Caldwell. But... I think it best our little venture remain between us. We should not tell the other lords, should it prove a dismal failure."