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

by Vanak, Bonnie

  He could not do this. He was not a true warrior. I am not a man, he thought in agony. Am I? But Ramses spotted him and shouted. Reluctantly, he went to them. Graham shed his binish and shirt and unsheathed his scimitar.

  "I will take you," Ramses said in English. "Let us see if the English have softened you, Rashid, my friend."

  Graham flexed the hard muscles of his biceps. "I am anything but soft, my friend. In the battlefield or elsewhere."

  An appreciative laugh escaped Jabari as he stepped back to watch. Graham kept his gaze focused on Ramses. The warrior was shorter, but his fighting skills were legendary among the Khamsin. As the sheikh's bodyguard, he was the best.

  As Ramses engaged him, Graham defended himself, feeling confidence flee. All he could manage were weak, flimsy pokes as Ramses took the offensive. Surprise flared in the man's amber eyes. "I don't want to hurt you," Graham said lamely.

  "Are you a man or a girl?" Ramses taunted.

  Explosive rage erupted. Graham heard the past in a mocking echo. He grunted and lunged forward, filled with violence and the need to crush and pummel and hurt. Surprise flared on Ramses's face, but the warrior recovered quickly, defending himself with adroit skill. Yet the white-hot rage pressed on, until it blazed in Graham's ears with a roaring buzz, blurring his vision as he fought.

  "Rashid. Stop it. Rashid!"

  The loud, commanding voice of the sheikh cut through the reddened haze. Graham lowered his scimitar. Blood darkened the edge. Scarlet dripped down Ramses's thickly muscled arm.

  Horrific shame covered him. "Ramses... I'm..."

  "Good fighting. I do not think I will call you a girl any longer," Ramses joked, but a questioning look filled his eyes.

  Covering his discomposure with a wry smile, Graham nodded. "I had to show you I'm no weak-spined Englishman."

  The warrior returned his grin, then bound his cut with the silk sash at his waist. "Do not look so alarmed, Rashid. It is merely a flesh wound."

  "His hide is too thick, like his head, for you to inflict any real damage," Jabari added, but he gave Graham the same long, thoughtful look.

  Graham nodded respectfully, wiped his scimitar, gathered his clothing and left. Hot humiliation at losing control filled him. He fled to a deep wadi that had served in the past as a place of serenity. But today, peace eluded him. Graham sank to the hot sand and buried his head in his hands, moaning.

  I am not a real warrior, or a man, after all.

  An hour after his hasty departure, her husband returned. Bare-chested, he strode into the tent, flinging shirt and binish to the carpet. Graham unbuckled his sword and dagger and laid them gently on the table. Jillian studied his tight jaw. Sweat glistened on his powerful chest.

  "Did you have a good time?" she asked, uncertain.

  He glanced at her and gave a derisive snort. "Warriors don't train for a good time, Jillian."

  Filled with enormous daring, she pointed to the scimitar. "Show me how a Khamsin warrior uses that during training."

  Startled, he narrowed his gaze. She smiled sweetly.

  "It is forbidden for women to visit the training grounds for warriors. They are sacred."

  "Then demonstrate it to me here, Graham."

  "Do you know why the grounds are forbidden to women? After training, a man is filled with the excitement of battle. The savage need for a warrior to conquer shifts into a different need, in which all he desires is a woman, to feel her soft body beneath his yield in surrender."

  Her own body tightened pleasurably at the challenge in his dark eyes. "Show me, Graham," she repeated.

  His nostrils flared. The air inside the tent heated, filled with an enticing, masculine scent of horses, leather and sandalwood. He had changed, the refined duke shifting into a dangerous warrior. The weapon he carried reminded her of the perils of this land, where men fought each other, not with dulled foils in gentlemanly sport, but in true battle.

  The change had alarmed her before. Now it only served to excite her. Graham slid his long scimitar from its sheath.

  An awed gasp of admiration slipped from her as he sliced the air with the sword. Muscle and sinew bulged and rippled as he swirled the scimitar in a series of intricate moves.

  Where had he learned? Jillian held her breath, not daring to ask as he sheathed the sword, placing it on the table.

  Unsmiling he faced her, sweat beading his forehead, glistening on his sculpted chest. Her hand splayed against the wealth of dark hair there, feeling the firmness against her stroking fingertips. A harsh groan rippled from his lips.

  A surge of feminine power filled her as she reached up, sliding her hands around his neck, dragging him down for a kiss. Her lips softened beneath the crushing pressure of his, accepting the deep thrusts of his tongue. Jillian pressed herself against him, cradling the hard bulge of his erection. The soft cotton blouse rubbed against her aching nipples.

  Graham tore himself away, panting. Hot desire tightened his face. Jillian backed away slightly, enormously excited at having pushed him into this, a bit scared at his dark intensity.

  Could she handle him?

  In silent command, he pointed to her blouse. Understanding, she removed it. His gaze widened as it caressed her bare breasts, the reddened peaks of her nipples. She watched him as she undressed and stood before him nude. Graham shed his clothing. His iron-hard penis jutted out.

  She sat on the bed, watching him expectantly. Then he pointed to the bed. "Lie on your stomach."

  Confusion swirled inside her. His heated gaze transfixed her. "Trust me. This is perfectly normal."

  She swallowed convulsively and obeyed, presenting him her backside as she climbed onto the bed. The mattress felt cool and soft. A slight tremor shook her as she felt his hands about her hips, drawing her slightly back. His warm palm caressed her bottom. Jillian didn't know what he expected, but she trusted him. In this position she felt woefully vulnerable.

  When his hand delved into the moistness between her trembling thighs, she flinched. He began gently stroking, the thick pressure rubbing against her inner folds. She clung to the pillow, bit it, swallowing a moan.

  His voice changed, became deeper and a bit rough. "You like that, don't you? Admit it. You like it."

  Embarrassed, Jillian made no reply. His hand between her legs increased the incredibly hot tension as he stroked, culling more moisture. Her bottom lifted as her body instinctively pressed against him. She felt his thick penis begin probing between her legs. Jillian pressed backward, hot with desire, flaming with embarrassment at her feverish need.

  Warm breath feathered her cheek as Graham bent over her, whispering into her ear. "Tell me you want me."

  She answered with a helpless whimper, aching to have his thickness fill her. Jillian felt his muscled body slide against her, like the leather sheath gloving his scimitar. With one hand grasping her hip, holding her still, the other continued to work dark magic between her legs. Incredible tension flamed as she thrust backward in a silent plea.

  His stiffened penis probed against her wet inner folds. Jillian pushed backward again. He withdrew.

  Desperate, nearly screaming with frustration, she raised herself on hands and knees, forcing herself back—only to find him forcing her back down. He teased her again, the rounded knob of his penis circling her wetness.

  "Graham," she whispered.

  With his tremendous strength and weight he kept her trapped beneath him as she wriggled helplessly.

  "Tell me you want it," he said thickly.

  The hard, thick length of him probed her again. She hid her face in her arms and tensed as he entered with a deep thrust. Jillian bit back a moan as scorching pleasure engulfed her.

  "Come on, Jilly, relax, don't fight it." He crooned into her ear as his large body pinned her to the mattress. He began thrusting heavily into her. "You know you like it. You can't hide from what you really are," he grated out.

  Pleasure twined with growing fear at his dark intensity. "Graham. Please."
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  He went absolutely still. Then he moaned softly. "Oh, God, Jilly... I'm sorry. What the hell am I doing?"

  He slid out of her, panting. Torment swirled in his dark eyes as she rolled over to regard him. He framed her face in his hands. "Jilly, I'm so sorry," he muttered.

  "Graham, what's wrong?"

  "The past," he said. "I can't let it come between us."

  She didn't understand. All she knew was he needed her desperately. Jillian slid her hands around his neck, pulled him down atop her as she feathered kisses over his face. "I won't let it. Just love me, Graham. Make love to me. I need you."

  Determined to reassure him, her body needing him back inside her, she caressed him, rebuilt the fire. Graham shuddered, kissed her, traced her body with his hands.

  He loved her slowly this time, building the pleasure as she stroked his back. Each deep thrust, each slow stroke increased the tension until she gripped him, crying out with joy. His big body shuddered and he spilled his seed inside her.

  An empty coolness surrounded her as he slipped from her body. He fingered her hair as if it were spun silk. "Jilly, I don't ever want to hurt you. God help me if I ever... do anything that makes you feel that way again. Forgive me."

  "You didn't. You couldn't," she said fiercely.

  Her words seemed to reassure him. He fell back onto the bed, pulling her against him, stroking her back in a light caress. Jillian clung to him, watching as his eyes closed. Long, black lashes feathered his cheeks as he fell into a peaceful slumber, his deep chest rising and falling. Jillian studied him, deeply troubled. Why did he seem so tormented?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Determined to prove her competence to Graham, she set out the next morning for the camel herd. In her hands Jillian gripped the large wooden bowl. She was going to teach herself how to milk a camel.

  Accustomed by now to the whispers and stares other women and men gave her, Jillian strolled through the camp. Flames crackled in a nearby cooking fire. A noise filled the air. She glanced at a tent to see a warrior working something in a bowl. The delicious scent of freshly ground coffee filled the air. How wonderful.

  She reached the camp's edge and halted, bewildered. The large dromedaries grazed there peacefully. Goodness! Should she just choose one and begin? Was there a certain Bedu protocol regarding this?

  Hearing a noise behind her, she turned to find Ramses studying her. His odd amber gaze seemed fixated on her hair. Self-consciously she touched her hat.

  "Which ones are the camels for milking?" she asked.

  His two dark brows pulled together. He glanced at the herd of animals, serenely grazing at the sparse outcropping of grasses, then frowned at the camels and selected one. He studied it and said, "Try milking this one."

  Deeply grateful, she flashed him a smile. "Shukran."

  Surprise flared in his gold-brown eyes. "You're welcome," he replied, glancing at the camel. His mouth twisted in a half smile. He strode off, humming a low tune.

  Her nose wrinkled at the pungent odor of the dromedaries. They needed baths, all of them. Doubt filled her as she studied the animal's undercarriage. Goodness, the beast certainly didn't resemble a cow. Perhaps the camel was more like a horse. Jillian gritted her teeth and stepped closer. She peered beneath the beast, analyzing its anatomy. Something seemed wrong, but Ramses had told her this was the milking camel. Balancing the large wooden milk bowl on her leg, she went to seize the teat.

  Snickering voices murmuring in Arabic echoed around her. Jillian stopped, her hand a hairsbreadth away.

  A group of warriors stood nearby, staring and grinning. Embarrassed, she struggled to maintain her composure. They must find it comical to watch an Englishwoman attempt this very Bedouin custom. Well, she'd show them she could do it.

  Turning back to the camel, she gritted her teeth. As she reached for the teat once more, a sun-darkened hand seized her wrist. She looked up at her husband's amused face.

  "Jillian, what are you doing?"

  "You said I needed to know how to survive in the desert. So I thought I'd learn to milk a camel on my own. But I can't figure out... well, the equipment doesn't look quite right."

  "It is quite right—for a male camel."

  Horrified, Jillian stared at the beast, realizing that indeed he was correct. "But his... er, his, um, thing, I mean, it's..."

  "Backward," he informed her. "An oddity of male camels."

  Her mortified gaze swept over the snickering men, and Ramses, who joined them. The Khamsin guardian howled.

  "But Ramses told me to milk this one."

  Graham's mouth quirked into a grin. "Ah, that's why he said I should rescue my wife and teach you how to milk a camel. He must be playing a joke on the foreigner."

  Her. The outsider with her odd red hair and pale complexion. Jillian tasted tears in the back of her throat. She was out of place with these people, something she'd anticipated.

  But she'd never anticipated being out of place with her husband. Or Graham calling her a foreigner. He blended with them like sand, shedding the regal aloofness of an English aristocrat.

  This proved she wasn't strong enough to cross the desert. After all, she was a clumsy, weak female who muddled everything, just as her father had often reminded her.

  Jillian handed the wooden bowl to her husband, biting her lips to keep from crying. "Here. You do it. I've changed my mind. I don't want to go with you."

  A startled look crossed Ramses's face. Graham studied her quietly. The bowl hung loosely from his fingers.

  With all the dignity she could muster and a swish of her English skirts, she marched away. Inside her tent, Jillian tore off her hat and buried her face in her hands. What a mistake, coming here. She had forced him into taking her, and now regretted doing so. For the first time in her life, Jillian wished she were invisible as she had felt all those years. The soft white cotton skirts and the pretty lacy blouse with its vivid emerald ribbons did not suit her. Jillian tore open the blouse, slipping out of it and yanked off her skirt. Opening her trunk, she removed the gray gown from its nest of tissue. Her trembling hand stroked the sensible broadcloth. Dreary, familiar and dull.

  Did she truly wish to remain in the gray shadows? Clad only in her chemise, Jillian held the gown against her. She stared at herself in the mirror, the flush of color in her cheeks, kissed by the sun, the tendrils of silky red hair wreathing her face. Graham had yanked her away from the dark recesses and brought her into the light. Hiding in the shadows no longer remained an option. She could not hide from herself.

  Absorbed in thought, she did not realize her husband had entered the tent until the gray dress was taken from her fingers and tossed to the carpet. Starting, she glanced into the mirror. He stood behind her, towering over her, a blue shadow still holding the milking bowl.

  "The best place for that is the fire. I won't let you hide behind it any longer, Jillian."

  Burning her past would not solve anything. Jillian dressed in the white blouse and skirt once more, avoiding his gaze. She spoke over her shoulder.

  "I can't do it, Graham. I can't milk a camel, navigate across a plain or any of those things. It's impossible and it's silly to think I could. I'll stay here with the tribe until you return. I don't belong with you out there."

  An incredible pain twisted her stomach at those words. Did she truly belong anywhere?

  "The Khamsin warriors were right. I'm a woman. Silly and clumsy." She swallowed past a thick lump clogging her throat.

  "The Khamsin warriors never said that, Jilly," he said gently. "That was your father. The men here honor women."

  Jillian shook her head. "You don't think I can do it."

  He said nothing, those dark eyes calmly assessing her in the mirror. Then Graham captured her hand and led her out of the tent. She tripped behind him, protesting. They passed the long line of black tents, the curious onlookers going about their daily chores, the women baking bread in small clay ovens or tending to their children.

 
; With purposeful steps he went on, stopping only when they reached the herd of camels. Graham went to one and dropped her hand. He caressed the animal's neck fondly.

  "This is Sheba. She's lactating." He pointed to her underbelly. "Four teats."

  The she-camel with her large, liquid brown eyes gave a soft snort. Graham skirted her with the wooden bowl.

  "This is how you milk a camel." With expert ease, he balanced the container on his muscled left thigh, and took one of Sheba's four teats in his right hand. "Just like a cow. Squeeze and pull, aiming for the bowl."

  He demonstrated, then handed her the bowl.

  Jillian shook her head. "I can't do it. It's impossible."

  "Nothing is impossible. Go on." He pushed the bowl at her.

  Blinking rapidly, she stared at the bowl, then at him. He gave an encouraging nod. Jillian squared her shoulders and sidled over to the camel. She lifted her leg and with her left hand, balanced the bowl on her thigh. Graham stood behind her, his strong fingers wrapping around hers, guiding.

  Together they felt the teat. It felt warm and soft beneath her fingers. With Graham's guidance, she tugged. A froth of white milk streamed into the wooden bowl.

  "Now try it on your own." He stepped back, waiting.

  Doubts assailed her. Yet running deeper was a determination to prove herself. She took hold of the udder and gently pulled. Warm milk splattered into the bowl. Delighted, she spun around, careful not to spill.

  "I knew you could do it." Approval shone in his gaze.

  They shared the milk, drinking straight from the bowl. It tasted thick, warm and filling. He grinned at her.

  "You have a mustache." As Jillian went to wipe her upper lip, he leaned over and licked it from her in a slow stroke. Need shuddered through her. "Milk is good for the body," he murmured, the husky timbre of his voice matching the sensual intent in his eyes.

  A camel the color of fresh cream butted its head against Graham's shoulder. He laughed and patted the neck.

  "Easy, Solomon. Did you think I forgot you?" he crooned. Solomon lowered his head, and Graham scratched behind the rounded, hairy ears. "I delivered Solomon when he was born."