Faisal taught him anyway. Others ignored him, shunned him. To win their respect Graham became a rogue warrior, joining in the fighting and raiding, but always on the fringes. Eventually they called him The Panther, the cat that hunts alone.
"Faisal told me in the desert, there are no secrets. The desert exposes a man to his deepest core and what he truly is. No matter what terrible things I suffered, no other man could take my soul. And he told me that if I ever got lost within myself, to go to the desert and find who I was again."
Jillian spoke finally, her voice remarkably soft and soothing against his ragged nerves, like the whisper of silk.
"Are you still lost?"
He hesitated and stared out at the sand. "I don't know."
Jillian wrapped her arms about herself as her husband went off to relieve himself—or so he said. She did not dare express sympathy or show it; instinct warned he would loathe pity.
Shocked horror had pulsed through her as he told his story. That little boy enduring so many horrors—flashes of pain surfaced in his dark eyes. She didn't know what to do, how to help him, what doubts and torment he had suffered. All she knew was that she loved him.
Splashing sounded in the distance. Jillian rose and went to the small spring and hovered discreetly behind a palm.
Naked, her husband was immersed waist deep in the warm spring, scrubbing himself with fury. His handsome face twisted in anguish. Just as she had, earlier. Her heart twisted. I love you, she thought. Will you let me love you, Graham? Can you?
She turned and quietly slipped back to the tent.
Much later, when he felt calm enough, Graham returned to their camp. Jillian remained silent, her gaze following him. He sat on a blanket, cold eating him inside.
She spoke, her voice even. "Were you ignored by the other warriors or...?"
Graham drew a deep breath. "I was seen as an outcast, a girl. I fought to be accepted."
"What did you do to become accepted?"
"I killed my abuser in a duel. Then I cut off his balls and gave them to my sheikh as a trophy." Graham sucked in air, waiting duly to see condemnation or disgust in her eyes. It did not come.
"What did he say?"
Relief stabbed him. Still, he did not lower his guard. "He laughed. Fareeq liked cruelty and sport. He ordered me to be initiated as a warrior."
They had taken him to the sacred grounds where boys turned into men, made him swear the oath of loyalty and circumcised him. The pain had been excruciating. He'd been offered a sedative drink, but Graham had not taken it. He had welcomed the pain.
Respect had flowed then, slowly, like a sluggish river. Always he'd had to prove himself; killing more, risking more. He'd learned to distance himself from emotions. Eventually when Faisal's daughter married into the Khamsin tribe, Graham had accompanied her and become a Khamsin Warrior of the Wind.
"I wanted desperately to be seen as a man," he whispered, remembering his struggles for acceptance.
"How many men have you killed in battle?" Jillian asked.
He tensed, seeing himself in her eyes, a savage raised in a culture of cruelty. "Hundreds. I do not know."
"And how many people have you loved?"
Taken aback, he recoiled. Jillian sat serene, unblinking. "I do not know."
"Less than you have killed."
"Yes," he agreed.
"Less because you wouldn't allow it, Graham. You loved once, and love was taken from you. You were afraid to love again. As you're afraid now. Because you don't want to be hurt again."
His stomach clenched in remembrance: blood flowing like water upon sand, his parents' death screams, the smell of dirty sheepskin in his nose, stares and taunts...
A kind hand stretched out. His foster parents had nurtured him, but he did not love them. Did he?
He cherished his family. He would die to protect them, especially Kenneth's new son. But was that love?
"Time grows short. Let's pack up." Graham unfolded his body and turned his back as he began shoving items into a sack. Two arms slid about his waist hugging him from behind. He tensed.
"Love me, Graham. And I'm not asking for your whole heart, your commitment. Love me as a man loves a woman in the night. If that's all you have to offer, then give it to me. I need you."
His body swelled even as his mind refused. Emotions fought, clashed like Khamsin steel. He could not love her. He could not burden her with the terrible blackness inside him. Graham glanced down. He was flaccid.
"Night is falling and we need sleep," he said roughly. "Go, get ready for bed." He slipped away to check on the camels. He did not want to turn around and see his wife's tears.
Dry-eyed, Jillian silently assembled the dishes and put them away. His rejection had not hurt her. What hurt was the terrible pain haunting his dark eyes.
Oh, Graham, I've felt your passion, your desire, every time we made love. I know you're every inch a man, the man I love. But how can I convince you?
She had no skills in dealing with inner demons, not even her own. Mocking laughter echoed in her brain, pushing aside a tiny hope of healing him. She wondered if she could reach him at all.
That night, Graham had a nightmare. He woke with a strangled yell and Jillian sat up, shivering. But he pushed away her comforting embrace and turned on his side. She did not reach for him.
In the morning he silently watched her, his gaze wary, as she prepared breakfast. Jillian felt despair push at her. She bit her lip and poured the thick, dark Arabic coffee he loved into a tiny, handleless cup. But he did not drink. Nor did he eat as she nibbled the edges of a flat-bread wedge. Finally she stood, briskly dusting off her hands.
"If we're to reach that cave by nightfall, we should leave."
He made no attempt to pack or move. Dread filled her. He sat as one drained of life, a silent figure in indigo, his arms hugging his knees.
Jillian shrugged, left him alone and went to feed the camels. She stroked Solomon's long neck, watching the beast chew the dried dates. When she returned to the tent, Graham still sat motionless, staring out into the sand.
"Are we leaving?" she asked. He did not answer.
She spent the rest of the day analyzing the map of the tomb where the treasure lay. Despair assaulted her. Each time she attempted to talk to her husband, he made no reply. He sat, a silent statue, staring into the sands.
She did not know what was wrong. Did he think she condemned him for what happened? Jillian gracefully lowered herself beside her husband. She gathered his hands in hers.
"Talk to me. Please, talk to me."
Graham lowered his face to his knees.
"You don't want to know, Jillian. You don't. Go away."
"Is it so terrible that it makes you cry out in the night? I'm your wife, Graham. Trust me. Please."
Turning his head, Graham's stricken gaze met hers. "Do you want to know what I dreamed of?"
"Yes."
"I dreamt of that day. Of al-Hamra's laughter."
She stared in horrified anguish at the sweat breaking out on his forehead. "He laughed after, Jillian. He told me to stop that insipid crying. And that... that deep down, I enjoyed it."
"Graham, you mustn't blame yourself," she cried. "You were desperate and would have done anything."
His tortured gaze locked with hers. "Jillian, don't you realize? What if... what if I allowed him to do it not because I thought it would free me, but..." He whipped his head away from her, his voice so low she barely heard.
"W-what if he was right? What if I did like it? What if my whole life has been a lie?"
She had no answers. Graham seemed remote and distant as the Nile, and Jillian was terrified of losing him, terrified of what he had revealed. She wanted to run far, far away, to put her fingers into her ears and not hear. It was too much for her to bear.
But he had finally revealed his darkest secret. He had turned over his trust and how could she abandon him?
No, Jillian didn't know what to say; she only knew
inside his deepest core was a part she needed to reach. She took a deep breath and took his face in her hands. His eyes were blank obsidian, as distant as the boulders they'd left behind in the wadi.
She kissed her husband. He did not respond. It felt like kissing dead, ancient stone. Jillian leaned forward, pressing her body against his, desperate to stir fife in him. She tangled her hands in the dusty, black locks curling beneath his indigo turban. She breathed into his mouth, begging him with her body to come back to life. To come back to her.
He slowly stirred against her and began returning her kiss, his lips moving subtly, his muscled arms holding her trapped against him. With a loud groan, he squeezed her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. But Jillian did not resist his punishing embrace; she melted into him. Her hands explored his body, pressed against the hard flatness of his belly and daringly slipped lower.
Releasing her, he wrenched away. "I can't... do this."
Jillian ached at the wild panic on his face. She braced herself for what she must say.
"The Khamsin say the desert bares a man's soul. There are no dark spaces here, no secrets." Dragging in a breath, she forced herself to continue. "There are no lies here. So tell me, does this man of your past rouse your passion?"
He stared at her in incredulous shock. She pushed further, twisting the knife, trying to break through his fear. "Do you want to fuck him instead of me?"
Fury flared in his dark eyes, turning them to pitch. Like a feral animal, his upper lip curled back, displaying the white gleam of teeth. Graham made a strangled sound. His hand shot out. He seized her by the throat. Breath fled her lungs. She didn't dare move. Didn't dare let her gaze drop. She remained motionless, snared in the grip of his powerful fingers. With one move, he could break her neck.
"You can't kill the truth. So answer me," she rasped.
Silence hovered between them, the only noise the brush of the desert wind skidding across the sand and the wild roar of blood thrumming in her veins.
His grip eased. He did not release her but loosened his hold. His index finger traced a hesitant line across her throat to her trembling jaw. With his left hand, he began exploring her face.
Two lines dented the space between his dark brows. He resembled his nephew, exploring his world for the first time. Graham's left hand skimmed her body and palmed her breast in a light caress. And then Jillian realized what he was doing.
He was touching her as he had their first night together. When they first became lovers. When he claimed her body in passion and torrid heat, and he knew at last the pleasures a woman's body had to offer. His lips parted in an expression of wondering awe. Awareness flared on his face. He knew the answer. And so did she. Moisture carved twin tracks in the grime dusting his cheeks.
Graham released his chokehold on her neck. Jillian took a sweet gulp of air. His tearful eyes widened in horror.
"Christ, I could have killed you."
"You wouldn't. You would never." She picked up the hand that had the power to crush her windpipe and kissed it.
"Part of me wanted to hurt you, Jillian, because I was afraid of the answer. I didn't struggle enough. He told me I liked it because I didn't struggle," he said brokenly.
"You didn't like what happened to you. You were only doing what you had to." She took deep breaths, rubbing her throat.
"I should have fought him. I didn't Only when he gagged me when I started to scream—and I screamed because I realized I couldn't blame a ‘heathen Arab' this time. I let him, an Englishman from my own culture and country, do it. And I accepted what was happening to me."
She framed his face with her hands, her tears blurring his visage. "Acceptance doesn't make something right or enjoyable. My father was cruel to me, and it's all I knew. But I never, ever liked it."
"I'm so tired, Jilly," he whispered. "I'm so very tired."
She kissed him tenderly. "Then sleep."
Like a young child, he curled against her and lay his head on her lap. Jillian choked back a sob and her trembling hand stroked his head.
The burning sun scorched the land. Heat filled the inside of their makeshift tent. For a long time Jillian sat on the striped blanket, oblivious of everything about her but the sound of her husband's deep, slumbering breaths.
Eventually she lay down and slept. She did not know what time it was when she opened her eyes. Starlight glittered in the heavy black sky above. A pale silver moon washed the sand and the little lee of their dune with grayish light. Something had awoken her.
Jillian glanced down and realized that during their sleep, Graham had curled his body about hers, tangling them together like twisted rope. His muscled thigh pinned her legs to the blanket, his arm draped about her shoulders. His eyes were open. They studied her with unblinking intensity.
He shifted and pulled her closer. His lips sought hers, his tongue caressing the inside of her mouth. Fire leaped inside her veins as she hooked her arms about him, kissing him back. Graham fisted his hands in her tousled hair, groaning as he kissed her. She felt the pressing hardness of his erection.
His hands roamed her body, shoved up the kuftan and tugged at the blousy trousers beneath the long dress.
"Take them off," he said.
She did. He hitched up his indigo coat and opened his trousers. Graham rolled her onto her back and mounted her with heated urgency. Unprepared for the force of his entry, Jillian cried out in shock. He stopped, kissed her, coaxing her response until she writhed against him in need.
His thrusts were hard, fast, the implacable pressure stretching her until finally her body accepted his intrusion and bathed him with her arousal. Jillian bit her lip as he released the fury of the past, his hands pinning her wrists to the blanket, his heavy weight trapping her beneath him. She met each violent thrust by tilting her hips upwards in welcome.
There was nothing gentle about his taking her. It was a rough, primitive claiming as he overpowered her like a Khamsin. His flesh pierced hers, taking by rights what was his. Taking back his past and starting anew.
The sensual onslaught gripped her. Her body tensed and she cried out, stiffening beneath him, her hands gripping the hard muscles in his back. He climaxed just as violently, his body bucking and then suddenly turning rigid, a feral growl ripping from his throat. His breath came in harsh, ragged pants. Graham collapsed atop her, his heavy weight trapping her, his head buried in the soft hollow of her shoulder.
For a long moment Jillian lay still, not daring to breathe, reluctant to disturb him. Then at last he raised his head, supporting himself on his elbows. A fierce male satisfaction glowed in the dark depths of his eyes. He kissed her, a slow deep kiss filled with tenderness.
"I love you, Jilly," he whispered. "I think I always have."
And she knew then that his demons had been vanquished and would never return.
Chapter Twenty-three
The cave on the map was within half a day's ride of an oasis and a small village. After they found the treasure, Graham promised they would visit the village for a real meal and to replenish supplies.
They reached the cave by midday. Had they approached from the east, they might even have fallen into it. The opening was nothing more than a slit gaping in the flat terrain. Graham unpacked their supplies while Jillian peered dubiously at the yawning shaft. Sand spilled into the darkness. She shivered.
"We can slide down," Graham offered. He took her hand with one of his and grasped an unlit lamp with his other. "Come on. Together."
They slid down the deep sandy slope. She felt as if they tumbled into a yawning darkness with no end. When they struck hard turf carpeted by thick sand, she released a breath.
Graham stood and helped her up as she shook her robes. When he lit the lamp, an awed gasp escaped her. The cavern was enchanting. She thought of the Arabian tales in her father's library and knew the true magic of the desert.
Hundreds of giant conical forms dripped from the ceiling, crystallized water frozen into immortality. The
delicate ice crystals hung in a lacy arrangement, their translucent twists delicate as fairy wings. Light played over the chalk-white and tawny forms as Graham lifted the lantern.
"It's like the enchanted cave I once dreamed about," he said, his face rapt. "When I was a boy, I used to escape to a place like this in my mind."
Love washed over her. Jillian squeezed his hand. "Aladdin's secret cave, filled with treasure. A place where you could feel safe."
His jaw tensed. "Let's do this quickly."
Minutes later they'd assembled their gear: a sturdy rope, their rucksacks, the rifle and jugs of water. Graham reached into his belt and withdrew the wooden key he had fashioned in Cairo.
He shouldered the rifle as they went searching for the door. Low-lying ceilings, too low for a man to squeeze under, prohibited them from exploring some portions. It was a small cave, and Jillian began growing frustrated. Her nose wrinkled at the odor of bat droppings.
But Graham insisted on thorough, slow searching, cautioning her to avoid a large crevice splitting the floor. They peered over the edge. Jillian shuddered as they dropped a small broken piece of stalactite into the darkness and did not hear it hit bottom.
Graham looked at her. "Slow and steady."
After about an hour, they came upon an opening in which they both had to squat. Graham pointed to a small cartouche, barely visible, carved into a delicate stalactite.
"Khufu," she breathed. "This must be it!"
She felt like Alice squeezing into the tiny house in Wonderland as they progressed. Finally reduced to crawling on her knees, Jillian wondered if the oppressive weight of the confined space could actually squeeze her lungs.
They came to a dead end no higher than three feet. Frustrated tears burned her throat as she stared at the limestone wall. Nothing. No keyhole.
But Graham showed no such emotion. He merely studied the wall, running a hand over its surface. The blank wall slid back, like a panel. It revealed another wall beyond. There was a large keyhole.
He turned to her, a boyish grin filling his face.
The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) Page 24