THE PANTHER & THE PYRAMID
Book 4 in the Khamsin Warriors of the Wind series
Bonnie Vanak
Kindle Edition
THE PANTHER & THE PYRAMID - Copyright 2005 by Bonnie Vanak
Kindle Edition, License Notes
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, the characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published 2011 by Bonnie Vanak
Visit www.bonnievanak.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
More about Bonnie Vanak
Prologue
The red hair haunted him, as it always did, in his deepest nightmares.
Red. The color of blood. His blood. The hair... its crimson shock flapping in the air like a warning flag. The thick tangle of red-gold billowed from the force of the wind whistling across the desert sands. Always the desert, the harsh yellow sun searing his sweating body, mocking his dry, childish screams for help. Green eyes, brilliant as glossy emeralds, stared at him with scornful challenge.
He moaned, tossing and writhing. Hands clawed the air in a desperate attempt to fight his attacker—his attacker who wanted the magic wishing casket buried deep in Egypt's sands. He tried, oh, he tried so hard to wrest it away, to keep its awesome power hidden, but his tormentor grabbed the box. Then, words drifted from those mocking lips.
"There's no escape from the truth. You can't hide from what you really are."
With a strangled yell, he sat up. Sweat dampened the soft Egyptian cotton sheets beneath his naked torso. His hand shook uncontrollably as he wiped moisture from his forehead with the sheet's edge. An ominous foreboding shook him.
It wasn't the red hair this time, nor the words that caused him to tremble. It was the face. This time, it wasn't the face of the man who'd abused him that one day in the desert. It was the face of a woman. And she would make him scream until only hoarse cries wrung from his dry throat. Only this time, his screams wouldn't stop with a dirty rag frantically shoved into his mouth.
This time his screams would not end....
Chapter One
London, 1896
The Duke of Caldwell had chosen a most unusual way to lose his virginity.
Graham Tristan stood quietly in Madame LaFontant's wine-colored private receiving room. Sweat trickled down his back, gathered in the waistband of his fine buff trousers. Summoning all his courage, he faced the brothel owner and said in a quiet, commanding tone, "She must be... untried. And not a redhead. My brother assures me your establishment is the most discreet in London."
The saucy, chestnut-haired madame gave him a slow, thorough assessment. "Of course, Your Grace. I pride myself on discretion and fulfilling the deepest desires of many of your peers. Your request was not unusual." She paused and tapped an elegant nail thoughtfully upon the back of the horsehair settee. "That is why I sent my note. The type of woman you want just arrived. Not quite young. She's twenty-two. A honey-blonde. Very well-spoken. Quite lovely. Is that acceptable?"
A tiny puff of air escaped his lungs. Graham forced his face into an expressionless mask. "Is she a virgin?"
"Most assuredly. Of course, for such a jewel I'll have to charge double."
"Of course," he murmured, his heart galloping with a mixture of excitement and dread.
Madame LaFontant's corset stays creaked as she rose from the chaise. "Remain here and I'll prepare everything. Please, make yourself comfortable. There's brandy on the sideboard."
And with a swish of starched taffeta skirts, she whisked out the door. Graham ran a finger along the soaked white collar of his otherwise immaculate dress shirt. He eyed the sideboard with its gleaming array of crystal and decanter of amber fluid. He'd never drunk alcohol before, either.
"There's a first time for everything," he muttered.
In three strides, he was pouring two fingers of brandy into a snifter. Graham gulped down the liquor, coughing violently. He wiped his mouth and set down the glass. Good God, he hoped sex was going to be a hell of a lot more pleasurable than drinking.
"Is there such a thing as a monkish duke? Or a dukish monk?" he asked himself and laughed.
All the debutantes who'd eyed him as the Season's parties and balls began, marriage glinting in their eyes at the thought of snaring the very eligible, very rich duke, would be scandalized to know he was as innocent as they. A twenty-eight-year-old virgin.
But no longer. Knowing full well he'd hang for the crime he planned to commit, the revenge he would take, Graham vowed he'd experience pleasure in a woman's soft arms for the first time. Tonight, no skilled whore who would detect his inexperience. He wanted a woman as inexperienced as he, a woman too nervous to notice his awkward fumblings and hesitation. A virgin who would not ridicule him if last-minute panic flowered and he decided he couldn't bear to be touched after all...
Graham fisted his hands, staring at the scarlet silk-paneled walls. The man who'd robbed him of his boyhood was long dead. Graham had killed him with his scimitar in a duel, ruthlessly avenging the abuse he'd suffered after having been taken captive by an Egyptian tribe at age six. But that other man, the redheaded Englishman who'd wanted the same—he still roamed free. The man who'd promised a desperate eight-year-old that, if he wouldn't struggle, if he would do something very despicable, he would be freed from his tormentor and returned to England. Graham had closed his eyes and sold his soul to the devil. That devil with red hair and green eyes...
And then he'd screamed in anguish as the man rode off in a cloud of dust, leaving him behind to face his laughing captor and the nightmarish stench of the dirty, gray sheepskins grinding into his face each night.
Graham's eyes flew open. "Never again," he whispered fiercely. "I am not that same child."
Abandoning the sideboard, he paced the
fine wool carpet, trying to contain the restless agitation welling inside. He stopped, forcing himself to remember: He would not be the only virgin in bed tonight. Surely his first lover would be very nervous. Think of her, he admonished himself. Focus on her.
Kenneth, his brother who had relinquished the family title to him upon Graham's return to England last year, had given him a few very explicit words of advice. He'd also loaned him explicit books with illustrations. "The key to arousing a woman's passion is to make love with your mind, not merely your body. Woo her with words, not just touch," he'd suggested.
Woo her. Graham scanned the room and spotted a slim china vase holding a bouquet of fresh roses. He went to it, studying the blooms. Instead of a full dozen of one color, they were mixed. White, yellow, red and pink. How curious.
"Take one, please. You may give it to her."
Madame LaFontant's voice startled him. Graham frowned at the vase, then glanced over at the woman in the doorway.
"Why the different colors?"
A mysterious smile touched her mouth, but she gave a casual shrug. "I like color," she said. "Go ahead, choose one to give to your lover."
He went to choose and hesitated. Kenneth frequently gave red roses to his wife, Badra. Red surely meant love. Graham knew no woman could ever love him. Yet the rich, deep crimson called to him. Maybe, just maybe, he could pretend at love. It would make this very personal act less impersonal. But he would add a white rose, to minimize the apparent meaning.
"Might I have two?"
Madame LaFontant's smile deepened. "But of course."
Graham hesitated, then selected a long-stemmed crimson bloom and a white one. As he withdrew them from the vase, a thorn pricked his thumb. Recoiling, he glanced at the scarlet bead on his skin.
"Roses have thorns. Like life, Your Grace. Sweetness and beauty come with a price."
He sucked on his thumb and gave a wry smile. "I don't mind paying a price—as long as I'm not entirely drained."
She laughed and gestured to the door. Graham held the roses carefully in one hand, his heart hammering with anticipation.
He fiercely hoped the nightmares would end tonight. Holding a woman in his arms, feeling her soft body beneath his naked one, plunging into her wet warmth... No more bitter shame or painful memories.
Tonight he'd be a man at last.
* * *
Jillian Quigley was one step closer to her dream.
She touched her blond wig, adjusting a stray curl. In this disguise, no one could identity her. Madame LaFontant's establishment was discreet and paid its women well. And none possessed her most precious commodity.
Virginity. Tonight, for one hundred pounds cash, she would lose it. Anonymously. In the dark, with some uncaring stranger.
Hugging herself, she walked about the expansive room. An ironic smile curved her lips. Losing her precious virginity in a whorehouse—now wouldn't that make Father howl? His daughter he'd ordered to marry the wealthy Bernard Augustine, no longer possessing her saleable asset. Dull Bernard, who constantly cleared his throat and laughed when she began discussing Marshall's economic theories.
After tonight she'd have money to sneak off to America. All her life she'd had one shining dream tucked into her heart. She closed her eyes, inhaling the dusty scent of chalkboards, hearing the bass rumble of the professor's voice, feeling the hardwood seat beneath her. Two years ago, Harvard College had created a women's annex. Radcliffe called to her like a well beckoning a weary, thirsty traveler. Jillian itched to drink from its knowledge. And unlike her father, the teachers wouldn't reprimand her for being smart and a woman.
Long ago Jillian had vowed never to marry a man as emotionally remote as her father. College offered the only hope of escape from the gray shadows of her silent, oppressive home.
She went to the heavy blue brocade drapes, which were drawn against the night and prying eyes from the street below. Her appreciative gaze swept the room, taking in the polished satinwood wardrobe, the delicate tables with their inlaid marble, the soft glow from the leaded crystal lamps. Madame LaFontant specialized in pampering her wealthy clients with surroundings as elegant as their own domiciles, and women who provided every fantasy their wives could not. She glanced at the bed with its rich, soft cotton sheets, and shivered delicately. She hoped her client would be fast, indifferent and uncaring. She just wanted to get it over with, and move on.
Jillian caught sight of herself in the gilded mirror above the gleaming dresser. The lovely peacock-blue gown Madame had loaned her made her exotic, almost attractive. Jillian fingered the low décolleté, flushing at how it revealed the generous, rounded halves of her bosom. Father insisted on her dressing modestly in dull gray. If he could, he'd keep her in sackcloth. Father's invisible, dull Jillian, her reputation sterling, her morals rigid as his own.
Cosmetics now altered her appearance, shadowed eyelids making her eyes appear more blue than green. Dim lighting aided in the disguise. Not that it much mattered. No one would expect to find the earl of Stranton's daughter in a whorehouse.
Heavy footsteps, accompanied by a lighter tread, sounded on the wood floor outside. They paused outside her door, voices murmured, then the lighter steps resumed, walking away. Jillian bit her lip and gathered her courage. Smoothing down her gown, she steeled her spine and faced the door as it opened.
Please don't let him be fat, ugly or make any disgusting noises, she silently prayed. Last-minute panic gripped her in an icy fist.
The door opened and her client stepped inside, slowly closing it behind him. He stood, hands behind his back, quietly gauging her.
Breath seized in her lungs. Jillian stared, spellbound.
She had prayed for a man not too ugly. She hadn't expected one so handsome.
A shock of black hair brushed his starched white collar, spilled across his forehead. His face was classically handsome, yet held strong character in the tempered steel of his jaw and proud nose. His chin was firm and strong, but the mouth hinted at softness with a full, sensual lower lip. A mouth made for kisses.
Jillian pulled back, uncomfortable with the thought. Clearly this was a nobleman of fine breeding. But what had she expected?
He was of medium height, a few inches taller than she, and a hint of muscle showed beneath his finely tailored suit. His eyes were onyx, blacker than the night, and they studied her as intently as she studied him. Dark, soulful eyes with secrets.
Fresh dismay coursed through her. She only wanted to get the deed over with and banish the memory to the deepest corner of her mind. How could she forget this man?
Her mouth went dry. She felt awkward and uncertain. What now? She wasn't sure what he expected. Let him set the pace. If he rushed forward, ripped off her clothing... Her quivering hand stroked her beautiful blue gown. He had a commanding presence, but no cruelty shone in those dark eyes. They looked... watchful. Speculative.
Finally, he spoke. "Hullo. I'm Graham."
His voice melted over her like warm honey. Dark and deep, but with a rough note. So masculine and solid, like granite. So different from the men in her life. Strikingly solid, especially contrasting to Bernard's pudding softness.
Jillian pushed back a lock of her fake hair, hoping the assorted pins would keep it in place. "I'm Christine." She gave him her middle name.
He nodded and approached, his heels making muffled noises on the thick carpet. "I brought these for you," he said softly.
A slight trembling affected his hand as he gave her the roses. Jillian melted. She closed her eyes, inhaling the flowers' sweet fragrance. "Thank you," she said shyly, opening her eyes to smile at him.
A thoughtful look entered his eyes as he touched a rose petal, then with the same finger stroked her cheek. "Exquisite," he murmured.
He took a rose back from her hand and brushed her cheek with it. "An English rose," he said, "with delicate soft beauty."
Her lips curved into an ironic smile, though her heart skipped at his poetic words. "English ros
es have sharp thorns," she said. Then Jillian bit her lip, dismayed by her tone.
But he seemed unperturbed. He held up his right thumb, showing a small puncture marked by a rusty dot. "I've already found out. Wounded in the line of duty."
She smiled. "You're quite brave, sir, to risk injury to bring me such a gift."
He nodded. "Yes, quite right. Do you suppose the Queen will knight me for my courage?" A twinkle in his eyes belied his serious tone.
Jillian laughed, her tension fleeing. Graham smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. His entire face had changed, the severe lines softening and making him appear boyish. It was such a drastic difference, and Jillian found herself utterly charmed.
Graham took the other rose from her hand and set them both on a nearby dresser. His smile vanished, replaced by an intent look. He framed her face with large, warm hands.
When he kissed her, so gently she felt as cherished as a bride on her wedding night, Jillian closed her eyes and pretended. Her lips moved beneath his.
Graham deepened the kiss, drinking in her mouth, sipping and tasting. He curled one hand about her nape, holding her still. His tongue probed the closed seam of her lips. Flicked lightly, tracing. A question.
She opened to him like a flower unfurling its petals. An answer.
His tongue slipped inside; he deepened the kiss, tightening his hold on her nape. Like an eager adventurer, he explored her mouth, tasting and nipping at her lower lip. Breath fled her lungs as she melted into him. An odd fullness pooled in her loins.
He broke their kiss, tearing his mouth away with ragged breaths. Jillian stepped back, a little woozy and startled. Her hand flew to her swollen mouth.
"Oh," she whispered.
She hadn't expected to be aroused tonight. Satisfaction gleamed in his gaze.
Knowing what was expected of her, she reached for the fastenings on her gown. Graham slipped behind her and assisted. His fingers felt fumbling, and once he uttered a low curse.
The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) Page 1
