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

by Vanak, Bonnie

  "Rashid, talk to me about this. Don't shut me out. I sense you are carrying a heavy burden, and it has become much heavier these past months since we arrived in London."

  Her use of the Arabic name he'd been given by the al-Hajid made him cautious. He folded his arms over his chest. "What do you want, Badra?"

  Distress etched her face. "You've changed, Rashid. Once we were so close. Ever since we came to England, you've grown more distant every day. I hardly know my friend anymore. Why is that?"

  "You and Kenneth urged me to assume the title. Of course I had to change. I'm no longer Rashid. Those days are gone."

  "And our friendship, too? Once you would have done anything for me."

  His voice softened. "As I would continue to do, but you're married to Kenneth now. He comes first in your life, as it should be. As it will be for me when I marry my new bride."

  "Oh, Rashid." Badra's deep sigh indicated displeasure. "Your bride. Who is this woman? You never mentioned any woman before. How do you know she is the one for you?" She touched his chest gently. "How do you know she is the one to share your heart?"

  Graham rubbed his face. "Badra, what you have with Kenneth is special. My expectations of marriage are not so high."

  "Why not? Why shouldn't you expect to find a woman whom you can share every part of yourself with, who will fill that empty space inside you? No, don't tell me it's not there," she added as he started to protest. "I know, more so than anyone else, how empty that ache can make you feel. And I know how wonderful it is to finally have someone fill that void, and feel the peace of being loved and cherished for who you are."

  Vastly uncomfortable now, he shrugged. "I'm glad it happened for you. Truly, Badra." It just will never happen for me.

  Joining his wife, Kenneth slid an arm around her ample waist. His calm gaze met his brother's troubled one. "We want you to be happy, Graham. You don't deserve anything less. Can this woman make you happy?"

  "She pleased me enough the other night," he repeated. He remembered what Kenneth had said and tossed it back at him. "You said that she was my destiny. And you can't fight destiny. I'm marrying her. Can't you both just try to be happy for me?"

  Kenneth glanced at his wife. "Yes," he said. "We can."

  "Yes," Badra echoed softly. "Please bring her to tea. I want to make her feel welcome here. Very welcome."

  Graham managed a genuine smile as she disengaged from her husband and came to him. She kissed his cheek, her large belly bumping his hip.

  Kenneth gave him a solemn look. "If this is what you want, then I am happy for you. I just want a woman who's good enough. You deserve the best." He looked wistful. "I would have given anything to see you happy before this, but we can't go back, only forward. So let us know what you need and we'll be there for you."

  Struggling with his emotions, Graham nodded. After all these years of walking alone, he finally had a family who cared. He felt torn between wanting to grow closer, and his natural reserve. How much easier it would have been to simply remain in Egypt, masked by his indigo Khamsin garb, hiding from the world.

  When Kenneth swung Badra into his arms—despite her protests she could walk—Graham felt even lonelier. Murmuring excuses, he vanished into his apartments. There he dressed to go riding in the park.

  Slapping his riding crop against his thigh, he descended the polished staircase. Jasmine galloped across the hallway toward him. Her face broke into a beaming grin. A flurry of excited Arabic spilled from her.

  "Uncle Graham! Are you riding? Can I go with you? Please, please! I haven't ridden my horse in two days!"

  "English, Jasmine," he automatically corrected. "And hasn't your papa told you no riding without a groom? You're still not accomplished enough on sidesaddle."

  Her face fell. "Yes."

  "You'll get better in time," he encouraged.

  In Yorkshire, Kenneth had taught his adopted daughter to ride the Bedouin way. Jasmine had ridden astride until two weeks ago, when boys in the park had teased her about her odd riding style, calling her a heathen. Deeply upset, Jasmine had quietly asked to learn the English way to ride.

  Graham felt a tug of deep pity at her crestfallen expression. He gave an indulgent smile. "Go change into your riding habit, and I'll meet you at the stable," he promised.

  Trailed by Charles—the silent head groom Graham trusted most—he and his niece rode to Hyde Park. Graham controlled his Arabian stallion with his knees, while Jasmine sat on her pony, struggling with the sidesaddle position. As they approached the Row, he noticed her stiff posture. Graham nudged his mount to a halt and leaned forward in his saddle.

  "Listen to me, Jasmine—relax. Your horse takes cues from you. The more you feel comfortable, the more you are able to control your mount. Animals sense it when you are nervous. Bend your knees a bit and relax your posture."

  "My governess says I must sit straight as a board."

  "Have you ever seen a board ride a horse?" He winked. Jasmine giggled, and her shoulders relaxed.

  As they rode into the park, Graham turned a curious eye again on his niece. Like him, she was a loner. He asked her about making friends. Her woebegone expression turned his heart over.

  Glancing over her shoulder at the indifferent-looking Charles, she spoke in a hushed tone in Arabic. "Uncle Graham, I want to play with them, but they don't want to play with me. They say I'm too odd. Especially Tommy Wallenford. He says he's the Honorable Tommy Wallenford and I'm just a silly heathen girl from Arabia without a tide."

  So Jasmine had been snubbed for her imperfect English. Graham bristled with anger. "Listen to me, little one," he said somberly. "They think themselves superior. You must show them you are their equal. You are the Honorable Jasmine Tristan, daughter of a viscount. And the niece of a duke."

  He saw her inner fight to bravely check her tears.

  "But I did. They won't listen to me. They keep listening to Tommy. It hurts when he calls me names, Uncle Graham. Just because I'm Egyptian and my skin is darker."

  Graham felt a twist of anguish, remembering his own difficulties when he returned to England, the whispers and curious stares in the Yorkshire community.

  "What would you do, Uncle Graham?" she begged.

  His natural caution broke at the sight of her trembling lower lip. He racked his brain, remembering. "When I first came to England, this one sod—er, fellow—mocked my accent. He had no respect for my tide and called me a heathen of Arabia."

  "And what did you do, Uncle Graham?"

  He could not resist a wry smile. "I gave him what the English call a ‘facer.' I punched him in the lip and told him, ‘You stupid bloody sod, a heathen from Arabia can fight just as well as an Englishman.' And then I earned respect by relearning English customs and English ways. Eventually most have come to accept me."

  Jasmine's wondering gaze held his. "Then I should focus on learning English ways and they'll accept me as well?"

  Graham was attuned enough to prejudice to know firsthand the answer. Jasmine's midnight-black hair, large dark eyes and dark skin set her apart. It always would, no matter how perfect her English or how western her dress.

  "Learning English customs and perfecting your English will help, but it's also important you don't sacrifice who you truly are, little one. Be yourself, and be confident in who you are. Worthwhile people will respect you."

  Jasmine gave a solemn nod. "Thank you, Uncle Graham. Now maybe you should go ahead. I have to ride slower on my pony. I need to practice riding English-style, to prove to them I can do it."

  Sooner or later, she would have to face her troubles alone. Graham promised to rejoin her as soon as he had a good gallop.

  With a sigh he headed for the soft, tawny track designed to accommodate brisk riding. Once there, he let Prometheus have his head, relishing the power of the big stallion's working muscles. Graham steered the stallion with pressure from his thighs, just as he'd learned from the Bedouin.

  Minutes later, he slowed the panting horse to
a canter and let him cool down, then headed back to Jasmine. He trotted onto the lane, his keen gaze searching for an elfin-faced girl and the groomsman who resembled a melancholy hound. The sound of laughter pulled his attention to a small stand of oak trees. Lady Jillian was there, talking with Jasmine. Charles waited patiently nearby.

  Graham's chest constricted. This was not how he'd intended to introduce Jillian to his family. He spurred the big horse forward, galloping until he reached them. He expertly pulled the stallion to an abrupt halt.

  "Good day, Lady Jillian," he said.

  "Good day, Your Grace." Her charming smile faltered.

  Oblivious to the adults' discomfort, Jasmine glanced at Graham with a bright smile. "Uncle Graham! Miss Jillian has been telling me about horses and riding!"

  "Lady Jillian," he corrected.

  "And I was telling her about Egypt and how you, Papa and Mama brought me here last year."

  Graham's blood went cold. How much exactly had Jasmine told Jillian? That he had been an Egyptian warrior—living, fighting and killing? Any hint of how he'd lived with a Bedouin tribe and Jillian might pass that on to her father, who might do some hard thinking about his future son-in-law and remember...

  He managed a tight smile. "Did you now? What exactly did you tell Lady Jillian?"

  "Oh, that Mama saw Papa last year in Egypt, and how he's not my real father but he adapted me..."

  "Adopted," Graham corrected.

  "And how Papa saw you in Cairo and we all had dinner at a nice hotel before we came to London."

  Was that a wink? Graham bit back a grin. Precocious little baggage. She'd told much without telling anything.

  "Egypt sounds terribly far," Jillian remarked.

  "Oh, it is. But it's lovely. It has lots of... Arabic ponies?" Jasmine struggled with English, but she'd worked hard to master it in recent months.

  "Arabian horses," Graham corrected in Arabic. Then he repeated in English for her benefit.

  "I see you are quite fluent in the Arab tongue, Your Grace," Jillian remarked.

  Dull heat flushed his body. "Quite. But I speak it only when necessary, so as to not offend the sensibilities of those who look down upon the land," he replied tightly.

  She gave him a searching look. "I meant no offense. On the contrary, I greatly desire to travel abroad, and to see the fantastic sights of Egypt and other countries."

  "Egypt has many such sights," he agreed.

  A spark lit her green eyes. "Oh, indeed! And you must have seen them. I have never been beyond England, but for one journey to America as a child to visit my aunt."

  "You desire to travel?" he asked.

  "Yes. It must be marvelous to journey wherever you please, to learn of new cultures and have grand adventures."

  He stared at her. "Some might call my time in Egypt a grand adventure. I venture to call it something different." Thankfully, his bitter sarcasm was lost on her.

  "Tell me about your travels. They must have been so fascinating. What is Egypt like? Did you travel up and down the Nile on a dahabiya? Oh, to smell the river water, to see the vistas of flowering trees and the lush, quiet date palms."

  Graham shot her an amused look. "Where did you hear about Egyptian houseboats?"

  "I escape to other places in books," she replied. She sighed, looking despondent. "Since I will never journey there."

  "Never say never," he told her. "The Arabs believe in destiny—and you can't fight your destiny."

  As well he knew.

  For the first time since Father's harsh punishment, Jillian felt the pall of bleakness lift. Destiny. Yes, soon she, too, would have grand adventures. In America. Radcliffe. The halls of learning. What greater quest could life offer?

  "Father traveled all over Egypt. He liked the pyramids. He said they were interesting, but he said the people were sly beggars. How did you find Egypt? Did you spend any time with Bedouin tribes? Father did. He speaks excellent Arabic."

  Graham remained silent as they trotted along the lane. He looked as remote as the pyramids themselves.

  Then she remembered. He'd lost his parents in Egypt, had seen them viciously murdered. "Oh, I am so sorry, Your Grace," she said. "I did not mean to remind you of any past pain."

  He tossed her a quick, startled look. "What do you mean?"

  "The attack on your caravan. When you were six and lost your parents to a Bedouin tribe."

  Tension tightened his jaw as he looked away. "That was a long time ago. I remember very little."

  She nodded. He seemed reticent, closed off to her. And as Jillian rode beside him, she wondered which of her words had caused his disquiet.

  So, her father had told her the Egyptian people were beggars? What irony. Beggars, as Graham had begged Stranton? He imagined an outstretched dark-skinned palm and Stranton's superior laugh as he ignored it, just as he had ignored Graham's pleas.

  But Jillian knew nothing of his past. He would keep it as such.

  Jillian desired to travel. Well, perhaps when they married he'd take her to Greece. Or Rome. Anywhere but Egypt. Graham suspected Jillian was like a leashed yet spirited filly, anxious to run free. If given rein, she'd range far and wide.

  And yet she'd appeared so lifeless at that ball, overshadowed by her father. Except while dancing with him, and then later, when cornered in the library. He sensed beneath her very proper, dull gray exterior the heart of a woman of great passion and a burning spark for life. A spark others managed to dampen, but not entirely extinguish. Suddenly he had a great desire to see it roar into an inferno. What would Jillian truly become if allowed the freedom to do as she pleased?

  He glanced over at his silent niece. She looked very much a miniature of the other women who trotted along the lane: proper, reserved, her natural animation gone...

  Suddenly he wished they had never left Egypt. Far better to remain in a land regarded as heathen than to mold spirited little girls like Jasmine into silent models of decorum. He could not bear her to become a quiet gray ghost or a mean-spirited gossip like many of the chits he'd met since arriving in London. The sparkling summer day in London had suddenly become more oppressive than Egypt's searing heat.

  As they rode through the park, Jasmine stopped her pony and let loose a stream of excited Arabic. "Oh, Uncle Graham, there are some children I know. May I join them? Please?"

  Torn between wanting to protect her from being hurt and knowing she needed to fight her own battles, he nodded. Accompanied by Charles, Jasmine primly trotted her pony toward the gathering of children bowling hoops in the park.

  "She's a lovely child," Jillian remarked.

  Graham studied his future wife. Clad in a dull gray riding habit, she almost faded into the background. The other ladies were all smartly attired in their fashionable habits, top hats perched at saucy angles. Jillian was like mist, camouflaged but for those flame-gold tresses. He wondered if she desired to hide, like sunshine shrinking behind dark clouds.

  Graham let his mind drift. He envisioned Jillian nude on all fours. He was taking her, hard and fast, mounting her as a stallion did a mare, wringing throaty cries of hot pleasure from those sultry lips—

  "You have a fine steed, Your Grace. An Arabian?"

  Blinking, he started. Aware of his swelling erection, Graham shifted in his saddle to conceal it.

  "Yes, Prometheus is a full-blooded Arabian. Spirited, and loves to have his head when he runs. Yours?"

  "Daphne is gentle but fast."

  "Let's head for the track and race," he suggested.

  Her red-gold brows lifted. "Challenging me?"

  "You say your mount is fast." He caressed Prometheus with a loving pat. "My own is restless for a gallop again."

  She gave him a wry look. "Riding sidesaddle puts me at a distinct disadvantage."

  "Then ride astride," he said recklessly. "If you are an excellent rider, you know how to control a horse with your knees. The saddle does not matter."

  Those clear green eyes widened. She look
ed at her own impassive groomsman, who was trailing close behind her, and whispered, "I can't."

  Graham studied the groom, then spoke. "You may leave us now, and wait for Lady Jillian at the gate."

  The man looked nervous. "No, sorry, Your Grace, I can't. The earl ordered me to remain with her at all times for her afternoon rides. If I disobey, I'll be dismissed."

  Hmmm. It was a slight problem, but easy to solve.

  "Lady Jillian will need a good horseman when she marries me. If you remain in the earl's employ until then, I'll pay you whatever wages you earn now, plus a five-pound bonus if you agree to leave us alone when she rides in the park with me. If he dismisses you before then, I'll hire you."

  Her groomsman looked eager. "Yes, Your Grace!" And he rode off, looking quite happy. Jillian looked after him with the air of a prisoner who'd been given parole.

  "Well? Shall we race now?" he asked.

  A spark lit her eyes. Raising herself up, she tugged up her loose skirts. Beneath them she wore leather trousers. Graham grinned in delight as she settled astride. Bloody hell, she had spirit! And as they headed for the track, his admiring gaze absorbed her long, shapely legs.

  "Have I shocked you?" she asked.

  "On the contrary, I rather prefer this. It puts us more on an even level," he murmured. Jillian in this position sent a jolt of fresh desire through him.

  "I daresay we are not, as my mount is not as splendid as your Arabian," she said, sounding wistful.

  "Yes, Prometheus has generations of pure Arab blood. My breeding book traces the bloodlines back hundreds of years. I plan to begin a business breeding here in England."

  "I do not know much of breeding Arabians," she confessed.

  "It's a simple matter. When a blooded female comes into season, a selected stallion is chosen and mounts her. Nearly the same as the London Season, but for the weddings." He laughed at his joke.

  Jillian shot him a withering look, but his words had set a wanton image dancing in her head. She quashed it, trying to ignore the naughty tingling between her thighs. Her open thighs, her damp feminine juncture pressed against the hard leather of her saddle, the itch to rub and slide as his hand had created such wicked pleasure the other night...