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

by Vanak, Bonnie

  Graham fought to keep his emotions level. Oh, it would prove a dismal failure, when he presented Stranton with a gift the earl could not refuse....

  "I promise," he said evenly. Like you promised me you would help me escape the al-Hajid, you bastard. Promises could be broken.

  He dared to sweep his gaze about the room. Jillian kept her gaze downcast. Lady Stranton looked as meek and distant as her daughter. But Kenneth shot Graham a wary look. What the hell are you planning? he seemed to say.

  A shard of guilt speared him. Graham ignored it and turned to Badra, asking about the baby. The woman, bless her, picked up his cue and skillfully turned the conversation into small talk of children. Graham smiled and listened with half an ear, only growing wary when the earl's wife asked to see the newborn.

  Badra rang for the nurse, who came into the drawing room with the boy, handing Michael over to his mother. Lady Stranton perked up at the sight of the sleeping baby. The earl leaned forward, his thin face sparking with interest.

  "May I see him?"

  Distress seized Graham as Badra went to the earl. As she lowered the tiny bundle for his inspection, Stranton smiled.

  "Such a pretty boy," he crooned. Graham went perfectly still.

  The words echoed in his head, a jagged memory piercing him. That voice, those words, as he shrank away in numb terror, hating himself for what he did. Hating that man...

  Such a pretty boy. No. No. No. Not again. Not this time!

  The earl reached out to touch the newborn. Graham bolted from his chair, mindless of the perspiration dampening his back. "Let the proud uncle hold him, Badra. He is my heir," he said, fighting to keep the tremulous note from his voice.

  Bemusement darkened her expression, but she handed Michael over. Graham took the baby. He cooed over him as a proud uncle should. Inside, he quaked violently. Forcing a stiff smile, he regarded his guests.

  "I think he needs to sleep now. Surely being about all these adults is not good for him. I'll see him off to his nurse," he said, nodding as a means of good-bye.

  Ignoring Badra's dumbstruck look, he forced himself to walk slowly out of the room, cradling the baby against his chest. I must not let him touch Michael, he thought. He had to shield him, protect the boy from Stranton. Michael, so vulnerable and innocent.

  Graham held his precious nephew as he entered the nursery with its cheerful yellow walls and the elaborate, carved cradle Kenneth had made. The round-faced nurse in her crisp white apron and sensible gray dress sat reading at the window seat. She sprang up at his entrance.

  "Your Grace?"

  Ignoring her, he carefully laid the baby down in the cradle. Then Graham stood guard, rocking the baby, trying to quell the violent panic inside. The nurse watched.

  Michael stirred, whimpering in sleep. Graham put a gentle hand on his head. "I won't let him hurt you, Michael. That's a promise. I'll rip him to pieces before he ever lays a hand on you," he whispered in Arabic.

  He looked over at the nurse, who stood quietly nearby. "See to it that no one but the baby's parents, Jasmine and myself enter this room. Under no circumstances is Michael to leave the nursery until I give permission."

  "Yes, Your Grace."

  He quietly thanked all English servants, who always obeyed odd orders from their employers and did not ask questions.

  A knock sounded at the door. His body tensed, Graham whipped around, his arms spread over the cradle as if to shield the baby. The doorknob jiggled. His blood went cold. Memories asserted themselves, piercing like knives. Such a pretty boy...

  The jambiya he'd taken to hiding in his jacket since seeing Stranton slipped into his hand. Its steel edge gleamed. The nurse gasped and reached into the crib to take Michael.

  Graham reacted swiftly, the blade slicing the air, stopping a whisper from her throat. "Don't touch him," he warned. Roused from sleep, the baby began a thin, reedy wail.

  Graham swung back toward the door. A key turned, the door began to open. Assuming a defensive stance, he held out the knife and waited in wary dread for the in¬truder to enter. A man stepped into the room. Graham raised the knife.

  "Graham, please put the jambiya down before you hurt yourself or my son."

  Relief filled him as he recognized Kenneth and Badra. But he did not lower the knife or leave his post.

  Blue eyes met dark brown. "Nurse, leave us," Kenneth said.

  She floated past them out the door, a gray ghost in a crisp white apron. Gray like Jillian. Invisible.

  "What happened down there?" his brother demanded. Badra put a hand on Graham's arm. Her gaze was unwavering.

  "Such a pretty boy," she said in a singsong tone.

  Graham trembled, the knife shaking in his hands. "No," he grated. "He mustn't touch Michael. Must not touch, don't touch, don't touch, leave him alone."

  "Graham!"

  He blinked, tried to focus. His sister-in-law. His brother.

  "Oh God, no. It's him, isn't it? Stranton's the one. He's al-Hamra, your future father-in-law!" Kenneth spat a mouthful of Arabic curse words. "And you invited him here!" Revulsion tightened Kenneth's mouth. But revulsion of whom?

  Graham stiffened. "I would not let Michael get hurt." Never. Ever. Either by Stranton or himself. Sudden grief squeezed his chest. Did Kenneth think so?

  "Of course not. The baby is hungry, I imagine," Badra observed. She offered a gentle smile. "May I feed him?"

  He stared at her then realized he still held the knife. The duke sheathed the blade and tucked it away, stepping aside from the cradle. With remarkable aplomb, Badra retrieved her son, nestling him to her breast.

  "I know you were trying to protect him, Rashid...."

  Her use of his Arabic name jerked him back to the present. Graham took a gulping breath, struggling to regain his usual, detached self. As she walked over to the window seat with Michael, he forced his normally rigid control to return.

  Kenneth was not so calm. He stared. "Why are you marrying Jillian if you know her father's al-Hamra? What is your purpose?"

  "To know an enemy's weak spots, one must study them intently. Even infiltrate their defenses by slipping among them, blending and coaxing them out," he recited.

  "Jabari always said that." Kenneth shoved a hand through his hair. "That's why you did it. You're marrying the enemy. Good God, Graham, are you insane?"

  "Completely," he managed.

  His brother stared, then threw his hands into the air. "Whatever," he muttered. "It's your life. Marry her. But I'm telling you this, Graham, I'm staying out of it and so is my family. Plot your revenge, but I will not have my family hurt. Is that understood?"

  A hollow ache settled in his chest. He felt terribly alone once more. "You have my word," Graham said quietly.

  Kenneth looked bewildered. "I don't understand you, Graham. I feel like I never will."

  "No, you never can, Kenneth," he agreed. And thank God for that.

  Mustering his resolve, he headed for the door. "Excuse me. I must return to my guests." And to the ghosts of his past.

  Chapter Eleven

  Graham and Jillian were married in their quiet church ceremony. She wore a modest gray gown; her father expressly forbade her from wearing white. When Graham solemnly slid the thin gold band onto her finger, it felt like the jaws of a steel trap shutting.

  The wedding luncheon was torturously slow. Hosted by Jillian's parents, the funereal atmosphere depressed her, with the heavy burgundy drapes shutting out the sun from the ominous, long mahogany table where they all stiffly sat. One only needed dirge music. Even Jasmine failed to fill the air with her excited chatter, for she was not present; Graham had thought it wisest to leave her home. The duke's brother kept studying her and then staring at her father as he talked with Graham. Badra's attempts at conversation with her mother withered and died.

  When it was over, Jillian uttered a silent prayer of gratitude. Graham escorted her home and upstairs to the duchess's quarters. She gazed dully at the pretty blue and white bed
chamber with its spacious sitting room.

  "I'll leave you to rest. Dinner is at seven," he said.

  "I'm not certain if my gowns have all arrived."

  "I had them burnt," he said calmly.

  Jillian raised her brows. "At least Father allowed me to wear my underthings. Do you wish me to walk about naked?"

  He smiled. "That's the spirit. But no. I took measurements from the gowns your father had sent over, and had new ones made. I don't want you to wear gray. Wear emerald. Sapphire. Jewel colors to match what I know lies inside you. No gray."

  "What lies inside me, Graham?" she asked. Today she felt only keen despair.

  He touched her cheek. "Passion. A spirit that was nearly extinguished, and that needs encouragement to turn into living flame."

  Disturbed at what he saw, she patted her head with a wry smile. "To match my hair? Father ordered me to wear dull gowns to suppress it. I prefer dark colors."

  A somber look entered his eyes. "Don't, Jillian. Darkness can be terribly lonely."

  He dropped a light kiss on her cheek. "Since you lack a lady's maid, I've assigned one of the more experienced upstairs maids as your attendant. Wear the sapphire gown. I know it will look lovely on you."

  Then she watched him leave, wondering if the darkness he mentioned wasn't the reason for the secrets in his own eyes.

  Too nervous about the night to come, Jillian barely tasted her dinner. The informal casualness here shocked her, especially allowing Jasmine to dine with the other adults instead of taking a tray in the nursery. Yet Jillian found herself growing wistful as Kenneth, Badra and Jasmine talked and laughed with each other. Here was the type of family she had always wanted—open, honest and affectionate, not remote and cold.

  Only the duke remained slightly aloof, smiling now and then. Over the top of his wineglass, his brilliant gaze regarded her. Puzzled, she stared at Graham's flute as he set it down. A footman sprang to fill it with water.

  "I don't drink," he said. "But I don't wish to ruin the table setting either."

  Then he grinned, the same boyish smile he had displayed their very first night at Madame LaFontant's. Jillian laughed.

  After dinner, the little maid he'd assigned as her personal attendant helped Jillian remove her sapphire gown. Jillian sighed as she caressed the smooth satin. Never had she owned anything more vibrant or luxurious. Emily helped her into a cream satin peignoir. Its heavy flowing lines draped her body.

  "The duke had this made for you as a gift. He said his beautiful bride deserved to wear something special on their special night," the maid explained, gazing in admiration.

  Jillian touched the nightwear with a trembling hand. White, for her wedding night. She wasn't a virgin, but he was treating her as honorably as one. Father called her a whore and shamed her in front of the servants; Graham called her beautiful and honored her before them.

  She drew in a ragged breath, apprehensive and excited, as she sat on the massive four-poster. The bed was enormous, with waves of soft cotton sheets and piles of silk pillows. She swallowed hard, wondering what awaited her.

  The duke had bought her virginity, but this was different. Before, there had been nothing but physical intimacy and a parting of the ways. Tonight her lover would not be a stranger, but her husband who expected to share her bed each night.

  The door to their adjacent chambers opened. Graham stepped inside, wearing a black robe that stretched over his broad shoulders and fell to his bare knees. The sight of his muscled, taut calves with their thick dusting of dark hair seemed more sensual than when he had uncloaked himself in the brothel.

  As breathless as their first time together, she studied his face. A thick sweep of ebony hair fell rebelliously over his forehead. Dark eyes, lit with fierce intensity. A proud, straight nose, sculpted cheekbones displaying his aristocratic lineage and firm, sensual lips. Her gaze flew to the thick muscles in his neck, the long, almost feminine eyelashes. Goodness, he was beautiful. Almost pretty, but for the hard line of his taut jaw and the slight bristle shadowing it. Graham prowled toward her with lithe grace, silent as a cat.

  He held out a hand. "Come with me."

  Confused, she stared. "Why?"

  His deep voice, smoky with unspent passion, caressed her skin. "It is tradition that all the heirs to the duchy are conceived in the duke's bed."

  Obediently, she rose. His large palm swallowed hers like a tiny bird. It mattered not, for he would take her where he willed. Her bedchamber or his, the results would be the same. No baby would be conceived.

  The duke led her to his bed. Massive wood pillars thick as tree trunks dominated the oak. Graham swept her into his arms and laid her carefully upon the sheets. He stood back, unsmiling, and unbelted his robe. It parted and puddled at his feet, and he stood before her fully nude. The chamber was flooded with light, unlike her first time.

  Suddenly shy, she shrank back. "Why so much light?"

  "I want to see you this time. Everything."

  Trepidation filled her. She didn't love this man, but felt a deep sensual pull toward him. It made her scared and vulnerable. Jillian couldn't forget the unbreakable bond between them. He had been her first lover.

  Yet, years of his sexual experience stood before them. She lifted her arms as he tugged the nightwear off her. Jillian lay on the bed, nude.

  "You are truly a redhead," he mused, staring at the tangle of soft curls covering her womanly parts.

  A heated blush covered her cheeks. He knew all. There was no deceiving.

  Graham studied the contours of his wife's body, the firm, heavy breasts tipped with reddened, taut nipples. Her ivory skin lay smooth and silky, begging for his touch. A slightly rounded belly gave way to the flare of her curved hips. His breath hitched as he spied the red-gold curls hiding her womanly parts.

  A becoming crimson blush, like a sunrise, crept from the horizon of her throat to her cheekbones. His breathing grew heavy and ragged. Fierce desire mingled with tender passion. Blood flooded his groin. Her lush, full mouth parted and her emerald eyes darkened with evidence of her need.

  He joined her on the bed, one hand tenderly cupping her breast, the other caressing her cheek as she gazed up at him. Her hands rose, touched his face as if charting a map. He trembled.

  Oh God, he wanted her so badly. Too much. He had never wanted, not since childhood. Graham had learned to relinquish, never to permit his desires and wants to rule him.

  Not now. He could no more prevent his furious need than he could force a Khamsin wind to halt. He let the wind envelop him in its hot, torrid embrace as he caressed her—his wife.

  Her skin was pale and luminous, white as alabaster from the ancient ones in Egypt who carved statues in homage. Graham wanted to worship her, to cover her ivory skin with adoring kisses until she writhed beneath him. Cinnamon freckles peppered her pale shoulders. Intrigued, he bent closer, studying. He had not seen them in the brothel. Laying her down, Graham brushed his lips against one, gave a delicate lick then began kissing each one of the tiny, adorable dots. Hot anticipation curled inside him as she moaned and clutched his head. Graham pulled back, driven by a need to explore her soft body.

  Jillian lay outstretched like a naked sacrifice for him. He stared, enraptured. Graham placed a warm palm upon her silky skin. Very slowly, he traced a line from the deep indentation in her trembling belly down to the soft tangle of red-gold curls. With gentle reverence, he placed a kiss upon her stomach.

  His hands stroked the smooth skin of her legs. She recoiled as they slipped upward to the tight clasp of her clenched thighs, delving deep within. A startled look entered her eyes and Jillian jerked away.

  He soothed her with a husky murmur of masculine reassurance, then continued his exploration, kissing his way down her legs, then kneeing her thighs apart and slipping between them. Her hands rose, shaking wildly, pushing at his chest.

  "We made a bargain, Jillian," he told her softly. "Remember? You will be my wife in every sense of the word."


  She didn't want this—didn't want him and his dark, exotic sensuality overpowering her. But hunger ate at Jillian, teasing her to open, to accept him. The burning need in his eyes echoed her own internal ache. Her loins felt heavy and wanting.

  Jillian moaned as he kissed the hollow of her neck, stroked her skin in small, delicate caresses that filled her with hot yearning. Graham lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. She whimpered, her body growing taut as his tongue rasped the hardening peak. Her hips pumped upward in nameless need.

  Graham settled between her legs, pinning her wrists to the bed. His muscled torso slid across her body, his springy chest hairs caressing her aching nipples.

  He entered her in a hard, quick thrust. Blunt pressure between her legs, thickening and filling. No pain this time, just this endless stretching and pushing—oh, so incredible. She pressed her hands against his sweat-slicked muscles to urge him in further. He rose above her, his nearly black gaze pinned to hers.

  He began to move, quick thrusts hinting of restrained power. She felt engulfed, surrounded, as if he tried to absorb her into himself. Or push himself into her. The part of her she protected flared into light. Jillian closed her eyes, afraid to let him see her secrets flickering there.

  "Open your eyes," he ordered. "I want you to see me."

  Her eyes flew open as she saw him straining above her, his fingers laced through hers. The soft mattress squeaked in rhythm to his pounding thrusts, her arching hips. The dance, she thought in a heated haze of pleasure. The dance of flesh meeting flesh.

  She cried out as heat flared and exploded inside her. Graham groaned deeply and gave a hoarse cry, then gave a final thrust. His hot seed spurted inside her.

  Jillian lay still, curled against her new husband in the aftermath. Regret funneled through her. If only this could be real. If only she loved him and he loved her and she could confess her heart's desire. But she trusted no one.

  He stroked her hair in a gentle caress. She reminded herself there was no love between them. Physical intimacy did not equal emotional intimacy. Two silent tears slid down her cheeks.