"How many years did you live with the Khamsin?" she asked.
He shot her a quick, startled look. "Years?"
"You're too familiar with the desert and its culture to have been a mere guest, Graham. Why won't you tell me about your past with them? What are you afraid to tell me?"
Standing, he brushed crumbs off his indigo coat. "It's getting late. I'd advise you to hurry and finish if we're to make decent time and keep on schedule before dark."
She scrambled to her feet. "Graham, what's out here?"
"Have you ever seen an enemy tribe racing their camels toward you, their bloodcurdling shrieks making terror rise in your throat? Seen their wicked swords flash in the sun just before they cut down their screaming victims?"
"No," she whispered.
"Then pack up and do as I say."
* * *
An hour later, she called out to him, red-faced. He stopped. As they dismounted, he fished into one of the bags, silently handing her the small spade. He then peered into the bag and withdrew two magazines. A teasing grin quirked his lips.
"Would you prefer Godey's Lady's Book or Punch?"
"Lady's Book. That's exactly what I think of modern fashion."
He grinned again, then delicately turned his back as she wandered off to find a spot. A furious flush ignited her whole body. There was no privacy here in the wide open plain. Oh bother. Surely, this would be the least of the upcoming challenges.
Two days into their journey, Jillian made a disturbing discovery. The farther they traveled and the more she tried engaging Graham in conversation, the more reticent he became. She asked questions about his friendship with the Khamsin tribe, but he gave noncommittal answers.
When they stopped for a break, she uncapped the goatskin bag gratefully. Jillian gulped down the water. Graham gently tugged the bag away.
"Slow sips. You'll get sick," he advised.
Licking the last drops from her lips she glanced around at the flat sands, the endless terrain of dust and burning blue sky. A gentle rise of sand from the dune they'd just left seemed tranquil. Goodness, it was so hot.
Graham strapped the bag back onto his saddle. A fierce frown wrinkled his brow. He seemed to go still, listening. Unease pricked Jillian. She craned her neck in the direction they just rode and saw nothing.
"What is it?"
He did not answer. Wind ruffled the hem of his indigo coat. His nostrils flared, as if scenting trouble on the distant wind. Solomon shifted, uneasy, snorting. Sheba raised her tawny head and did the same.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured.
"I don't hear anything."
"You don't hear it at first. You sense it."
"Sense what? Graham, you're scaring me."
His gaze grew distant. "It's coming. The Khamsin." He ran to the camels, yelled to her, "Hurry! There's no chance of outrunning it, but perhaps we can reach that rock."
She hurried to her camel and mounted, still bewildered and more than a little scared. "Cover your face!" he ordered, tightening the straps and swinging over the saddle. "Let's put those riding skills of yours to good use!"
Jillian's heart was thundering in wild panic. They rode frantically. She still had no idea what he meant, but the urgency in his tone convinced her. Then she stole a glance over her shoulder. The blood froze in her veins. A giant wave of boiling sand swirled toward them.
Now she knew. The Khamsin—Egypt's hot, fierce sandstorm that blew in from the west with killing force.
The roar filled her ears. It rose like a giant wave, rolling toward them, a black cloud like a frenzy of locusts roaring forward, blotting out the burning yellow sun. They needed shelter. It would bury them alive under pounds of stinging, hot grit.
She kicked her camel with feet that shook wildly.
It dogged them, thundering closer. She hung on to the saddle, riding low over her camel's neck, urging her faster. A scattered patch of hard red rock jutted out from the sands. They reached it. The roaring black cloud rolled closer.
Graham jumped off Solomon and grabbed his reins, steering the camels toward the largest boulder. He ran to Jillian, helped her dismount. He pulled her toward the rock, bade her sit.
"Put your face to the ground. Don't look up, no matter what," he screamed above the thundering roar.
Jillian dropped her face to the ground, wrapping her arms about herself in a ball, felt his hard body and muscular arms surround her. She shook with fear as the roar intensified, and then felt it roll over her.
Hot sand stung her exposed skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing through the scarf. Sand ground into her tiny boots, filtered through her veil. Graham's body sheltered her from the worst. She huddled beneath him, cringing from the sea of sand raging over them.
It seemed hours before he finally stood, freeing her from his weight Jillian moved her cramped muscles, coughing from the fine dust invading her lungs. She blinked the grit from her eyes and stared in amazement
Sand covered everything. A fine layer of red dust caked Graham's blue robes, coated his exposed skin. Tiny dunes had accumulated about the rocks. She started.
"The camels!"
"They're fine." He went and patted Solomon's neck, coated with the same fine layer of red grit.
"So that was a Khamsin."
"No." Graham was inspecting the contents of their packs. "The Khamsin heralds the approach of summer and ends in May. This was just an ordinary sandstorm."
"Why did you call it the Khamsin then?"
He stopped and looked at her with a strange expression. "Something that happened long ago," he murmured. Then he assumed his normally tight expression.
Damn the man! Again silent as the desert, refusing to reveal anything. Jillian felt as empty as the vast wastelands they crossed. Would he continue to ignore her day after day, just as her father had? Even though he claimed to care?
Anger fierce as the boiling sandstorm filled her. As Graham tossed her the camel's reins, she unleashed her fury.
"Talk to me, Graham. Stop treating me like I'm a camel. I'm your wife."
He tossed her a quick, startled glance.
"No, it's not like being your camel. You talk to your camel. You never talk to me. You can't know how much it hurts when you ignore my needs. Please, don't ignore me. Yell at me. Please, anything, but don't ignore me." Her voice dropped to a whisper. Her throat seemed full of sand, each pore dry and caked with dust.
He dropped his reins and walked over to her, cupping her cheek, red from the sand's sting. She lifted her troubled gaze. "Talk to me," she pleaded.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"I feel like there is this great gulf between us, like a canyon stretching for miles. And I want to jump across it, to reach you, but I'm scared to take the leap. I'm scared that you'll let me fall."
Something unreadable flickered in his gaze. "I would not let you fall."
She reached her hand up to caress his. "Then trust me."
He gazed at the horizon, his jaw tensing beneath the black beard. "I called it the Khamsin because when I was younger, the tribe I feared most raided the camp where I stayed. They were brave men, riding like the hot desert wind. Nothing stood in their way. I was standing just outside my tent, watching the scimitars clash, listening to the roar of battle. Then one Khamsin warrior approached, his scimitar drawn. In the heat of battle fever, it is difficult sometimes to discern warriors from young boys. He raised his sword and I knew I was going to die. At the last minute he stopped."
Horrified, she stared. "Were you terrified?"
"No. But I cried when they rode off."
"Why were you so sad?"
The hard, flat look in his eyes made her shiver. "Because they rode off, leaving me behind. Leaving me alive."
But that was all he would say.
Chapter Twenty
They rode in grim silence over the flat sands. Jillian kept casting her husband sideways looks. So many layers and secrets to this man: his manner of dress, the fri
ghtening coldness in his eyes as he relayed the story of that Khamsin battle.
Graham stopped and she pulled up alongside him. He appeared to scan the distance. "We should find a place to rest."
Jillian pointed to a wedge of mountain jutting out on the horizon. "Let's aim for that rock. There may even be a water source. I'm afraid the dust may have gotten into our supplies." He gave her an approving look.
As the sun sank into the horizon, shedding a rosy purplish light, they reached the patch of rock. There was no well, to her disappointment. Jillian helped Graham unpack their supplies and set up the tent in the billowing breeze.
Withdrawing a white cloth, he handed it to her. "For washing," he said gruffly. "You may use a little water. It's all we can spare."
Instead of taking it, she studied her husband. Dark shadows rode beneath his eyes. The fierce-looking turban outlined a dusty face taut with strain.
Jillian had never felt filthier in her life. Sand had crept into her boots, ground into her neck. She could even taste it in her mouth. She looked at the pristine white cloth Graham had kept safe from dust by wrapping it tightly and tucking it away, then she looked at her husband again.
"I've got a much better idea," she said cheerfully. She carefully set the cloth down upon the blanket and then touched his turban.
Graham flinched, his dark brows drawing together. "What are you doing?"
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the ground. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but she gave him her most stern, governesslike look. "Now."
He sat. She began unwinding the blue cloth, setting it aside. Next her trembling fingers began undoing the fastenings on his indigo coat. Graham stared at her as she tugged it free, helping him shrug out of it. She slipped the underlying shirt over his head, staring at the expanse of dark-haired chest, the grime caked into his throat.
Jillian knelt beside him and took the goatskin water bag. She dampened the white cloth. Then, very gently, she began stroking her husband's hands, wiping them free of grime. Graham started to protest. She laid a finger to his lips.
"Let me do this for you. You've done so much for me."
In silence he allowed her to caress him with the cloth, then a tremulous sigh escaped his lungs as the cooling damp refreshed his body.
"Thank you," he said softly, watching her.
She held up the dirty cloth with a smile. "I suppose it's my turn now. I'll do my face. I'm afraid I must look uglier than the back end of your camel."
He did not smile. Graham studied her with that intense scrutiny of his. "On the contrary, my lady," he said quietly. "I've never seen you look more beautiful."
Then he leaned forward, framed her face with his now clean hands, and kissed her. It was a slow, sensual kiss, and she found herself melting. He tasted of the cinnamon sprinkled into their tea. Jillian groaned and pressed herself against him. Needing him. Wanting him.
He pulled away, his expression tense. "We need to rest." He lay down upon the bedroll, his back turned toward her.
Bemused and hurt, Jillian stared at him. Why was Graham acting like this?
Days later, as they neared the cave hiding the treasure, Jillian found herself totally enchanted by the shifting landscape. The map indicated the cave was in the great white desert, a sea of sand with limestone so pure it stood stark white against the tawny backdrop. She gasped with awe as they approached an outcropping of large stone structures with narrow stems and large, rounded heads.
"We'll make camp here for the night," he decided.
"They're like mushrooms in the desert," she exclaimed.
Graham grinned and began unpacking their supplies, "The Khamsin have a word for them. Al-Ayir."
She tested the Arabic word and gave him a puzzled look as his shoulders shook with laughter. "What's so funny?"
Graham tossed down a rucksack. "It means, the penis."
Her eyes widened as she whipped her gaze to the stones. "Oh goodness, they certainly do look..."
His deep laughter greeted her flushed cheeks. "We're going to pitch camp beneath one."
"Graham, you can't expect me to sleep with a giant... penis!"
"You should be used to it by now," he replied.
Jillian groaned.
"The Khamsin say it endows the man with strength to last all night," he went on, his dark eyes dancing. "Wouldn't you like me to possess such strength, habiba?"
"But dear husband, you already have such strength. And you forget your geology. Limestone is soft."
His crestfallen expression caused her to laugh, then Graham gave a cheeky smile. "Well, perhaps the Khamsin were wrong."
His boyish grin contrasted with his appearance. Dressed in indigo, he appeared a fierce Egyptian warrior. No longer the Duke of Caldwell, he was a terrifying sight, scimitar strapped to his side, lethal dagger stuck in his belt. Jillian marveled.
Surviving here in these dry sands seemed impossible without his guidance. The desert stretched for miles, and her own parched throat ached. And yet, Graham appeared comfortable. Which reinforced her nagging suspicion that he had spent much time among the Bedouin, maybe even grown up as a child among them.
The time was not right to ask. But she would.
They made camp that night and settled into bed. A few hours later, Jillian awoke with a pressing need. Oh, bother. She quietly slipped from bed, but Graham stirred and saw her. He stood as if to accompany her. She shook her head.
"I'd like some privacy for a change. Please?"
He frowned. "Don't go far. I saw tracks earlier, which means there are Bedu in the area. Most likely desert raiders."
"I'm going just beyond those rocks. I won't be long. And I'm taking this." She waved the compass purchased in Cairo.
When she finished her business, Jillian studied the scenery. A pale moon illuminated the rocks, turning them a ghostly gray. Sand eddies whirled, kicked up by the wind. She could understand how a man could lose himself out here. Lose his soul, even.
She stretched, mindful she had been gone awhile, when a slight rustling noise alerted her. Jillian stiffened. Probably just a small desert animal. Yes, of course.
She was laughing, amused by her fear, when a rough hand clapped over her face and cut off all sound.
* * *
His wife was gone.
Graham pushed aside the wild panic surging through him. No emotions. Emotion clouded judgment and he needed a clear mind. Graham squatted, staring down at the sand, trying to analyze the patterns. A scuffle. She had been taken, probably by the Bedu whose camel tracks he'd spotted earlier.
He cursed softly. He should have accompanied her despite her protests. And yet, having her separate from him for even a few minutes had provided a bit of relief. He'd needed to be alone with his thoughts, with the darkness gnawing inside him. Yet, at what cost? His blood boiled at the thought of her being held captive. He wanted to howl at the uncaring moon, to race across the sand and find her, to grab her and never let go.
Graham calmed his emotions, willed himself to think. He must find her. Now. Before he lost her for good.
Chapter Twenty-one
In the moonlight, Graham analyzed the camel tracks in the pebbled sand, and by two hours later, as dawn broke over the horizon, his tracking had brought him to a small peppering of black goat hair tents nestled against some rocks, and he also saw the support beams marking a well. As he slid off Solomon, men of the tribe assembled, their faces wary, scimitars drawn. No rifles, he noted with relief. He approached, hand resting on his own scimitar but not drawing it.
Clad in dark robes, the sheikh emerged from his tent. He strode forward with arrogant command and gave a greeting in a desert dialect Graham did not fully know. He returned the polite welcome. The sheikh introduced himself as Mahjub, chieftain of the Jauzi, the people who claimed this land.
Graham wasted no words. "I came for the woman you took yesterday," he said roughly. "I want to see her. She is mine."
Mahjub, an older man with a grizzled beard and
cunning eyes, barked an order. Out of the largest tent two women came, escorting Jillian. He studied her anxiously. She was pale, but did not appear harmed.
"Jillian, are you all right? Did they... touch you?"
She shook her head, wide eyes full of fear. Her brave smile wobbled precariously. "I'm all right, Graham. Please, just get me out of here."
Relief pierced him. They had not raped her. For whatever reason, he was grateful.
The sheikh watched Jillian warily as the women led her away. "Al-Hariia," he rasped.
Sudden insight flashed. Her hair. It had enthralled Ramses, and here among these superstitious desert dwellers, they called it fire and feared it. He seized that as a weapon.
"Only a warrior with powerful magic can bed al-Hariia, an houri from paradise who can consume a man's flesh in flames." Graham struggled with the unfamiliar dialect, praying his words would be clear.
Mahjub's gaze narrowed. He snapped his fingers.
A younger man, black beard shrouding his face, stepped forward. "If you want her, you must fight me for her," the young man asserted to Graham. "She will fetch good money on the slave market."
Mahjub looked amused. "Khamsin Warrior of the Wind. Are you willing to fight for your woman?"
"So be it," Graham said harshly.
No mercy. He could spare none. Jillian's life was at stake.
Graham was ruthless. He slashed and fought with the fury of the Khamsin's ancient Egyptian ancestors—blood not flowing through his veins but blood he claimed by deeds. He was as emotionless as a sandstorm, as overwhelming and complete, engulfing the dirty-robed enemy in a hot, blowing rage.
The Bedu swung his scimitar, slicing Graham's arm. Warmth dribbled down his forearm, but he barely registered the pain. Instinct guided him now, honed by much experience in battle. Blood coated his scimitar as he attacked and whirled, not in the delicate mincing feints of respectable English theater, but raw, powerful and brutal war. He knew he would kill this man. He must. To protect Jillian, the treasure shivering inside the black tent. A deep, primitive feeling surfaced. She is mine. Possessiveness as ancient as the sands raged through him.
The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) Page 22
