The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) Page 3

  But once in a great while, his carefully cultivated composure cracked. A face seen in a crowd could cull shameful memories, and the duke would dissolve from fierce jungle cat into wounded kitten; a scared little boy trapped in Egypt, sobbing for the parents he'd seen brutally killed, who'd been dragged into the dark interior of a black tent where an evil predator had pounced upon him. A terrified child who only wanted to scream and scream...

  During those times, Graham would shudder. He'd fight the childish compulsion to shriek; he'd gulp down deep, calming breaths. He'd flee to a deep place inside himself where no one would witness his shame, and would force the outside world to see only a man with a tight smile.

  He had not experienced one of those episodes, outside of the usual dreams, in more than a year. Until now. Until the woman he had taken in the fierce heat of desire turned out to be his living nightmare.

  The violent tremors affecting him since fleeing Madame LaFontant's had ceased. By the time the hackney cab reached his home in Mayfair, he was able to present his usual quiet control to the stiff-spined footmen attending the massive oaken door. Disappearing upstairs to his expansive rooms at the end of the long corridor, he firmly shut the door behind him. Graham shoved a trembling hand through his damp hair.

  The redhead in his dreams. Emerald eyes. How could it be?

  Fate, his inner voice mocked. She is your fate. Your destiny. Yes, said his superstitious Egyptian upbringing. His formative years had been spent molded by tales of wicked jinn haunting the desert sands. His English side scorned such ideas and pushed the thought aside.

  Striding to his dressing room, he stripped off his clothing, balling it up and tossing it onto the floor. Nude, he padded over to the adjoining water closet and splashed cold water into the basin. Graham doused his face and flung back his head, spraying droplets onto the mirror. His face, pale and drained, stared back at him.

  He glanced downward and flinched at the dried scarlet on his thighs and his soft member. Her virgin's blood marked him.

  With a low curse, he wetted a towel and scrubbed himself vigorously, but guilt assailed him at the thought of taking her innocence and the callous way he'd abandoned her, lying in bed, looking at him with those wide green eyes stamped with hurt. Treating her like a whore.

  But she tricked me!

  Graham tossed aside the towel, padded naked into his dressing room and snagged the fresh clothing his valet had laid out the previous night. He dressed quickly in a crisp white shirt with a starched collar, black and gray silk trousers, black cravat, a double-breasted charcoal gray and black vest, a gray morning coat and patent leather shoes. The gilded mirror showed a dark-haired, dark-eyed, expressionless aristocrat in proper English dress. It did not show the violent turmoil churning inside.

  He went downstairs in search of food and calming routine.

  The pale yellow, cheerful breakfast room was empty. On a polished sideboard, silver hot plates contained his favorite dishes. Graham selected freshly scrambled eggs, a warm muffin dripping with golden butter and four strips of crisp bacon. He sat and picked up the London Times lying in its accustomed place and buried himself in it.

  "Tea, Your Grace?"

  Graham peered around the paper at the footman. The servants knew he drank strong, bitter Arabic coffee each morning, one reminder of his Egyptian life he'd not relinquished.

  "There's no more coffee?"

  "I'm so very sorry, Your Grace. Your brother drank it all. Cook is sending someone to the market for more. I can go myself next door right now and borrow some if you want...."

  "Never mind." Graham ducked behind his newspaper again, scanning headlines. Another aristocratic London family was auctioning off their valuables. A wealthy American named Henry Flagler had built a railroad from Jacksonville, Florida, to some godforsaken place called Biscayne Bay.

  Graham devoured this second piece of news with interest. American railroads were a good investment. But the family's losses in the Baltimore & Ohio were beginning to pinch; they needed to recoup their money. Still, things weren't too terrible. He was rich enough to buy a virgin for one night of enchanting pleasure... and then wake to the horror that he'd eagerly bedded the witch of his nightmares. His fingertips trailing over her skin, soft as rose petals... His heart pounded as he remembered her throaty cries of pleasure, the searing heat as he took her.

  It was just sex, he firmly admonished himself. As hot and sweet as it had been, only sex. Nothing more. Surely he'd feel the same with any other woman.

  He returned his attention to the paper, forcing himself to concentrate. A clanking noise made him set down the broadsheet. Graham glanced up as the downstairs maid shuffled past, carrying a coal bucket. Her head was down. Shy and timid. He remembered Kenneth's warning about being friendly with servants and dismissed it. A civil greeting couldn't hurt.

  Graham lowered his paper and watched her set the bucket down. She began to shovel coal into the grate, her head turned away like a shy bird.

  He offered a brief, friendly smile. "Good morning."

  The little maid stared, then a hesitant smile touched her lips. She bobbed an awkward curtsy. "Good morning, Yer Grace. I'll have yer fire all nice and cozy soon."

  Fires in the summer—a necessary luxury after living in Egypt for years. He watched the delicate blue flame catch and the coals begin to glow. His thoughts turned back to this very room where he'd shared breakfast with his indulgent parents. Graham smiled, lost in memory. Raspberry tarts. He'd loved those.

  "A warm tart..." he mused aloud.

  He heard a gasp and, glancing over, was startled to see the maid's blue eyes widen. "Ye like tarts, Yer Grace?"

  "Oh yes." He smiled, remembering. "Licking their centers, having that delicious sweetness flood your mouth..."

  She moistened her lips. "Ye like to tongue tarts, Yer Grace?"

  "Yes. Perhaps I should ask Cook to accommodate me."

  A look of comic incredulity filled the maid's face. "Her? I can serve ye, Yer Grace. It'd be my pleasure."

  And to his astounded shock, the maid set her shovel down and bustled to his side. She leaned down, pressing her ample breasts against him. "Yer Grace. Yer such a fine, strapping man, fit to warm a girl's bed. It's so cold in the attic."

  Graham felt a strangled breath escape. "I'll fetch you a blanket," he said.

  Her hand reached into his lap and fondled him. He gasped, but his cock gave an interested twitch.

  "You like tarts. I like yer sausage," she purred. "Care for a table-ender? Right quick?"

  "I beg your pardon?" he gasped. Beneath her eager, massaging hand, his cock jerked again.

  "Cor, blimey—it's a big, thick sausage," she said with an admiring gaze. He didn't know whether to reprimand or thank her.

  She rubbed her generous breasts against him. His body tightened, but not with the raging desire he'd experienced last night. Last night had been tender, passionate. This felt lustful, tawdry. The knowledge filled him with fresh dread. He needed to forget that redheaded witch, but his body could not.

  He grabbed the maid's hands, trying to escape the hold she had on his nether parts. "There's been a misunderstanding," he said.

  Firm footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor, clicking toward the breakfast room. Graham looked up as his brother appeared in the doorway. The little maid released a shocked gasp and fled, snagging her coal bucket as she ran. Kenneth's puzzled gaze followed her, then shot back to his brother. He slid into a chair next to him.

  "What happened?"

  "The downstairs maid... squeezed my sausage," Graham rasped.

  Kenneth gave him an exasperated look. "The help? Surely you wouldn't..."

  "I would not," Graham shot back, offended. "All I did was mention how much I once loved tarts...."

  Kenneth stared. "Good God, Graham! Didn't I warn you about being friendly with servants? Don't you know that in street language, tart means a woman?"

  Graham felt a flush flood his face. "Obviously not," he muttered
. "She thought I wanted to lick her..." He buried his head in his hands and groaned. He peered out through splayed fingers. "What's a table-ender?"

  "Sexual intercourse on a table."

  Graham groaned again.

  Kenneth grinned. "It can be quite the thing, but I wouldn't recommend it on a table with dishes. Rattles the china, you know. Speaking of, er, the topic, any news to share?"

  Forcing himself to recover his composure, Graham gave his brother a level look. He drank some tea, grimacing. An Englishman he might appear, but he hated this insipid drink. Oh, for a cup of strong, bracing coffee... "Only the news that you drank all my coffee. Again."

  His brother shrugged and picked up Graham's muffin, nibbling the edges. He said, "I'm an expectant father, what do you want? I'm drinking for three. Myself, Badra and the baby."

  "You must store coffee like a camel stores water. And you're clearly eating for three as well," Graham admonished, snatching the muffin away and tossing it back on the blue-veined plate. "Keep eating like that and you'll grow larger than this house. Or your wife."

  Kenneth lifted a mocking brow and patted his flat stomach. "Always room for more. And as for my wife—as soon as we're done with this one, we're going to have another."

  Graham shook his head. "Give the poor woman a rest, man, in between filling all those empty nursery rooms upstairs," he advised. A fond smile touched his mouth, then he glanced at the ceiling, frowning. "How is Badra? She hasn't been down for meals in two days. Is she well?"

  He knew his brother well enough by now to discern the worry darkening Kenneth's eyes. "Tired. Fretting. The doctor said the baby should be here any day. She's ready. More than ready." He blew out a breath. "So am I."

  Graham felt awkward. He sensed Kenneth's anxiety, but didn't know how to offer reassurance. "She'll be fine," he said crisply.

  "I know she will. Enough of this." He stretched his legs and tapped fingers on the white lace tablecloth. "How did you fare last night?"

  The question, asked casually, masked Kenneth's anxiousness, but Graham knew it was there. He leaned back with a rueful smile, remembering the act. "I fared... quite well."

  Delight shone in his brother's eyes. Graham felt a deep wave of affection. This brother he'd only just begun to know this past year. This brother he'd once considered an enemy. This brother he'd never see again once the deed was done and he swung from the gallows....

  Kenneth gave a great shout and slapped him on the back. "I knew it! Congratulations." Then he looked around hastily and reddened. "Sorry. So tell me, did everything go as planned? No mishaps?"

  His smile slipped as Graham fisted his hands and said, "Just one or two. She had red hair. Green eyes. Like the nightmare."

  Kenneth looked shocked. "Damn it!"

  Graham nodded. "She—the woman—was wearing a wig. And in the dim light, the color of her eyes was difficult to discern."

  "I'm sorry, Graham. I didn't—"

  "Why should you apologize? If not for you pushing me into this..." He shrugged. "The goal was accomplished, and most pleasantly, I might add. Of course, I woke this morning and realized I'd been duped."

  His brother's glance was sharp. "You slept there?"

  "All night." Graham sighed. "All night through," he said significantly.

  Kenneth's eyes widened to saucers. "No nightmares?"

  "None."

  Kenneth clung to the topic like a puppy with a bone. "Perhaps... It sounds like she's the answer to your dreams," he suggested, studying Graham.

  Graham snorted derisively. "My worst nightmare?"

  "Graham, there's a reason why things happen the way they do. I believe it. And you do as well. Destiny."

  Graham started to protest, then stopped, staring at his plate. Both he and his brother, raised in separate Egyptian tribes when their parents were murdered during a caravan attack, held fast to their superstitious Bedouin upbringing. They could no more erase that than they could change their English genes.

  "You're still attending the Huntley's ball tonight?"

  "Yes," Graham said quietly. "Social obligations."

  "Well, you've trained enough. You almost sound completely English again. You eat like an Englishman—you even waltz far better than I. No one can tell you were raised in Egypt. And heaven knows you're as stiff-spined as an Englishman," Kenneth joked.

  When Graham was reunited with Kenneth last year in Egypt, he had agreed to return to England with him, his new wife, Badra, and her daughter, Jasmine. They'd gone to the family estate in Yorkshire. From there, Kenneth circulated an elaborate story about Graham's past to make his acceptance back into society more secure. In the quiet countryside, Graham studied English mannerisms, etiquette and lost most of his Egyptian accent. The first few balls and parties in London this past month had proven successful. But waltzing with debutantes was far easier than dancing with the devil of his nightmares....

  Kenneth's blue eyes were sharp. "You think he will be there, now that the Season has fully arrived—that redheaded nobleman... what did you say the al-Hajid called him? Al-Hamra?"

  "Yes. The red one. I have other names for him."

  "He might not be there tonight."

  "The entire ton attends the Huntley's' fete. I'm certain he'll be there. He lives in London, Kenneth. I'm positive it was him I saw last year in the square."

  Last year, before he'd set aside the life of an Egyptian warrior and revealed his true heritage, Graham had visited London. While walking in the park he saw a redheaded nobleman he felt certain was al-Hamra. Unable to stomach the idea of facing his tormentor, he had fled in shaky panic back to Egypt, where he'd remained hidden, vowing never to return to England. It had taken a great deal of encouragement from Kenneth and Badra to coax him back. He had too much shame, too much fear.

  Now that he'd returned and begun relearning the English life, his shame had slowly dissolved into bitter anger. Al-Hamra must be stopped from preying on other desperate, helpless children. And an idea had suddenly crystallized, like a caul lifting from his face. He'd seen the installation of himself as duke with fresh purpose: to mingle at the balls of his first Season, and then reveal his past...

  "Graham, all the ton thinks you were raised by an eccentric, doting English couple who traveled throughout Arabia. Besides, you were only eight years old when he... when... you know. He couldn't possibly recognize you."

  Graham lifted his tormented gaze to his brother. "I'm not worried about him recognizing me. I'm worried that..."

  He'd nearly slipped. He compressed his lips.

  His brother leaned forward, his look compassionate. "Are you worried you'll run away like you did before?"

  The words were not intended as an insult, but Graham felt their piercing sting. "I'm not worried I'll run. This time, I'm worried that once I recognize him… He gave a smile as chilled as he felt. "I'll kill him."

  * * *

  She had always been a good girl. Proper, quiet and polite. Yes, Father. No outward temper. Spine straight, molded by her father's will. A ghost of herself. A red brick wall hiding silent fire. Inside, how she burned and raged. Never outside. Never.

  Jillian tapped her morning egg with the knife edge, hard quick taps like a chick trying to break free from the shell.

  There were always hard-boiled eggs at Lord Stranton's household, because her father wanted only hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. One day, she promised herself, she'd have eggs scrambled. Perhaps with a dash of pepper tossed in, and hard cheese. She'd taken a far greater step toward freedom last night.

  The Earl of Stranton grunted as he whacked his egg with neat, precise strokes. His shock of red hair going gray was balding, and he had a body that was razor thin and a pasty complexion. His brilliant green eyes were like her own. And they missed nothing. Jillian felt her pulse quicken with dread. Could he know what she'd done?

  She thought of the money earned, carefully hidden in her room. So much money, all for a night of passion in a stranger's arms. A stranger she could not for
get.

  Her jaw clenched and she stared with nausea at her egg. In tiny bites, she began to eat. Jillian thought of the loose board upstairs in her room hiding other secrets. Soon she'd be in America. Adventure. College. Life. That dreadful finishing school Father had insisted would mold her into a model wife for a rich aristocrat had only whetted her appetite for learning.

  Surely in America someone would listen to her thoughts, be respectful. In this house, Jillian felt like furniture covered in Holland sheets—preserved under drapings of civility until her father could marry her off to the highest bidder.

  She tried filling the uncomfortable silence with talk: "I understand that the Americans built a rail through Florida, Father. Mr. Flagler ended the line at some dreadful swampland they call Miami. It's fascinating how they continue to expand. Do you think any development will follow?"

  Silence still. One might as well talk to the wallpaper. Jillian tried again, pushing back an ache in her throat. Her father never listened.

  "Mr. Dow in America has created a fascinating new standard called the Dow Jones Industrial Average. I do think the American depression will end soon, with their presidential election. Father, do you think diversity is an important factor in maintaining one's finances? Aunt Mary says if her husband had diversified his American investments more, she'd not be in such dire financial straits."

  Now he did turn and look, his piercing gaze homing in on her. Silence hung in the air once more, razor sharp and deadly. Jillian shrank back.

  "Yes, your aunt Mary. Jillian, you failed to ask me permission to spend the night at her house. When I returned last night and your mother told me, I was very upset."

  The lie she'd told her mother, using her favorite aunt as an alibi, was about to meet its reckoning. Jillian gathered her courage and boldly met his look. "I'm twenty-two, Father, and not a child. Surely I may be allowed out for a night now and then."