The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) Page 7

  "No, sir." Graham had felt sinking despair. "But I promise, I will get you some when I'm in England. My family is wealthy."

  "Promises from a child. No good."

  Graham bit his lip. He had no money. But he had that treasure map, his most prized possession. Torn in two, there was another half.

  "Wait here, please," he begged. "I have something."

  Then Graham had scampered to the nearby secret hiding place he had dug in the sand. He removed one torn half of the map and returned, offering it to al-Hamra.

  "It's a treasure map. Do you know hieroglyphs?"

  Al-Hamra snorted. "No, why would I know the heathen writing of the ancient Egyptians?"

  "I learned a little. My father... he taught me. This map leads to great riches in a pyramid."

  The man studied the ancient, cracked papyrus and sniffed. "Interesting—but not enough to risk getting caught. Do you know what the al-Hajid do to enemies, boy?"

  Oh, he knew. He'd seen his parents' blood flow like water upon the sands for daring to cross land the al-Hajid claimed was theirs.

  "Please, sir—please, I beg you. I'll do anything." Graham fought to control his tears.

  Al-Hamra stared at him. "Such a pretty boy," he said, an odd intensity lighting his green eyes. "So very pretty."

  Graham had shrunk back. He had recognized that fierce, wanting gleam.

  "What's your name, boy?"

  A deep sense of self-preservation learned early among the savage al-Hajid had halted him from giving his real name, or his status as the Duke of Caldwell's heir. "I'm called Rashid."

  "Well, Rashid. The map is nice. I'll tell you what. I'll help you escape, if you give me the map and something else."

  And then the redheaded devil had invited him to a hellish dance. Horrified, he had refused—until al-Hamra slyly suggested, "What is one time with me, a fellow countryman, compared to a lifetime with your Arab master? Come now, boy. I promise, it will not take long."

  And so Graham had closed his eyes and followed the man to his tent where he'd sold his soul.

  Stop it! You're perfectly safe. Calm, man, calm. Graham jerked himself out of the past with forceful effort. Sweat plastered the white silk shirt to his skin.

  "Sir? Your glass."

  "What?" Graham started, then stared at the white-gloved servant in total confusion.

  "Your champagne glass, Your Grace. Would you like another?"

  Graham glanced at the crystal, which was tipped upside down in his left fist. He took a shuddering breath.

  "Yes."

  He handed over the now-empty glass and took a fresh one. Gulping down the contents, hardly noticing the bubbles tickling his throat, he dimly thanked English protocol that prevented servants from asking questions of dukes who spilled champagne on their trousers.

  The moment was lost, his resolve weakened. The earl would live. For now.

  Graham locked his attention on the dais, trying to control the wild beating of his frantic heart. His gaze flicked to Jillian. He tried to look away from the plea in her eyes, but they called out to him, begging for help.

  He tried to tell himself it mattered not. Jillian would survive. Just as he had survived. But at what price?

  Graham set down the empty champagne glass on a nearby table, fisting his hands. He stared at al-Hamra. The earl was nodding and smiling as congratulations were offered to him. Watching, Graham realized a terrible truth. The earl was firmly ensconced among society's most influential and powerful leaders, Lord Huntley among them. If he shouted to the assembled crowd what Stranton had done, they'd call him mad. No one would believe. Thanks to the story Kenneth had circulated about his past, no one even knew he'd been raised by the al-Hajid. How utterly ironic that the very story fabricated to grant him respectability among his peers would be his downfall.

  He had no proof of Stranton's crime. He needed proof.

  The bastard was barking a syrupy speech to the crowd. Graham forced himself to listen. Good God, it sounded like political grandstanding.

  "As you know, Mr. Augustine has joined me in campaigning to revive and restructure the Contagious Diseases Act. Not only will we register fallen women in our fair city, but the legislation I propose will heavily tax houses of ill-repute. The money will then be funneled into a fund to help these fallen women gain more respectful employment. The vile vices that plague our society are an affront to the flowers of virtuous English womanhood, such as my daughter here."

  Graham nearly choked. Jillian's frozen smile looked ready to crack.

  She had sold her virginity in one of those whorehouses. Wouldn't the earl's political influence shatter if anyone were to know? Graham smiled darkly. Yet, that wasn't enough. Stranton must suffer more than mere public humiliation. Graham wanted the bastard on his knees, begging for mercy. Begging as Graham himself had begged.

  The answer came as an echo of the past, the words of the Khamsin sheikh who'd advised him as Graham took the oath of loyalty and became a Warrior of the Wind. "Know your enemy's flaws. Be as a predator studying a herd of gazelles. Disguise your scent and cloak your intentions. Learn his secret desires, then use those to weaken and defeat him. Knowledge is a far more powerful weapon than the sharpest scimitar," Jabari had said.

  And Graham knew al-Hamra's weakness. But he needed to establish a trusting relationship with the earl to lure him into the right trap—a more difficult and terrifying prospect.

  And once he succeeded? Stranton's family would suffer from the scandal. It would crush Jillian. If only there was a way he could protect her from the onslaught.

  The answer came to him with the force of a sandstorm sweeping across the desert. Lady Jillian wanted out of a marriage she dreaded. He wanted a close connection with her father.

  Surprisingly, he anticipated the solution. He would do it and damn the consequences.

  Jillian sucked in a breath, imagining herself proudly addressing her father, exploding with the spirit he had ruthlessly squashed. Telling him no.

  Caught up in the fantasy, she darted a glance at the man. Hard triumph shone in his gaze. Her shoulders sagged. She could not do it. Oh, she was too weak to stand up to him!

  Movement in the crowd caught her eye. That tall figure in elegant black silk, striding with commanding force. The Duke of Caldwell wended his way forward, the crush parting deferentially. He halted short of the dais, his obsidian gaze sweeping them. Lord Huntley greeted him in a booming, respectful voice, and to her amazement, the duke mounted the steps and stood before the crowd, legs spread, shoulders thrown back in a proud stance.

  And in a loud, authoritative voice that rang across the ballroom, he uttered words that froze her blood.

  "If you truly mean what you say, Lord Stranton, then why is your daughter no longer a virgin?"

  Breath caught in her throat. Oh dear God...

  Bernard's jaw dropped. Her father looked comically shocked.

  "How dare you insult her!" Bernard sputtered.

  Graham's even gaze met hers. "Insult? I know, sir, because last night Lady Jillian and I became lovers."

  Jillian stared in astonished shock. Oh God, what was he doing? Admitting such, and just after her father triumphantly announced his campaign against London's demimonde?

  "Your Grace, my daughter is virtuous. I myself have safeguarded her maidenhead. Just where did this act take place?" her father asked.

  The duke smiled.

  Silently, Jillian begged him with her eyes. Please, please stop. Don't tell them. No, don't tell them where you took my virginity. If he did, she'd die of shame.

  Graham saw her distraught expression. "That, sir, is a private matter between myself and the lady."

  Jillian nearly collapsed with relief. But she felt her father's wrathful eyes burning into her like two hot coals.

  "Jillian, what is the meaning of this?" he asked in a clipped voice.

  Her lips moved in soundless protest. A humiliated flush crept up her burning throat to her cheeks. Murmurs rippled
through the crowd. Graham's dark gaze transfixed her.

  Bernard turned with a whine. "Jillian, why is he saying such things? Tell him to stop."

  But she could not.

  Graham gave Jillian's betrothed a gentle, almost pitying look. "In good conscience I could not allow you to marry her under false pretenses, Mr. Augustine. The fault lies solely with myself."

  Then, with a note of husky admiration in his lowered voice: "I could not resist Lady Jillian's beauty, and I seduced her."

  It was an apology without actually apologizing, she realized. And she was grateful.

  "Jillian, tell me he's fibbing," Bernard pleaded.

  Lips that had lied before moved to agree, Yes, he is falsely accusing me. She opened her mouth to deny the duke's words. Jillian's lips moved to whisper, "He's... not."

  A dull flush lit her fiancé's face. Bernard shot her father a look of mortified disgust. "Under the circumstances, Lord Stranton, I cannot marry your daughter."

  "No, Mr. Augustine, you will not," Graham stated. "Because I am formally declaring for her hand."

  Jillian stared at him in astonished shock.

  Lord Huntley rubbed his mustache, looking flummoxed. "I'm quite confused. Er, which engagement am I to announce?"

  "Mine," the duke said gently. "But first a few details should be worked out before any congratulations are offered."

  Jillian's father's mouth worked violently. For the first time in her life, Jillian saw him at a loss for words. The duke had commandeered all the space in the room. His powerful, imposing presence made all other men look diminished. His shocking confession and daring declaration of intent had made every marriage-shy bachelor look weak-spined.

  Suddenly Jillian became aware of the flock of young, eligible women staring with barely disguised interest at Graham. With his confession, he had increased the stakes, transforming from an aloof spectacle to a dashing rogue. Sighs of regret from the eligible girls—and even some prudish chaperones—rippled through the room. Murmurs of censure mingled with them.

  Graham offered a humorless smile. "I think we'd best adjoin to a room where this may be discussed in private. But first, I beg a word with your daughter, Lord Stranton." And without awaiting her father's reply, the duke gripped her elbow and began escorting Jillian out of the ballroom.

  "They shouldn't be alone! It's not proper!" Bernard protested.

  She heard Lord Huntley's ironic reply, "I do believe it's a little late to worry about that."

  Chapter Five

  Jillian's mind whirled as Graham steered her into the expansive, pine-paneled library and shut the double doors. A brass key remained in the lock. He twisted it, locking them in. Or more likely, her father out.

  He flicked a switch, flooding the room with electric light, and leaned against the door. Crossing his arms, he watched her.

  "You disgraced me!" she said.

  Unsmiling, he regarded her. "I rescued you, Lady Jillian—from that insipid fop determined to marry you. I did not mean to distress you, but I saw a solution best for both of us."

  A flush burned her cheeks. Jillian gripped her gloved hands so hard she felt her nails digging into her palms through the thin silk.

  "Why? Why?"

  "I need a wife. You wanted to run away. Therefore, the solution: marriage to me."

  "I hardly think that is a solution. And if you, sir, were in the market for a wife, surely you could find a willing candidate among the Marriage Mart without creating a scandal!"

  "Perhaps I could find a bride among those giggling, whey-faced chits who circulate at these affairs. But I want you."

  "I'm penniless. And you don't even know me!"

  "We have a better beginning than many marriages. We already know each other's pleasures."

  "You are quite mad," she snapped. "We spend one night together and you declare you do not want to ever see me again, and now you offer me your name?"

  "I changed my mind."

  "I have not. I will not marry you!"

  "You have little choice now," he pointed out.

  It was sheer madness. She felt caught in the vortex of some unstoppable force. "So you're forcing me into marriage by publicly telling society I'm not a virgin? You've ruined my father's good name."

  The duke's expression shifted. His features became hard as granite, his eyes obsidian. She watched, uneasy yet fascinated. Jillian suppressed a shiver, reminding herself of the coiled power she'd glimpsed in the brothel.

  "Ruined? I think not. On the contrary, he's gaining a duke for a son-in-law. And let's not forget finances. Your father is eager to make money from your marriage. I will offer the same marriage settlement Mr. Augustine offered."

  Tears burned the back of her throat. "And the advantages for me, sir, once my father is paid? There are none."

  A knock sounded at the heavy wood door. She started.

  "Jillian? Your Grace?" her father called out.

  The duke ignored it, watching her intently. She put a knuckle to her mouth, wanting to run away. Her nervous gaze darted toward the French doors at the library's far west wall.

  Graham crossed the room to her. His voice was low and cajoling. "Running away isn't the answer, Jillian. I will provide generously for you and you'll have wealth and position. Just ask and I'll give it to you. Jewels. Furs. Gowns from the finest Parisian couturiers. Anything your heart desires."

  "Anything my heart desires?" Jillian laughed. Oh, this was too priceless. Yes, he'd give her anything but the one thing she desired most: her freedom.

  "What use is a fine gown and position when all of society sees me as a fallen woman? They can't wait to rip me to shreds."

  The doorknob rattled—her father, trying to get inside. "Your Grace, a word please. I must speak with you," his disembodied voice called out.

  Graham glanced at the door. "They'll forget about our rather questionable beginning once we're married."

  "Forget? You know little about the ton, Your Grace, if you think they will forget. They have long memories."

  His gaze narrowed. Once more she felt the coiled menace in this man, as if his polished exterior hid a dark core.

  "No one will dare insult you if you are my wife. I promise you, I shall not tolerate one single affront."

  "They won't insult me. They'll just ignore me," she demurred.

  "They cannot ignore you if you are my duchess, Jillian. Think of it. I'm offering escape from being chained to the insufferable Mr. Augustine." He paused, a slow smile touching his mouth. "Wouldn't you prefer being chained to me? In bed, say, for long hours of delightful pleasure?"

  Erotic heat shot through her. She tried to ignore it. "How do you know he's insufferable?"

  "His mustache. Clearly he spends a great deal of time waxing it. Do you truly wish to become the wife of a man obsessed with his facial hair? His kisses must be as dreadful as the Macassar oil he smears on his hair."

  "I wouldn't know," she murmured.

  "He never kissed you?"

  "He tried. I stopped him. It seemed to me as dreadful as licking beeswax off a staircase."

  His abrupt, deep laugh nearly coaxed a smile from her. Jillian suppressed it. "Why do you wish to marry me? What possible reason could you have?"

  "The most elemental one of all, Jillian. You're a beautiful woman and I want you in my bed."

  A delicate shiver stroked her spine at the determined note in his voice. "S-sex is a feeble basis for marriage."

  "Is it?" He advanced, a gleam in his dark eyes. She shrank back as his fingers found her cheek and stroked it in the barest of touches. Jillian closed her eyes, need shuddering through her. Ah, the power of his caress.

  "I think it's a powerful reason to marry. It's how the duchy continues. I need a son." At this disclosure, her eyes flew open. Graham's level gaze flicked down to her flat abdomen. His large, warm hands settled on her clothed shoulders. She remembered them stroking and caressing, creating delicious heat. "I'm most eager to begin trying for an heir after we marry."


  Warm breath tickled the sensitive back of her ear. He bent his heard toward her, and he whispered, "I'm afraid your options are quite ruined, Lady Jillian. There is no escape but marriage to me."

  She swallowed, hard. Marriage was not the answer. Leaving England was. The duke had ground everything to a halt. Jillian worried her bottom lip. There was still the money hidden in her room. She could still escape. For now she'd pretend, to gain precious time.

  "Very well," she muttered. "I'll marry you."

  The barest smile touched his mouth. Then he dipped his head and kissed her lightly—a brief kiss promising sensual pleasures.

  Yet it was pleasure she'd not experience, for she'd not marry him if she could run first.

  Father might be appeased by Graham the duke instead of Bernard the insufferable, but deep down she had the uneasy feeling that Graham, with his dark intensity and dangerous charm, might prove the far more deadly choice.

  Graham managed to rope in his raging emotions as he gripped Jillian's hand and prepared to face her father. Inside his head a voice screamed, are you mad?

  Perhaps he was. Forcing her hand and ensuring his enemy would become his father-in-law sounded completely insane.

  But keep your enemies close, his friend the Khamsin sheikh had once advised. How much closer than by making Stranton a relative?

  Long ago, Graham had vowed never to marry. But this solution meant Jillian would remain under his care and protection when the larger scandal broke. Sexually she pleased him, and the thought of bedding her again swelled his body with pleasure.

  And she could provide him with an heir. Having children would keep her occupied and out of trouble. And his dreaded nightmare would not come true as long as he kept her from the desert. Chances of her ever traveling to Egypt with him were as unlikely as him finding Khufu's lost treasure.

  Graham tucked Jillian's hand into the crook of his arm. He forced a blank expression to his face and, inhaling a deep breath, unlocked and opened the door and stared into the enraged face of his enemy.

  Graham had not confronted him for twenty years. Once, last year in London, he had run from this man in shameful fear. He would run no longer.