The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (12 page)

Silence thin as the edge of his scimitar hovered. Graham let the moment linger. He glanced at Jillian. Her gaze was downcast, her shoulders slumped.

"I will marry her. But because I desire to marry her, and not out of any obligation."

Stranton's relief was audible. "Of course, Your Grace. Will you come to tea tomorrow to discuss the terms?"

The marriage settlement. Ha! "Yes."

The earl visibly relaxed. Graham suddenly remembered when he had escaped his Egyptian captor. The man had thought to easily defeat Graham, who was not accepted as a warrior. He had lowered his guard and... in that bare instant, Graham killed him.

Stranton's guard was lowering. It would be gone, completely, when Graham dealt the killing blow. He continued the effort to disarm him.

"Your campaign does intrigue me, Stranton. I would like to know more of your efforts."

The earl looked eager. "We could discuss my bill at tea."

"Of course," Graham murmured. He glanced at Jillian, and took her trembling hand, pressing a kiss to her gloved knuckles.

"Good night," he murmured, nodding to Stranton.

As he turned on his heel and left, Graham drew in a ragged breath. For a moment he was sorely tempted to march back and proceed with his original plan. It would be so easy to kill him. Making Stranton his father-in-law would be hard. This was going to be more difficult than he'd ever anticipated.

Much more difficult. But he hoped the reward would be sweeter.

All through the carriage ride home, Jillian remained motionless and silent. Punishment would be swift and exact. She knew her father too well.

They arrived home and the earl ordered the servants to assemble in the drawing room. Silent, efficient wraiths, they stood lined up in a row. Jillian tensed as he spoke.

"I called you here to see that my daughter does not leave this house from now on without myself as her escort. Only myself and no one else until she is married. The only exception will be her daily ride in the park with a groomsman. If I ever catch her leaving the house without me, I will dismiss you all. Without references. Is that clear?''

When they nodded, he continued. "My daughter is a whore. She publicly disgraced me tonight. I cannot risk further scandal should she decide to expose herself to more ruination."

He strode toward her. A cool breeze touched her back as he began unbuttoning her dress. He then ripped it from her shoulders, the sound thundering through the quiet room. Her faded corset and shabby chemise showed the outline of her full breasts as he ordered her to remove the garment. Jillian felt a creeping flush turn her skin crimson.

"From henceforth, to insure she does not stray from my house, she will be denied clothing unless accompanied by me when she ventures out, or for her afternoon ride in the park." His stern gaze locked on the head groom. "You, Beckett, will accompany her. Let her out of your sight and you're dismissed."

The groom blanched and nodded vigorously. Jillian stared ahead. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she bit her lip. A tiny rivulet of blood trickled down her chin. She'd bitten her lip so hard it bled.

Her father continued looking at her with contempt. "I want all her clothing removed from her wardrobe. But first..."

Dread filled her as he barked an order. When the servants returned, her heart sank. Oh God, please no...

In their arms they held a short stack of books. Her treasures. Marshall. A priceless edition of Adams's
The Economist
. The earl took them and marched toward the fireplace.

Jillian's lips finally moved. "Father, please, no..."

He tossed the stack into the fireplace.

The strike of the match was thunderous in the silent room. Flames soon caught, licked the pages. They curled, shriveling with the fire. Shriveling as her heart shriveled. Jillian stared in wordless agony. Her precious friends, dying.

"From now on, you will not read anything," her father ordered.

A single thought arose; it echoed again and again in her mind.
I will not cry in front of the servants.

Her father gave her a look of disgust "Retreat to your room and reflect on how you aren't fit to be anyone's bride, and thank the Lord the duke offered to marry you. And you had better not bore His Grace with your insipid chatter of economics and make him change his mind. Go. From now on you will take your meals in your room. The sight of you makes me ill."

Jillian managed to mount the stairs. Inside her room she lay on the bed in her underclothing. She lay there for a long time, in numb silence as the servants paraded in and out of her dressing room, removing all of her gowns. She did not cry.

Chapter Six

Graham broke the news at breakfast the next day to his brother and his bright-eyed nine-year-old niece. Kenneth's look was of awed shock. Jasmine clapped her hands with delight.

"Oh, Uncle Graham—a wedding. Can I help?"

He gave her an indulgent smile. "It's going to be a very quiet, very quick affair, I'm afraid. The circumstances do not call for an elaborate wedding, Jasmine."

"I can imagine the circumstances," Kenneth said dryly.

"The circumstances are of no consequence."

"How well do you know this woman?"

"I knew her... quite well the other night," he drawled, knowing his brother would understand.

Kenneth looked deeply troubled. "Graham, really, I know how your first time can be... memorable, but marriage?"

Jasmine's sharp gaze whipped back and forth between them. "What's a first time?"

"Something you won't have until you're forty," Kenneth muttered. He studied Graham. "Do you love her?"

"I don't need love. I need a son."

"So you're marrying her for a broodmare? There's more to marriage than producing an heir."

"I daresay you're correct, but I hope you will respect my decision and leave off. If I wish to breed sons with her, it's my business and no one else's." Graham took a long sip of bitter, tangy Arabic coffee.

"Uncle Graham, if you're going to breed this lady, are you going to mount her like Prometheus did Cassandra in the stables?" Jasmine asked with interest.

Graham choked. Kenneth's jaw dropped. "Jasmine! What the... where did you get that idea?"

"From watching," she said practically. "I was in the stall with my kitten when I saw you leading Prometheus to Cassandra, Uncle Graham. It was most interesting. He started prancing about, and then this thing between his legs started growing very—"

"How is your pony, Jasmine?" Graham hastily interjected, before his precocious niece could ask how he compared to his favorite Arabian stud.

She launched into animated chatter about her favorite topic—riding her horse—and Graham's gaze met his brother's as she prattled on. It promised,
We will finish this later.

When they finished eating and Jasmine vanished upstairs for lessons, he fixed on Kenneth again. There was only one place guaranteed to free them from prying ears.

"Shall we have a round?" He pushed back from the table.

Kenneth's worried gaze shot to the ceiling. "Badra..."

"Will never know. Come on, then," Graham urged.

They went to the exercise studio. Graham headed for the row of weapons hanging from the wall. A raging restlessness gripped him. He ignored the fencing foils with their protective buttons and headed straight for the heavy pieces.

Kenneth stared at the curved scimitar in his brother's hand. "You know how she worries about one of us getting hurt. If she finds out... Badra will have my head."

"Not if I have it first," Graham mocked. "Come now, Kenneth, we haven't practiced in an age with these." He tossed the scimitar to his brother, who caught it by the hilt, one-handed. Kenneth examined the gleaming weapon's edge.

"Duller than a paper opener," he observed. "Still... we should use..." Kenneth replaced the weapon and handed a foil to Graham, who gave the foil a disdainful swish. They both stripped off their coats and waistcoats and eyed the nearby protective leather vests. Their glances shot to the rules written on a white board in bold letters by the fencing instructor Kenneth had hired: Gentlemen always wear leather vests to protect their bodies.

The two exchanged wry glances. "We're warriors, not gentlemen," Graham commented.

Then, with reckless abandon, both brothers set down the foils and pulled their shirts off. Bare-chested, they took the swords and faced each other.

Well-matched, they stood about the same height. Kenneth was less muscled, but possessed a wiry strength and was quicker on his feet. Graham had learned to pinpoint his brother's advantages and use his own. His blood thrummed with excitement. A similar gleam shone in his brother's eyes.

"Come on, let's see how your lunge fares these days. I'll wager your thrusts are too slow," Kenneth challenged.

"That's not what the lady said," Graham replied.

"And that's why you're marrying her. Bloody hell, sex isn't a good reason to marry."

They engaged. Kenneth launched a furious assault, clearly frustrated. Graham gritted his teeth, leashing his temper enough to parry and riposte.

"Really, Graham, marrying a prostitute just because you enjoyed bedding her—"

"A virgin," he corrected, effortlessly deflecting Kenneth's latest thrust. "And a lady."

His brother gave a loud snort of derision. "You must be mad about her if you're calling a prostitute a lady."

"A real lady. An earl's daughter, whom I saw again last night at the ball."

Shock twisted Kenneth's face. As he hesitated, Graham took ruthless advantage, and executed a perfect coup, knocking his foil aside and touching his brother's chest.

"Right in the heart," he said with satisfaction. "You'd be dead."

"I might still die of shock. You mean the woman you tupped—the virgin—is an earl's daughter? Good God, what was she doing at a brothel?"

"Pleasuring me," Graham said. "Now shall we continue, or are you too witless to defend yourself?"

In response, his brother lifted his rapier and attacked. Relishing the challenge, Graham concentrated on defending himself. Kenneth was an excellent opponent who had perfected his fencing moves. In Egypt, he had been called Khepri, a Khamsin warrior fearless in battle. He had killed many. But Graham had killed more.

Graham the warrior had taken the life of his Egyptian captor. Then he had sliced off the man's testicles, presenting them to the al-Hajid sheikh as a trophy.

"I gather you aren't going to tell me details," Kenneth panted, as Graham began a fresh assault.

"I am not."

Steel clanked against steel as they exchanged blows. Graham sidestepped Kenneth's lunge and moved to finish the match just as a startled shriek filled the air. Both men froze.

"Are you two mad? You could get hurt!"

Badra, Kenneth's very pregnant, very scowling wife, stood nearby. The brothers exchanged guilty looks. Red-faced, well aware of his half-naked state, Graham scrambled for his shirt, jerking it on hastily. While he drew on his waistcoat, his brother faced Badra, unashamedly bare- chested.

"Honey..." Kenneth began.

"It's my fault," Graham interjected. "I made him. I wanted a bit of the old thrill."

Badra swung her annoyed gaze to him. "No one makes him do anything. You're worse than a pair of children." Graham offered a sheepish grin and Kenneth hastily dressed. "It's too dangerous," Badra continued, waddling over to them.

An exasperated look touched Kenneth's face. "Honey, Graham and I fought as warriors. We've slain enemies in battle and have the scars to prove it. You think dueling with these"—he flicked a finger at his foil—"swords that couldn't cut warm butter on a hot day is more dangerous than that?"

"This is England, where men are civilized. There's no need to duel," she protested.

"How am I supposed to protect my family? What if some madman rages in and threatens my beautiful wife?" Kenneth inquired.

She rolled her eyes. "Do as every other Englishman does."