The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (9 page)

Bernard shrugged. "Wedding jitters. Every bride has them."

Graham watched her go. After a polite moment, he excused himself and wended his way through the crowd, following her discreetly. It was easy, too, after all the years learning stealth as a Bedouin warrior. His tread, despite his hard-soled polished black shoes, remained as light as sand. As Graham trailed her down the hallway to a set of double doors, she opened one and stepped inside. He followed.

A library. And silhouetted by glistening moonlight streaming through French doors on the other side of the room, Jillian stood gazing outside. Graham closed the door softly behind him.

"Lady Jillian," he said roughly. "There is more to say."

Dread pooled deep in her stomach. Jillian recognized the deep, confident voice, the tone demanding and expecting answers. Her trembling hand smoothed gray silk. Graham wanted answers she could not give him.

She did not turn but felt the heat of his body press near her, like a banked coal fire. A shiver born of longing raced along her spine. His voice was deep and angry.

"Are you quite mad? Why last night if you are to marry?"

Jillian closed her eyes. She inhaled a lungful of air. "It's none of your business... Your Grace. I have my reasons."

"None of my business?" His harsh laugh grated in her ear. "You give yourself to me, a total stranger in a whorehouse, and you dare to say it's not my business?"

Now she did turn, feeling desperation and anger rise within her. "You paid money for discretion, and conducted the transaction. Your business ended this morning when you left."

A rough note filled his voice. "It was a business arrangement where the executor failed to deliver on all the terms of the contract. I did not want a redhead."

Jillian shivered, his heat turning into a chill that frosted her. She whirled and met his stormy expression with a defiant look. Her words held the volcanic anger building inside her for a long while.

"If you feel cheated, then work out another arrangement with Madame. I gave you your money's worth, Your Grace. Now go away and leave me be!"

He did not move. She glared at him. "I told you to go."

The duke regarded her with a solemn look. "Such spirit. How strange. You appeared such a meek mouse standing next to your betrothed."

Jillian sighed.

Silver moonlight streaming through the windows sharpened the raw hunger on Graham's face. After a moment he said, "Our paths shouldn't cross again, but I can't resist whatever fate keeps us colliding together."

"You never wanted to see me again," she reminded him in a whisper.

"I did not. But my good sense takes leave of me when I see you. I can't think of anyone else," he said roughly.

"You must. I'm to be married. What happened between us is best left a memory."

Graham went still, studying her. His nostrils flared, as if he could scent her distress. Jillian felt a touch of unease. Instinct warned her this man was dangerous when crossed.

"A well-bred lady comes to a whorehouse, seeking to lose her virginity. The next evening, the same woman stands beside the man she's to marry..." he mused.

"Sell it, not lose it," she corrected bitterly. She bit her lip, wishing she could bite back the words.

A pained smile touched his mouth. "Of course. Sell her virginity. But why? When her father has money, and she has—"

"Nothing. I needed the money. Now please, I wish to be alone."

"Why would a well-bred young lady need money so badly?" He began circling her, making her ache with tension.

"Your Grace, please leave. If you're found here..."

"Why, when her father can provide her with everything she needs, and then her husband can? Perhaps she would need it because there's something she can't ask them for."

"A gown, a hair ribbon, fripperies," she agreed, whirling as he circled. Oh please, why wouldn't he leave her alone?

"But such a drastic means to obtain funds? Selling her body to a stranger? That sounds like the act of a truly desperate woman."

She joked weakly, "One must do what one must do to remain in fashion."

"A woman who wants to run away."

He halted. Her shoulders sank.

"That's it, isn't it, Lady Jillian?" Pity filled his voice. "Is that why you did it?"

Her voice broke. "Bernard is wealthy. He's to give Father a very large marriage settlement in exchange for me." In exchange for a pure bride. Ha! Pure no longer.

"Is your father in financial trouble?"

Jillian looked away, hugging herself. "Many families in England are during these trying times."

"And where were you running to?"

"Away."

"Why run off? Just tell him no."

"I cannot."

Graham gave a gentle smile. "It's a simple word, no. Very easy to say."

He was a powerful duke; he couldn't understand the restrictions of living under the iron thumb of a demanding father, or what it was like to be a female with a thirst for knowledge. He, like others, assumed women in her station lived only to marry well and produce children. Even though this duke appeared different, he would laugh at her dreams. Gently-bred aristocratic ladies did not attend colleges to improve their minds.

"Hasn't there ever been a time in your life when you wanted to but simply couldn't say no?" she asked brokenly.

Graham fell dumbstruck. How many times? No. He'd wanted to say the word to Al-Hamra. He had not. He breathed deeply to contain his emotions.

"My felicitations on your nuptials," he muttered. He started for the door then turned for one last look.

Silver tracks of tears shone in the moonlight on Jillian's pale cheeks. Taken aback, he went to her, touched a pristine drop. She scrubbed the rest away with a furious fist.

"Why are you crying?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing, it's nothing. Please leave."

He studied her, troubled by her obvious distress. Instead of obeying, he cupped her tear-streaked face in his hand... and kissed her.

Her lips tasted like warm honey. She jerked back slightly, but he bracketed her head with his hands and held her still, deepening the kiss. She responded, opening her mouth to the urgent, tiny thrusts of his tongue. Graham coaxed her mouth with his, boldly tangling their tongues. Intense thrill raced through him. Blood rushed to his loins, hardening him to stone.

No other woman had ever caused such an instantaneous reaction. Bloody hell, he wanted her. God help him.

Graham broke the kiss, stepping back with a feeling of self-loathing. He was secretly kissing another man's intended.

Yet, he had claimed her first. His blood stirred at the memory. Graham touched her mouth, swollen from their embrace. His first woman. His worst nightmare. Yet he had slept like a child with her in his arms. No more violent dreams.

"What will you do, Lady Jillian?" he asked.

She gave a half shrug. "What I must. A woman's life is ruled by her father until she marries, then she becomes her husband's property. Even if the husband is a pompous boor."

Her despondent tone roused in him a fierce protectiveness to shield her from pain. Graham had never felt such for a woman before. Even with Badra, when he had been her bodyguard before she married Kenneth, his protectiveness was not this consuming. He realized with rueful dismay that Kenneth was right. His brother had warned that you never forgot your first.

Kenneth had failed to mention she could also slip into your brain, infiltrating everything like tiny grains of sand.

"Not every husband is a pompous boor. A considerate man could make you happy," he observed.

"Perhaps. But you are the only man who was ever considerate of me. Last night..." Two scarlet roses bloomed on her cheeks.

"A man who is otherwise is a fool. You deserve tender, careful consideration," he growled.

She glanced shyly at him from beneath those incredible long lashes. "I did enjoy our dance."

"Both?" he teased.

"Both. You would never tread upon my toes." Jillian smiled.

Wistful regret coursed through him. For her, forced to marry a man she detested. For him, forced into an act where he'd surely hang. Graham brushed a knuckle against her petal-soft cheek, feeling the dampness still there.

"Good-bye, Lady Jillian," he said quietly. And he left her standing alone in the moonlight.

* * *

He paced restlessly in the hall before forcing himself back into the ballroom. Once inside, Graham snatched a glass of champagne from a passing footman. He sipped, grimacing. His years of not drinking alcohol among the Bedouin were hard to change.

And I don't make a splendid drunk.

But tonight, he just might change that.

Movement toward the front of the ballroom caught his eye. Jillian emerged, seemingly composed. There was no trace of her earlier distress.

The musicians had stopped playing and the pasty-faced Bernard caught Jillian by her elbow and led her to the dais to join Lord Huntley. A balding, redheaded gentleman in black formal wear emerged from the crowd and joined them. Their beaming host made introductions.

Graham choked on his champagne. He squeezed the delicate stem of the glass so hard it threatened to crack.

No. No. No.

It could not be.

Not him.

But there was no mistaking that face. He had seen it hundreds of times over the years in his darkest dreams.

Graham croaked in a whisper of disbelief. His champagne glass tilted. He vaguely felt chilled liquid splashing onto his trouser leg.

His heart thudded harder against his chest. He stared wildly at the red-headed Englishman on the dais: Reginald Quigley, the Earl of Stranton. Al-Hamra. The redheaded Englishman from his past—and the father of Lady Jillian.

Graham tensed. The little boy inside him—oh, how he wanted to run screaming from the ballroom and weep. The grown man wanted to howl with anger, to crush Stranton to a pulp with his bare fists. Instead he saw himself as if through a thick lens, very calmly watching his right hand dig into his pocket. He slid his miniature dagger from its leather sheath.

The handle felt cool in his sweating palm as he slipped it inside the left cuff of his jacket. It felt right. He had waited twenty years for this moment, which had now arrived. It was time for the panther to move in for the kill.

Chapter Four

Trapped. Caught like a bird in a cat's claws, Jillian frantically scanned the ballroom. No escape. Father would make her betrothal public, force her to acknowledge what she did not want.

She had expected to escape—pleading an ache of the head—before Father made the announcement. But seeing the duke had severely rattled her, and by the time she recovered her composure, Bernard had summoned her father, consulted with their hosts, the Huntleys, and ordered the musicians to stop playing.

Her hands were clammy and damp. Jillian had tried to protest as Bernard hustled her onto the dais, but it was no use.

Lord Huntley's sallow face took on a new light as he faced the crowd. His voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have a splendid announcement! It is my honor to announce the formal engagement of Lady Jillian Quigley, daughter of the Earl of Stranton, to Mr. Bernard Augustine!"

Bernard's pink face shone with glee. Jillian saw a life stretch before her: her father still ruling over her like a lord, her new husband joining forces with him, closed doors, dark secrets... Pain pressed behind her eyelids. No! She fought the darkness threatening, the cloudy haze of memories behind the thick oak door.

Jillian scanned the room for her aunt but could not find her. Oh, if only to find one single understanding face in the massive crowd to feed her courage to escape! To flee the wild applause and delighted faces. There was none.

Then she caught sight of an elegant figure clad in black silk. Standing alone, regal and proud. The Duke of Caldwell.

Jillian's gaze riveted to the duke. She forced a smile to cover her fear, but her mind mouthed a quiet cry.
Help me
.