The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (14 page)

"Oh, that Mama saw Papa last year in Egypt, and how he's not my real father but he adapted me..."

"Adopted," Graham corrected.

"And how Papa saw you in Cairo and we all had dinner at a nice hotel before we came to London."

Was that a wink? Graham bit back a grin. Precocious little baggage. She'd told much without telling anything.

"Egypt sounds terribly far," Jillian remarked.

"Oh, it is. But it's lovely. It has lots of... Arabic ponies?" Jasmine struggled with English, but she'd worked hard to master it in recent months.

"Arabian horses," Graham corrected in Arabic. Then he repeated in English for her benefit.

"I see you are quite fluent in the Arab tongue, Your Grace," Jillian remarked.

Dull heat flushed his body. "Quite. But I speak it only when necessary, so as to not offend the sensibilities of those who look down upon the land," he replied tightly.

She gave him a searching look. "I meant no offense. On the contrary, I greatly desire to travel abroad, and to see the fantastic sights of Egypt and other countries."

"Egypt has many such sights," he agreed.

A spark lit her green eyes. "Oh, indeed! And you must have seen them. I have never been beyond England, but for one journey to America as a child to visit my aunt."

"You desire to travel?" he asked.

"Yes. It must be marvelous to journey wherever you please, to learn of new cultures and have grand adventures."

He stared at her. "Some might call my time in Egypt a grand adventure. I venture to call it something different." Thankfully, his bitter sarcasm was lost on her.

"Tell me about your travels. They must have been so fascinating. What is Egypt like? Did you travel up and down the Nile on a dahabiya? Oh, to smell the river water, to see the vistas of flowering trees and the lush, quiet date palms."

Graham shot her an amused look. "Where did you hear about Egyptian houseboats?"

"I escape to other places in books," she replied. She sighed, looking despondent. "Since I will never journey there."

"Never say never," he told her. "The Arabs believe in destiny—and you can't fight your destiny."

As well he knew.

For the first time since Father's harsh punishment, Jillian felt the pall of bleakness lift. Destiny. Yes, soon she, too, would have grand adventures. In America. Radcliffe. The halls of learning. What greater quest could life offer?

"Father traveled all over Egypt. He liked the pyramids. He said they were interesting, but he said the people were sly beggars. How did you find Egypt? Did you spend any time with Bedouin tribes? Father did. He speaks excellent Arabic."

Graham remained silent as they trotted along the lane. He looked as remote as the pyramids themselves.

Then she remembered. He'd lost his parents in Egypt, had seen them viciously murdered. "Oh, I am so sorry, Your Grace," she said. "I did not mean to remind you of any past pain."

He tossed her a quick, startled look. "What do you mean?"

"The attack on your caravan. When you were six and lost your parents to a Bedouin tribe."

Tension tightened his jaw as he looked away. "That was a long time ago. I remember very little."

She nodded. He seemed reticent, closed off to her. And as Jillian rode beside him, she wondered which of her words had caused his disquiet.

So, her father had told her the Egyptian people were beggars? What irony. Beggars, as Graham had begged Stranton? He imagined an outstretched dark-skinned palm and Stranton's superior laugh as he ignored it, just as he had ignored Graham's pleas.

But Jillian knew nothing of his past. He would keep it as such.

Jillian desired to travel. Well, perhaps when they married he'd take her to Greece. Or Rome. Anywhere but Egypt. Graham suspected Jillian was like a leashed yet spirited filly, anxious to run free. If given rein, she'd range far and wide.

And yet she'd appeared so lifeless at that ball, overshadowed by her father. Except while dancing with him, and then later, when cornered in the library. He sensed beneath her very proper, dull gray exterior the heart of a woman of great passion and a burning spark for life. A spark others managed to dampen, but not entirely extinguish. Suddenly he had a great desire to see it roar into an inferno. What would Jillian truly become if allowed the freedom to do as she pleased?

He glanced over at his silent niece. She looked very much a miniature of the other women who trotted along the lane: proper, reserved, her natural animation gone...

Suddenly he wished they had never left Egypt. Far better to remain in a land regarded as heathen than to mold spirited little girls like Jasmine into silent models of decorum. He could not bear her to become a quiet gray ghost or a mean-spirited gossip like many of the chits he'd met since arriving in London. The sparkling summer day in London had suddenly become more oppressive than Egypt's searing heat.

As they rode through the park, Jasmine stopped her pony and let loose a stream of excited Arabic. "Oh, Uncle Graham, there are some children I know. May I join them? Please?"

Torn between wanting to protect her from being hurt and knowing she needed to fight her own battles, he nodded. Accompanied by Charles, Jasmine primly trotted her pony toward the gathering of children bowling hoops in the park.

"She's a lovely child," Jillian remarked.

Graham studied his future wife. Clad in a dull gray riding habit, she almost faded into the background. The other ladies were all smartly attired in their fashionable habits, top hats perched at saucy angles. Jillian was like mist, camouflaged but for those flame-gold tresses. He wondered if she desired to hide, like sunshine shrinking behind dark clouds.

Graham let his mind drift. He envisioned Jillian nude on all fours. He was taking her, hard and fast, mounting her as a stallion did a mare, wringing throaty cries of hot pleasure from those sultry lips—

"You have a fine steed, Your Grace. An Arabian?"

Blinking, he started. Aware of his swelling erection, Graham shifted in his saddle to conceal it.

"Yes, Prometheus is a full-blooded Arabian. Spirited, and loves to have his head when he runs. Yours?"

"Daphne is gentle but fast."

"Let's head for the track and race," he suggested.

Her red-gold brows lifted. "Challenging me?"

"You say your mount is fast." He caressed Prometheus with a loving pat. "My own is restless for a gallop again."

She gave him a wry look. "Riding sidesaddle puts me at a distinct disadvantage."

"Then ride astride," he said recklessly. "If you are an excellent rider, you know how to control a horse with your knees. The saddle does not matter."

Those clear green eyes widened. She looked at her own impassive groomsman, who was trailing close behind her, and whispered, "I can't."

Graham studied the groom, then spoke. "You may leave us now, and wait for Lady Jillian at the gate."

The man looked nervous. "No, sorry, Your Grace, I can't. The earl ordered me to remain with her at all times for her afternoon rides. If I disobey, I'll be dismissed."

Hmmm. It was a slight problem, but easy to solve.

"Lady Jillian will need a good horseman when she marries me. If you remain in the earl's employ until then, I'll pay you whatever wages you earn now, plus a five-pound bonus if you agree to leave us alone when she rides in the park with me. If he dismisses you before then, I'll hire you."

Her groomsman looked eager. "Yes, Your Grace!" And he rode off, looking quite happy. Jillian looked after him with the air of a prisoner who'd been given parole.

"Well? Shall we race now?" he asked.

A spark lit her eyes. Raising herself up, she tugged up her loose skirts. Beneath them she wore leather trousers. Graham grinned in delight as she settled astride. Bloody hell, she had spirit! And as they headed for the track, his admiring gaze absorbed her long, shapely legs.

"Have I shocked you?" she asked.

"On the contrary, I rather prefer this. It puts us more on an even level," he murmured. Jillian in this position sent a jolt of fresh desire through him.

"I daresay we are not, as my mount is not as splendid as your Arabian," she said, sounding wistful.

"Yes, Prometheus has generations of pure Arab blood. My breeding book traces the bloodlines back hundreds of years. I plan to begin a business breeding here in England."

"I do not know much of breeding Arabians," she confessed.

"It's a simple matter. When a blooded female comes into season, a selected stallion is chosen and mounts her. Nearly the same as the London Season, but for the weddings." He laughed at his joke.

Jillian shot him a withering look, but his words had set a wanton image dancing in her head. She quashed it, trying to ignore the naughty tingling between her thighs. Her open thighs, her damp feminine juncture pressed against the hard leather of her saddle, the itch to rub and slide as his hand had created such wicked pleasure the other night...

When they reached the track, with a daring look she dug her heels into her roan. Graham laughed again, letting her take the lead. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him follow.

They galloped down the long track, Prometheus barely breaking a sweat. Jillian's horse fell behind. As they reached the end, Graham let his mount slow to a trot and she joined him, panting from the vigorous exercise. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her brow beneath her dull gray hat.

"You have a fine seat," he told her. "You just need a better mount for a faster ride."

"But not before the wedding," she replied.

The duke threw back his head and laughed. Jillian flushed from both the exertion of her ride and the daring of her little joke. She glanced around and realized other riders were staring with avid curiosity.

They left the track and Jillian held out a hand.

"Would you help me, Your Grace? I need to resume my seat."

With effortless grace, the duke slid off his stallion. He helped her dismount, his large warm hands curling about her waist. A shiver raced through her. Bending over, he linked his hands together, helping her to mount the sidesaddle. Jillian arranged her skirts and took up the reins.

They rode back to where Jasmine had left them. As they approached the small stand of oak, they saw a defiant figure in a mussed green riding habit standing beside a pony. Graham's momentary enjoyment collapsed as he stared at his niece. Jasmine marched toward them as they dismounted. He noted with alarm her clothing was stained with grass and dirt, her face set in a mask of unhappiness.

"What happened?" Jillian cried.

"I was very polite, as you said, Uncle Graham—until the Honorable Tommy Wallenford arrived. He called me an ugly Arabian mare." Jasmine's lower lip jutted out in defiance. "So I did what you did. I gave him a facer and told him, ‘I'm a filly, you stupid sod! I'm too young to be a mare!' "

Graham couldn't help a chuckle, but then he gave her a serious look. This would not help things. "Young ladies do not punch boys, Jasmine. If you wish to fit in, you will not hit anyone again."

His niece's face fell. She nodded glumly.

Jillian leaned over her mount and said, "But I'll wager that facer was worth it, wasn't it?"

Jasmine's crestfallen expression brightened. She gave a cheeky grin and nodded.

Graham studied his intended, who was clearly good with children. At least Jasmine had taken an instant liking to her.

"Come to the house and meet my brother and sister-in-law," he suggested.

Jillian hesitated. "I'm not sure that would be proper."

His hand snaked out and snagged her reins, then tied them to his saddle. "Now you have no choice. Follow me."

Jillian protested as he trotted to the gate and they were met by her beaming groom. "I cannot—not like this!"

Graham shook his head. "No worries. They don't stand on ceremony."

"But I smell like horses," she complained.

"A delightful perfume. They like horses. They're from Arabia, land of the horse, remember?"