The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (17 page)

Shabby silver-and-green livery covered the butler who answered. He took Graham's hat, outerwear and walking stick, then escorted him to a drawing room. Graham sat on a threadbare wing chair. His practiced eye took in bright spaces on the wall that indicated missing portraits on the faded silk wallpaper. Like other English aristocrats, had Stranton been forced to sell his artwork to keep up his household?

One framed piece stood in stark relief on the wall. Graham stood and wandered over to it, a sudden feeling of dread pooling in his stomach. Even before he saw the telltale script, he knew. The papyrus was ancient as Egypt's sands, fragile-looking behind its glass case. The lines drawn in vegetable ink were faded and worn but discernable.

The missing half of the map! The one Stranton had taken from him in childhood.

Graham fisted his hands, nearly plucking it off the wall.
It's mine. Mine!
Fresh anguish filled him at the memories.

Hearing footsteps in the hallway, he resumed his seat. He forced himself to relax as the earl boldly strode into the drawing room, Jillian trailing behind him, accompanied by a dark-haired, fragile-looking woman. His fiancée wore a hideously ugly gray gown buttoned to her neck. Her brilliant red-gold tresses were tightly coiled. She kept her gaze cast downward.

Mystified, Graham studied her. Where was the assured woman who had helped birth a baby? Jillian had vanished back into her quiet grayness, mist slipping into mist.

The earl brusquely introduced his wife. Graham bent over Lady Stranton's limp hand. Her smile seemed strained.

As they all sat, Graham's discomfort trebled. Forcing himself to make small talk about weather, he then asked questions about Stranton's proposed legislation. The earl launched into an enthusiastic diatribe while his wife and daughter remained silent.

When Stranton obliquely asked about the marriage settlement, Graham interrupted, suggesting they retire to his lordship's library for a private business talk. He did not want Jillian listening to her father discussing her as if she were bartered goods. The earl did not look at his daughter.

"There's no need, Your Grace. This is private enough."

Jillian served tea silently as her father crudely laid out the terms for her hand in marriage. Graham listened in disgust to the earl talk of his daughter as if he were selling a horse. The settlement was quite healthy. For a minute he balked at paying, thinking of his family's precarious finances. Then he looked at Jillian, pale and trembling. She was worth every shilling. He would marry her, then crush her father like soft limestone.

The earl's green eyes were cold and hard, where his daughter's were sparkling with life. Though not now. Jillian kept her gaze downward, her emotions hidden behind dull gray silk.

"How did you meet Jillian, Your Grace? My daughter rarely ventures out without my permission. She said she'd spent that night at her aunt's house."

Startled out of his ruminations, Graham glanced at Jillian. Her hands shook a little in her lap.

"Mrs. Huntington asked me to her home for dinner. Afterward, Jillian and I went for a walk in her garden."

Anger flared in Stranton's gaze. "My sister clearly failed in her duty."

At the ball, the earl's sister had pulled Graham aside as he waited for his carriage, and told him the truth—how she was the one who'd sent Jillian to the whorehouse. She'd begged him to collaborate in a lie to protect Jillian from her father.

More lies. More deceit. While Stranton sat, back straight, disapproval filling his face.

You lied to me. You promised you would rescue me. I should kill you now.
It'd be so easy to press his thumb against the hollow of that throat and squeeze....

"Mrs. Huntington was distracted by a domestic problem while I was in the garden with your daughter," Graham lied.

Gratitude flashed in Jillian's eyes.

The earl sniffed. "She is a poor chaperone, and I have told my wife as much."

Lady Stranton flinched and Jillian went pale. Graham's unease grew. This household held dark secrets, like an Egyptian tomb.

Abruptly he murmured excuses about needing to return home. He kept a watchful eye on Jillian as he stood, pressing his lips to her trembling hand. Hatred boiled inside him as he shook the earl's hand, wishing he could crush him. It would be so easy.

As he left the house, Graham frowned. Something was amiss. Lady Stranton with her red-rimmed eyes and lethargic air had the drugged attitude of an opium addict. Jillian was silent, the spark of her laughter missing, the confidence displayed during the birth vanished. What had that bastard done to her?

Graham climbed into his carriage and rapped on the roof with his walking stick. When he got home, he went to his study and sat, thinking hard about the papyrus he'd seen. The map. He must have it back. Even if it meant breaking into Stranton's house.

Much later that night, dressed in black trousers, black shirt and a black coat, Graham walked to the Stranton townhouse. He stood in the street, staring up. A light blazed in one upstairs room, from which he could see the slender figure of a woman sitting in a chair by the window. Red-gold tresses shone in the light.

Graham sucked in his breath. The woman was clad only in her chemise. Darting a glance about the deserted street, he hastily crossed the lawn. He studied the balcony and tossed up the rope he'd brought. He double-knotted it the way he'd been taught by the Bedu, and shimmied up.

Lithe as a cat, he climbed over the railing and dropped silently onto the balcony. Jillian, sitting by the open French doors, gasped as she saw him.

Shrugging out of his coat, he was beside her in two quick strides. Graham forgot his purpose to steal the papyrus. Nothing else mattered at the moment but her.

"Why are you sitting at the window undressed?" he hissed.

She shrank back from him. Gooseflesh erupted on her naked, alabaster arms. He very gently placed his coat over her shivering shoulders. Graham repeated the question in the soothing voice he reserved for skittish mares about to be bred. Finally she lifted her luminous gaze to him.

"Father's punishment. I'm to be denied any clothing except when I venture out with him or for my supervised ride with the groom. Because he says I'm"—she gulped—"a whore."

His guts twisted in anger. "It's well past one in the morning,
habiba
," he said softly. "You must sleep."

Curiosity flickered in her lifeless gaze. "What is
habiba
?"

An endearment. But he didn't answer, instead taking her chilled hand into his warm palm. He began rubbing her hand to warm her flesh. "Why are you sitting at the open windows?" he asked.

"Father says a whore should display her wares to the world," she said dully.

Graham bit back a curse and focused his attention on his future wife. She sat still and stiff, like Jasmine's china doll.

He went to the bedchamber door and jammed a gilded chair beneath the knob to prevent anyone from intruding. Then he returned to Jillian and crouched beside her, wishing she could speak and release her anguish. Wishing he could help. But all he could do was marry her and remove her from this hideous household as quickly as possible.

Jillian felt as if she would shatter. A bone-chilling numbness struck her as he witnessed her shame. The duke stood and closed the French doors with a firm click. His large frame remained blurred by tears she refused to shed. Why had he come here? She hung her head, wanting to die from mortification.

"Come over to the bed where it's warmer," he said in a soft voice, hypnotic in its soothing tones.

Like a mindless puppet she obeyed, placing her trembling, chilled hand in his. The duke sat her upon the bed, which was neatly turned down for the night by her maid. She wanted to burrow beneath the covers. But he suddenly toed off his shoes and began unbuttoning his waistcoat, rousing her from stupor. Removing it, he did the same to his shirt. His bare, powerful chest with its thick covering of dark hair caused a little tingle between her thighs. Goodness, he couldn't mean to...

"W-what are you doing?"

"Since you're denied clothing, I've removed mine as well. It's not fair for only one of us to be fully dressed. I want you to feel comfortable." His midnight eyes twinkled.

But she could only stare in alarm and arousal. An intense yearning filled her as she drank in the sight of the smooth bulge of his hard biceps, of the swirls of dark hair on his hard chest. He sat beside her and held both her hands lightly in his.

"It's all right," he crooned. "I'm not going to make love to you. Not yet. Not until we marry."

Disappointment and shame replaced arousal. She looked away. She was a whore, just as her father indicated. Lusting after taut male flesh without the sanctity of marriage to procreate. Her father's long, labored lecture rang in her ears:

"Sexual lust is reserved for the marriage bed, Jillian, and only then to create heirs. You will do your duty to the duke to give him a son, but before then I'll be damned if I'll let your lusty, tawdry nature shame me again. Do you hear me?"

He had not shouted, just looked at her with that cold grimace of disgust.

She was a disgrace.

"
Habiba
, don't shut me out. You're so cold," Graham whispered.

She forced herself to reply. "What are you doing here, Graham? It's certainly an odd time to pay a social call. I'm afraid it's a bit late for tea."

He did not smile at her little joke. "I want to steal something from your father."

Jillian looked at him, startled. "Steal what?"

"You. Leave with me, Jillian. Tonight. We'll run off and marry in Gretna Green. You can't remain here with him for a day longer. Not when he treats you like this."

Tempting, oh, so very tempting. She liked Graham, and the way he made her feel, but she also wanted to be her own woman, educated and independent. If she caved in and went with him, her dream would die. Just a while longer, a steamship to America and she'd be free. And she'd march naked to the docks if she must.

"Please go. Servants will find out, and they will talk"

"No," Graham said softly, brushing a finger along her compressed lips. "Not until you let it out. You're like china,
habiba
. And if you keep everything inside, you'll shatter. Don't let him break you. Let the pain out now, while he can't see."

Squeezing her eyes shut, trying to will away the enormous pressure inside, she shook her head. Graham's arms settled about her. He pressed his lips to her temple, murmuring soft words. His compassion undid her. Jillian felt a treacherous tear slip from one eye. Like with a leaky dam, the flood threatened. She pushed faintly at the muscled arms holding her close. He only stroked her hair. He would not let go. She did.

The dam burst in a violent gush. Tears flowed down her cheeks as great, choking sobs escaped. Jillian rocked back and forth, moaning as she wept into her hands, all the pain of past years finally spilling out. Graham continued to hold her, stroking her hair.

"Yes, let it out. Let it all out. It's all right."

The outburst did not last. Jillian felt utterly drained as he wiped her eyes and nose with a corner of her bed-sheet. Well, he'd seen the worst. But the duke simply looked at her.

"Are you angry?" he asked.

God, yes, she was. She wanted to break things, scream and rage, but years of quietly suppressing her emotions held her temper in check. Her breath came in great, ragged gulps of air.

"I want to hit something," she gasped.

The duke picked up one of the bed's large pillows. "Go on, punch it," he encouraged. "It will feel good to release your rage."

She stared at the pillow in horror, her stomach clenching. "I can't. That's totally preposterous."

"Sod preposterous. Punch it," he ordered. "Hit it until all those emotions are out of you."

Jillian acquiesced. She took it and threw it on the bed, banging it against the edge with wild fury.

"Harder!"

She flung the pillow against the bed. The aging yellow case suddenly split. Feathers burst out, covering him in a spray of white. She stared, goggle-eyed, at the duke. Graham blew out a breath. A feather floated upward from his lips. He gave a wry smile.

"Well, perhaps you're right. It does look preposterous," he said.