The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (32 page)

Afterwards, he held her tightly in his arms. A dull shaft of lamplight pierced the gloom. Distress filled his dark eyes. Jillian brushed back a lock of damp hair from his forehead. Graham kissed her.

"My Jillian. My wife. Stay with me after the three months are finished. Don't leave me." His voice was low and slightly pleading.

"Graham," she whispered. "Why are you so sad?"

Silence draped them. He pulled her to his side, cradling his big, warm body against her. She lay still a long time until he roused again and made love to her. His lovemaking this time was slow and deliberate. Graham showered hot trails of kisses over her heated flesh until she writhed and begged. He mounted her then, and his strokes were slow, deep and deliberate, his dark gaze capturing.

"Stay with me," he repeated hoarsely. "Don't leave me."

Arching on the edge of a shattering climax, she gripped him to her. Still he teased, withdrawing, lingering, until she sobbed, begging him to fill her.

"Stay with me," he repeated.

"Help me, Graham," she sobbed.

He drove into her, triggering a cry from her lips as she shattered from the power of her release. Graham tensed above her, his powerful arms taut with strain, his big body shuddering as he bucked and plunged.

She welcomed his heavy weight as he collapsed atop her, resting his damp forehead on the pillow. His words came again, a coaxing murmur. "Stay with me."

Stroking his sweat-dampened hair, she whispered into his ear, "I'll consider it, Graham."

His sleepy, heavy-lidded gaze met hers as he raised his head. "I'll keep you here, beneath me, always, if you dare try to leave."

A shudder of delicious heat wracked her. "Promise?" she asked.

Graham dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Promise."

Chapter Nineteen

Her limbs felt heavy and languid the next day as they prepared to leave. Jillian felt sleepy and sore from the night's fevered lovemaking. They had dozed and then awakened, Graham reaching for her yet again in fierce heat and passion. Each time she went willingly into his arms. He took her time and again, until she sobbed and begged, and then he brought her repeatedly to mindless, boneless pleasure. It was as if he fought inner demons each time he took her.

After a quick breakfast of fresh camel milk, yogurt and flatbread, they washed up. Jillian dressed in the odd, blousy indigo cotton trousers Katherine had made and the loose-fitting shirt. She tugged on the indigo
kuftan
and pinned her little gold watch to it. Next came cotton stockings and boots of the softest leather. Graham outlined her eyes with black kohl, explaining it reduced the sun's glare. Then he wrapped her head in a white turban. He gestured to the mirror.

She saw her reflection. "I look like a walking mummy."

"But at least you won't burn." He unfastened the lid of a container of white paste. Graham smeared it over the exposed parts of her skin. He waved the container.

"Make sure to pack this. Your skin is like pale ivory. If you don't protect it, you'll burn."

They took with them dried dates and a goatskin filled with butter made from camel milk. Mixed with water, it provided valuable nutrients. Jillian finished packing their things and emerged from the tent, handing her rucksack to Graham.

Other Khamsin warriors had gathered, assisting. The sheikh as well. Jabari gazed at her steadily with his dark, knowing gaze. Jillian felt a fierce flush heat her cheekbones. Surely all the tribe had heard them last night.

But what surprised her most was Ramses. The jocular, teasing attitude had vanished. His odd amber eyes looked troubled as he helped secure her pack to Sheba.

"Thank you for convincing him to take me," she murmured.

Ramses leaned against the camel. He studied her so intently she blushed under his scrutiny.

"It is for his own good, Jillian. Be patient with my friend. Do not leave him, no matter what. He will need all your strength in the desert."

"I have no strength," she protested.

"You are most wrong," he countered. "You have the greatest strength, that of a woman in love."

Jillian worried her bottom lip. "How do you know?"

His gaze softened as he studied his wife, packing a bag of herbs for them. "I know." Then he looked at her once more. "Go with Allah, Lady Jillian. And be careful. The desert can kill the strongest man, but it is the darkness inside a man that can make him lose his soul."

Determined not to be an encumbrance, Jillian began the journey across the immense western desert with cheerful resolve. It quickly melted into grim willpower under the relentless heat.

They had ferried across the flowing Nile in a barge and left behind the fertile green valley hours ago. Their caravan of four camels, one carrying their equipment, the other carrying the iron water tanks, plodded along in a swaying gait. The harsh yellow sun beat mercilessly upon them. No escape. Not even a sliver of shade as they rode across the flat, barren plain. Her buttocks and thighs ached from riding in the wooden saddle. She licked her lips, tasting dryness and grit, inhaling the smell of cotton from the scarf covering her lower face. Jillian swatted at an annoying fly pestering Sheba's ears. Nothing in sight for miles and still there were flies.

When Graham called to take a break, she dismounted in weary relief. He unfurled a small carpet, beckoning to her to sit.

She settled on the rug, eyeing the stretch of sand. No trees. Not even a rock. Nothing but sand, endless sand. Jillian longed for a hot meal, even a hot cup of tea, but was resigned to eating tinned food.

Graham fished something out of his rucksack and tossed it to her. She picked up the two smooth stones and the wood stick.

"Use the stones to get a spark and the wood to catch it."

"And what do you use for fuel? Sand?"

"Something equally as plentiful."

She didn't like the look of impish mischief in his dark eyes. Graham went to another pack and withdrew a small bag. He unwrapped two small brown squares. "Fuel."

Jillian leaned closer, immensely curious. "Peat?"

"Camel dung."

He laughed at her moue of distaste and, using the cloth so his hand didn't touch the bricks, set them on the ground. "Very efficient means of fuel, dried by the sun. The Bedu use it all the time. Nearly as good as coal."

"I'd rather have coal, thank you," she said.

Graham busied himself with setting up a small triangular support, over which he hung a tarnished silver pot with water. "Teatime," he said cheerfully. "All we need now is the fire."

Glaring at him, she sighed and began striking the stones. Over and over. Frustration filled her as he watched, but Jillian doggedly kept striking the rocks together.

Finally, there was a spark and the wood caught. She held the stick to the squares of dried dung, surprised at how quickly the flames took. Soon a fire was crackling merrily away.

Pleased by her success, she glanced at Graham. Mirth danced in his eyes. "Took you quite a long time," he said.

She sniffed, irritated. "I suppose you can do it faster."

"With these, yes."

He tossed a small packet of English matches onto the sand. Jillian narrowed her eyes. "And you watched me... I suppose it was quite amusing watching me make a fool of myself!"

His expression grew somber. "I had confidence you could light the fire. And you needed to do it on your own."

He dropped down next to her, drawing his knees up to his chest. "Jillian, this is a hostile environment. Men, hale and hearty, die out here. To survive you must keep all your wits about you and rely upon yourself."

The idea he had confidence in her left her speechless. Never before had anyone expressed belief in her abilities. She traced a line in the sand with her finger, shyly pleased by his compliment.

"Tea will be ready soon." Graham shook a small box at her. "Purchased in one of Her Majesty's finest shops in London."

Jillian eyed the small kettle suspended over the crackling fire. "Is it... different with this means of boiling water?"

He grinned. "It's like sipping tea in an English garden."

She wrinkled her nose. "I daresay an English garden smells more fragrant."

Jillian unpacked a tin of biscuits from the rucksack and set them on the wooden plate, and they prepared the tea. It was a bizarre English tea, the burning blue sky and desolate stretch of sand the drawing room.

They ate in silence. Her husband, who sat next to her, legs crossed, seemed perfectly at ease. He had clearly done this before, not once, but several times. As if he'd lived like this. Was this one of Graham's secrets? The story of a kindly English couple rescuing a frightened boy seemed less and less likely.

"How many years did you live with the Khamsin?" she asked.

He shot her a quick, startled look. "Years?"

"You're too familiar with the desert and its culture to have been a mere guest, Graham. Why won't you tell me about your past with them? What are you afraid to tell me?"

Standing, he brushed crumbs off his indigo coat. "It's getting late. I'd advise you to hurry and finish if we're to make decent time and keep on schedule before dark."

She scrambled to her feet. "Graham, what's out here?"

"Have you ever seen an enemy tribe racing their camels toward you, their bloodcurdling shrieks making terror rise in your throat? Seen their wicked swords flash in the sun just before they cut down their screaming victims?"

"No," she whispered.

"Then pack up and do as I say."

* * *

An hour later, she called out to him, red-faced. He stopped. As they dismounted, he fished into one of the bags, silently handing her the small spade. He then peered into the bag and withdrew two magazines. A teasing grin quirked his lips.

"Would you prefer
Godey's Lady's Book or Punch?"

"
Lady's Book
. That's exactly what I think of modern fashion."

He grinned again, then delicately turned his back as she wandered off to find a spot. A furious flush ignited her whole body. There was no privacy here in the wide open plain. Oh bother. Surely, this would be the least of the upcoming challenges.

Two days into their journey, Jillian made a disturbing discovery. The farther they traveled and the more she tried engaging Graham in conversation, the more reticent he became. She asked questions about his friendship with the Khamsin tribe, but he gave noncommittal answers.

When they stopped for a break, she uncapped the goatskin bag gratefully. Jillian gulped down the water. Graham gently tugged the bag away.

"Slow sips. You'll get sick," he advised.

Licking the last drops from her lips she glanced around at the flat sands, the endless terrain of dust and burning blue sky. A gentle rise of sand from the dune they'd just left seemed tranquil. Goodness, it was so hot.

Graham strapped the bag back onto his saddle. A fierce frown wrinkled his brow. He seemed to go still, listening. Unease pricked Jillian. She craned her neck in the direction they just rode and saw nothing.

"What is it?"

He did not answer. Wind ruffled the hem of his indigo coat. His nostrils flared, as if scenting trouble on the distant wind. Solomon shifted, uneasy, snorting. Sheba raised her tawny head and did the same.

"Do you feel it?" he murmured.

"I don't hear anything."

"You don't hear it at first. You sense it."

"Sense what? Graham, you're scaring me."

His gaze grew distant. "It's coming. The Khamsin." He ran to the camels, yelled to her, "Hurry! There's no chance of outrunning it, but perhaps we can reach that rock."

She hurried to her camel and mounted, still bewildered and more than a little scared. "Cover your face!" he ordered, tightening the straps and swinging over the saddle. "Let's put those riding skills of yours to good use!"

Jillian's heart was thundering in wild panic. They rode frantically. She still had no idea what he meant, but the urgency in his tone convinced her. Then she stole a glance over her shoulder. The blood froze in her veins. A giant wave of boiling sand swirled toward them.