The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (34 page)

Clad in dark robes, the sheikh emerged from his tent. He strode forward with arrogant command and gave a greeting in a desert dialect Graham did not fully know. He returned the polite welcome. The sheikh introduced himself as Mahjub, chieftain of the Jauzi, the people who claimed this land.

Graham wasted no words. "I came for the woman you took yesterday," he said roughly. "I want to see her. She is mine."

Mahjub, an older man with a grizzled beard and cunning eyes, barked an order. Out of the largest tent two women came, escorting Jillian. He studied her anxiously. She was pale, but did not appear harmed.

"Jillian, are you all right? Did they... touch you?"

She shook her head, wide eyes full of fear. Her brave smile wobbled precariously. "I'm all right, Graham. Please, just get me out of here."

Relief pierced him. They had not raped her. For whatever reason, he was grateful.

The sheikh watched Jillian warily as the women led her away. "Al-Hariia," he rasped.

Sudden insight flashed. Her hair. It had enthralled Ramses, and here among these superstitious desert dwellers, they called it fire and feared it. He seized that as a weapon.

"Only a warrior with powerful magic can bed al-Hariia, an houri from paradise who can consume a man's flesh in flames." Graham struggled with the unfamiliar dialect, praying his words would be clear.

Mahjub's gaze narrowed. He snapped his fingers.

A younger man, black beard shrouding his face, stepped forward. "If you want her, you must fight me for her," the young man asserted to Graham. "She will fetch good money on the slave market."

Mahjub looked amused. "Khamsin Warrior of the Wind. Are you willing to fight for your woman?"

"So be it," Graham said harshly.

No mercy. He could spare none. Jillian's life was at stake.

Graham was ruthless. He slashed and fought with the fury of the Khamsin's ancient Egyptian ancestors—blood not flowing through his veins but blood he claimed by deeds. He was as emotionless as a sandstorm, as overwhelming and complete, engulfing the dirty-robed enemy in a hot, blowing rage.

The Bedu swung his scimitar, slicing Graham's arm. Warmth dribbled down his forearm, but he barely registered the pain. Instinct guided him now, honed by much experience in battle. Blood coated his scimitar as he attacked and whirled, not in the delicate mincing feints of respectable English theater, but raw, powerful and brutal war. He knew he would kill this man. He must. To protect Jillian, the treasure shivering inside the black tent. A deep, primitive feeling surfaced.
She is mine
. Possessiveness as ancient as the sands raged through him.

The killing blow was swift, almost merciful. Graham's enemy gurgled for breath, gasped and fell to the ground, staining it scarlet. An appreciative murmur swept over the watchers. The sand eagerly drank the blood, thirsty granules greedily pulling it down.

Fluid, so precious in these dry, barren lands.

Inner sorrow pulled him. Again, he had killed. He wiped his sword on the robes of his enemy, sheathed it. Then he bound his arm with the silk sash at his belt. The Bedu's respectful nods he met with a hard stare.

"The houri is mine," he said in Arabic. "I will take her and leave."

Mahjub smiled, showing a wide horizon of gum and the broken stubs of yellowed teeth. "The houri delivered to us enthralls you so much that you kill one of my clan? Then wait no longer to claim her, Khamsin, with your powerful magic. My tent."

And with a grand gesture, he swept a hand toward the many-poled dwelling standing nearby.

Emotion squeezed Graham's chest. For the first time, fear skidded up his spine. What the hell did he want? "I can wait," he grunted.

"You will not," the sheikh countered, his graying brows drawing together. "I insist on the hospitality of my tent to take this virgin. It is our tradition that a warrior who has fought and fought well be rewarded with a woman. Do you refuse my hospitality?"

"I do not refuse the hospitality of Mahjub, the great sheikh of the Jauzi, whose name is honored above all others in this land. But I will not bed this woman here and now."

Graham's formal words made no impact on the sheikh, whose expression shifted to calculating intent.

"I think you are reluctant to bed her because you lied. She is not an houri, a virgin from paradise. And if you lied, we will cut out your tongue as we do to those who lie to us. Let us see if you told the truth, Khamsin. Take this virgin and show us your powerful magic. If you refuse, we will take her into the desert as food for the jackals, as we do with all defiled women."

Fear squeezed his heart. "No one will touch her," he swore.

A loud scraping of unsheathed scimitars rang in the air. Graham stared into a forest of gleaming steel.

"A man sometimes may choose his death, Khamsin. He may choose to die in the soft arms of a woman, or he may die with the bite of a blade against his neck. Which do you choose?"

Powerless, he swallowed rising revulsion. He had no choice.
Forgive me, Jilly
, he said silently. To the sheikh he said, "Bring her to your tent. I will claim her there."

Jillian fought the women as they bathed her in the black tent and then dressed her in a gown of green gauze. They covered the nearly transparent clothing with a thick black garment and led her outside. The women shoved her into the largest tent and removed the covering. She stumbled, nearly falling onto the thick carpet. Silks billowed in the desert breeze.

Graham stood before her. A rough beard covered his face. His hair swept past the collar of the indigo coat, a thick mane tousled by the wind. His sleeve was torn in one spot, showing a makeshift, reddened bandage. Eyes darker than midnight silently appraised her.

He said loudly in Arabic and then in English:

"I fought for you. And I shall claim you, in the ancient right of this tribe."

She felt miserable, afraid, and greatly relieved to see him.

And he? He looked every inch an exotic, powerful sheikh, as if he were playing a part upon some stage of windswept sand.

He came to her, black brows drawn together, no longer the duke. She scarcely recognized him. Sun and sand had swallowed him. He'd shifted like the changing, silent dunes.

The women all watched, bright-eyed with speculation. Graham turned to them and barked something in Arabic. The women meekly filed past, marched into a room curtained off from the main tent.

Barely had they done so when Graham began unwrapping the blue turban and shedding the indigo coat He sat on the carpet and gestured at his boots.

"Take these off," he ordered loudly. "Woman, do as I say before you invoke my wrath."

The thin curtain shielding the women twitched. Biting back a caustic remark, Jillian removed his boots. She stared in astounded shock as Graham stripped down to his bare chest and stood, tugging at the drawstring holding his blousy trousers up. "What in heaven's name are you doing?" she demanded.

"Undressing. Take your clothes off. Now!"

"No." She backed away from him, hands out¬stretched. Old fears arose—her father, always controlling her, making her feel powerless. Why was Graham doing this? What had happened to the considerate man she'd married?

"Listen to me," he said urgently, gripping her arms. "I've just killed the man who stole you. The tribe thinks you are an houri, a virgin from paradise delivered to them. The women back there are watching us. The men are outside, listening. If I don't take you, they'll cut out my tongue for lying about you. If they don't think you're a virgin, they'll let you die in the desert."

"I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.

His gaze softened. He touched her cheek. "Jilly, I don't want to do this any more than you do. But we must. Do you understand? We have no choice."

Swallowing hard, she nodded.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, and suddenly she was reminded of their first time together.

He ripped the thin silk from her body with a rough growl. Jillian shook violently, trying to shield herself with her hands. He took her hands, held them apart, staring at her breasts intently. Whispers flitted from behind the silk curtain.

Her eyes closed in bitter shame. Graham pulled her to him and kissed her, his lips gently coaxing hers apart as his tongue slipped inside, stroking and caressing. It was a sensual kiss, but she felt no desire. She felt rigid as rock. Graham pulled back, determined intent turning his eyes to midnight. He kissed her again, and trailed a line of hot, urgent kisses across her collarbone. His hands caressed her bare shoulders, drifted lower to skim her hips and then slide into the juncture of her thighs.

A jolt of arousal speared her. She moaned as he gently stroked, culling moisture, to prepare her for what lay ahead. He pulled back and shed his trousers, displaying his rigid arousal. She tried not to hear the feminine murmurs and gasps.

How could she bear this?
You must
, she told herself as he lowered her to the sheepskins, his dark gaze intent as he moved between her legs. His hard male body with its broad shoulders and muscles rippling beneath the taut biceps was as familiar as her own. Yet he was a stranger. She felt him probing her center, which was slightly damp from his ministrations.

"Now. Cry out," he ordered.

He pushed forward, piercing her. Not fully prepared for the shock of his entry, her inner passage resisted. Jillian screamed and arched. A low laugh and words in rough Arabic sounded outside the tent.

Tears blurred her eyes. She felt horridly exposed and humiliated; the act she'd relished as tender and passionate now reduced to crude lust, a private moment stripped down to a public act.

Her husband bent his face close to hers and softly crooned words in Arabic as he slowly expanded her resisting muscles. Then she looked into his eyes and saw tenderness brimming there. Graham whispered into her ear in English, "They're not here. No one else is. Just us, alone. Pretend, my love."

"I can't," she said brokenly. "I just can't."

"You can, Jilly," he said, kissing her tears away. A smile touched his mouth. "Do as every English mother tells her daughter on her wedding night. Lie back and think of England."

His gaze turned serious as his hips surged forward and he thrust inside her. The gentle tone and reassuring words contrasted his pounding thrusts, and the whispers of their audience.

"Look at me, Jilly," he said softly in English. "Come with me. We're in a garden in England, lush and verdant. There are pink tea roses climbing a white trellis by the pagoda where we sit, sipping tea. A mockingbird is chirping from the boughs of a willow. Can you feel the caress of the cool breeze upon your lovely cheek? You are laughing because I've just spilled crumbs from the delicious scones on my new waistcoat. There's an orange butterfly dancing nearby and you wish to catch it."

Jillian closed her eyes, willing herself into the fantasy as his body slapped against hers. She forced herself to drift. The sticky, harsh heat melted into a delightful English breeze. No odor of stale sweat from the dirty sheepskins beneath them, but the perfume of roses and freshly cut grass from the craggy-faced gardener swiping at it with a scythe.

"My beautiful Jillian, in your green eyes I see the water's reflection. So cool, so serene. Nothing can bother us here."

Jillian willed the images to dance in her mind. She saw Graham's face, smiling and laughing as he chased her and the pumpkin butterfly, dancing out of their reach. His deep laughter sounded as they raced across the soft grass, and Graham chuckled as he caught her in his arms and whirled her around for a kiss....

A harsh groan rasped above her, startling her out of the vision. Her eyes flew open to see her husband stiffen and shudder, his powerful body tensing as he found his release. She felt the warmth of his seed fill her.

Misery swallowed her. But then he sighed and kissed her, his soft murmur caressing her ear as he lifted her hair and kissed the lobe. Confusion swept her as he rolled off, for she could not fathom the words he'd whispered. Her senses were surely scrambled, and she couldn't be sure, but it had sounded like, "I love you."

* * *

So many times he'd used fantasy in his own horrible reality of the black tent. He'd dreamed of being anywhere but there—in England, climbing fence posts, or the captain of a pirate ship, sailing to find treasure on tropical islands. He'd fantasized anything but who he was and where he was at that particular moment.