The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (13 page)

"Run?" offered Graham.

Badra scowled. "I can defend myself. You taught me, Kenneth, remember? You kick a man in the privates."

Both brothers cast her tiny but heavily rounded frame a doubtful glance. Graham restrained a smile.

"Kicking a man is a good idea, but my sword is far more effective," Kenneth stated.

"I agree. You can cut off his nether parts instead of kicking him," Graham suggested helpfully.

Badra rolled her eyes. "Wouldn't it be more sporting to simply shoot him?"

Graham nodded. "Shoot him in the privates, I suppose."

Badra laughed, holding her enormous belly. "Stop it," she gasped. "Or I'm going to have the baby right here."

Kenneth grinned. "Relax, my love. We were merely celebrating Graham's, um... little announcement. Brace yourself. My brother is getting married."

Badra's laughter stopped short. Shock dawned in her beautiful eyes. She stared at Graham, who shifted uneasily.

Badra knew his tortured past long before his brother ever did. When he'd been known as Rashid, Khamsin Warrior of the Wind, Graham had been assigned to protect her. They had forged a friendship sealed with the dark secrets of their individual pasts, and had both agreed never to marry. Kenneth's gentle, patient love had helped Badra change her mind. But both knew Graham's demons still tormented him, riding his mind as he once rode his mare, fast and hard across the sands.

"M-marriage? To whom?" she asked, still staring.

"Some beautiful damsel in undress," Kenneth said evenly. "She captured my brother's heart. Or another vital organ."

Graham shot him a warning look.

"Are you certain? Is she special? She'd have to be... Her voice trailed off. Badra stared as if Graham were a djinn, a desert spirit. Graham felt flushed with humiliation. Bloody hell, he knew what she thought. What woman would want him?

Yet he had hoped for understanding from Badra. Without words he picked up the abandoned foils and their rubber tips, and carefully replaced them on the wall. Inside he felt like that little boy of long ago, aching and hurting. He forced a cool note to his voice as he studied the wall.

"You needn't worry I'm marrying some common tart from the streets. Lady Jillian is the daughter of a well-known peer. She's quite suited to become my duchess." He whipped about and faced Badra with a defensive look.

Badra put a hand on her immense belly, calmly regarding him. Once they had provided each other emotional support, had been friends and allies in the shared pain of their pasts. She'd been the only one he trusted. Still, he had withheld part of himself, never fully sharing. Now she was married to his brother, expecting his child, and had her own family. Life had changed so much.

Kenneth discreetly moved to the other side of the large room, tidying a pile of lawn tennis rackets. Badra waddled closer to Graham. So tiny, so delicate-looking, she was barely as tall as his shoulder. But he knew looks were deceiving. Inside, she was strong as a fierce desert wind.

"Rashid, talk to me about this. Don't shut me out. I sense you are carrying a heavy burden, and it has become much heavier these past months since we arrived in London."

Her use of the Arabic name he'd been given by the al-Hajid made him cautious. He folded his arms over his chest. "What do you want, Badra?"

Distress etched her face. "You've changed, Rashid. Once we were so close. Ever since we came to England, you've grown more distant every day. I hardly know my friend anymore. Why is that?"

"You and Kenneth urged me to assume the title. Of course I had to change. I'm no longer Rashid. Those days are gone."

"And our friendship, too? Once you would have done anything for me."

His voice softened. "As I would continue to do, but you're married to Kenneth now. He comes first in your life, as it should be. As it will be for me when I marry my new bride."

"Oh, Rashid." Badra's deep sigh indicated displeasure. "Your bride. Who is this woman? You never mentioned any woman before. How do you know she is the one for you?" She touched his chest gently. "How do you know she is the one to share your heart?"

Graham rubbed his face. "Badra, what you have with Kenneth is special. My expectations of marriage are not so high."

"Why not? Why shouldn't you expect to find a woman whom you can share every part of yourself with, who will fill that empty space inside you? No, don't tell me it's not there," she added as he started to protest. "I know, more so than anyone else, how empty that ache can make you feel. And I know how wonderful it is to finally have someone fill that void, and feel the peace of being loved and cherished for who you are."

Vastly uncomfortable now, he shrugged. "I'm glad it happened for you. Truly, Badra."
It just will never happen for me.

Joining his wife, Kenneth slid an arm around her ample waist. His calm gaze met his brother's troubled one. "We want you to be happy, Graham. You don't deserve anything less. Can this woman make you happy?"

"She pleased me enough the other night," he repeated. He remembered what Kenneth had said and tossed it back at him. "You said that she was my destiny. And you can't fight destiny. I'm marrying her. Can't you both just try to be happy for me?"

Kenneth glanced at his wife. "Yes," he said. "We can."

"Yes," Badra echoed softly. "Please bring her to tea. I want to make her feel welcome here. Very welcome."

Graham managed a genuine smile as she disengaged from her husband and came to him. She kissed his cheek, her large belly bumping his hip.

Kenneth gave him a solemn look. "If this is what you want, then I am happy for you. I just want a woman who's good enough. You deserve the best." He looked wistful. "I would have given anything to see you happy before this, but we can't go back, only forward. So let us know what you need and we'll be there for you."

Struggling with his emotions, Graham nodded. After all these years of walking alone, he finally had a family who cared. He felt torn between wanting to grow closer, and his natural reserve. How much easier it would have been to simply remain in Egypt, masked by his indigo Khamsin garb, hiding from the world.

When Kenneth swung Badra into his arms—despite her protests she could walk—Graham felt even lonelier. Murmuring excuses, he vanished into his apartments. There he dressed to go riding in the park.

Slapping his riding crop against his thigh, he descended the polished staircase. Jasmine galloped across the hallway toward him. Her face broke into a beaming grin. A flurry of excited Arabic spilled from her.

"Uncle Graham! Are you riding? Can I go with you? Please, please! I haven't ridden my horse in two days!"

"English, Jasmine," he automatically corrected. "And hasn't your papa told you no riding without a groom? You're still not accomplished enough on sidesaddle."

Her face fell. "Yes."

"You'll get better in time," he encouraged.

In Yorkshire, Kenneth had taught his adopted daughter to ride the Bedouin way. Jasmine had ridden astride until two weeks ago, when boys in the park had teased her about her odd riding style, calling her a heathen. Deeply upset, Jasmine had quietly asked to learn the English way to ride.

Graham felt a tug of deep pity at her crestfallen expression. He gave an indulgent smile. "Go change into your riding habit, and I'll meet you at the stable," he promised.

Trailed by Charles—the silent head groom Graham trusted most—he and his niece rode to Hyde Park. Graham controlled his Arabian stallion with his knees, while Jasmine sat on her pony, struggling with the sidesaddle position. As they approached the Row, he noticed her stiff posture. Graham nudged his mount to a halt and leaned forward in his saddle.

"Listen to me, Jasmine—relax. Your horse takes cues from you. The more you feel comfortable, the more you are able to control your mount. Animals sense it when you are nervous. Bend your knees a bit and relax your posture."

"My governess says I must sit straight as a board."

"Have you ever seen a board ride a horse?" He winked. Jasmine giggled, and her shoulders relaxed.

As they rode into the park, Graham turned a curious eye again on his niece. Like him, she was a loner. He asked her about making friends. Her woebegone expression turned his heart over.

Glancing over her shoulder at the indifferent-looking Charles, she spoke in a hushed tone in Arabic. "Uncle Graham, I want to play with them, but they don't want to play with me. They say I'm too odd. Especially Tommy Wallenford. He says he's the Honorable Tommy Wallenford and I'm just a silly heathen girl from Arabia without a tide."

So Jasmine had been snubbed for her imperfect English. Graham bristled with anger. "Listen to me, little one," he said somberly. "They think themselves superior. You must show them you are their equal. You are the Honorable Jasmine Tristan, daughter of a viscount. And the niece of a duke."

He saw her inner fight to bravely check her tears.

"But I did. They won't listen to me. They keep listening to Tommy. It hurts when he calls me names, Uncle Graham. Just because I'm Egyptian and my skin is darker."

Graham felt a twist of anguish, remembering his own difficulties when he returned to England, the whispers and curious stares in the Yorkshire community.

"What would you do, Uncle Graham?" she begged.

His natural caution broke at the sight of her trembling lower lip. He racked his brain, remembering. "When I first came to England, this one sod—er, fellow—mocked my accent. He had no respect for my tide and called me a heathen of Arabia."

"And what did you do, Uncle Graham?"

He could not resist a wry smile. "I gave him what the English call a ‘facer.' I punched him in the lip and told him, ‘You stupid bloody sod, a heathen from Arabia can fight just as well as an Englishman.' And then I earned respect by relearning English customs and English ways. Eventually most have come to accept me."

Jasmine's wondering gaze held his. "Then I should focus on learning English ways and they'll accept me as well?"

Graham was attuned enough to prejudice to know firsthand the answer. Jasmine's midnight-black hair, large dark eyes and dark skin set her apart. It always would, no matter how perfect her English or how western her dress.

"Learning English customs and perfecting your English will help, but it's also important you don't sacrifice who you truly are, little one. Be yourself, and be confident in who you are. Worthwhile people will respect you."

Jasmine gave a solemn nod. "Thank you, Uncle Graham. Now maybe you should go ahead. I have to ride slower on my pony. I need to practice riding English-style, to prove to them I can do it."

Sooner or later, she would have to face her troubles alone. Graham promised to rejoin her as soon as he had a good gallop.

With a sigh he headed for the soft, tawny track designed to accommodate brisk riding. Once there, he let Prometheus have his head, relishing the power of the big stallion's working muscles. Graham steered the stallion with pressure from his thighs, just as he'd learned from the Bedouin.

Minutes later, he slowed the panting horse to a canter and let him cool down, then headed back to Jasmine. He trotted onto the lane, his keen gaze searching for an elfin-faced girl and the groomsman who resembled a melancholy hound. The sound of laughter pulled his attention to a small stand of oak trees. Lady Jillian was there, talking with Jasmine. Charles waited patiently nearby.

Graham's chest constricted. This was not how he'd intended to introduce Jillian to his family. He spurred the big horse forward, galloping until he reached them. He expertly pulled the stallion to an abrupt halt.

"Good day, Lady Jillian," he said.

"Good day, Your Grace." Her charming smile faltered.

Oblivious to the adults' discomfort, Jasmine glanced at Graham with a bright smile. "Uncle Graham! Miss Jillian has been telling me about horses and riding!"

"Lady Jillian," he corrected.

"And I was telling her about Egypt and how you, Papa and Mama brought me here last year."

Graham's blood went cold. How much exactly had Jasmine told Jillian? That he had been an Egyptian warrior—living, fighting and killing? Any hint of how he'd lived with a Bedouin tribe and Jillian might pass that on to her father, who might do some hard thinking about his future son-in-law and remember...

He managed a tight smile. "Did you now? What exactly did you tell Lady Jillian?"