The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (19 page)

The corners of his mouth pulled downward. "You are my daughter, Jillian," he began. Then he stopped. The look in his eyes scared her. She had seen it before, once, a long, long time ago.

The creak of a door slowly closing...

Jillian swallowed hard. Sweat dampened her temples, cooling in the mild breeze wafting through the open French doors. Her heart thundered in her chest. She remained motionless, even when he pivoted, almost gracefully. He silently assessed her.

The crack of his palm against her cheek did not hurt as much as the words following. His face twisted in ugly anger as he said, "You will marry the duke, Jillian. You will, or you will find a cell in Bedlam very confining. Yes, very confining indeed."

"You wouldn't," she whispered.

"A father has every right to commit his daughter when her lusty, wayward behavior endangers her." He turned sharply on his heel and, at the door, spoke over his shoulder. "Think of it, Jillian. Marriage to the duke, or a cell in an insane asylum. The choice is yours."

Cold dread seized her as he closed the door behind him. The key turned outside. She was locked in.

Chapter Ten

The day after breaking into the earl's house, Graham paid Stranton a polite visit. He voiced two objections to the earl's marriage settlement. Graham told Stranton he wanted to marry by common license, preventing a reading aloud of the banns—it was better not to draw attention to Jillian. But the earl balked. He wanted the public to know exactly whom she married. He did finally agree, reluctantly, to Graham's proposal of a small church wedding with only the immediate family present.

That Sunday in church, Graham quietly watched from a distant pew as Jillian flushed in agonizing shame as the banns were read. Heads turned to look at her. They knew why she was marrying the duke.

Two weeks later, the earl, his wife and Jillian sat stiffly in the duke's immense drawing room for an engagement tea. Jillian had once more lost her inner spark. Her eyes were dull and lifeless. Graham shot a quick, hard look at the earl. Bastard. He wanted to wring Stranton's neck for the cruelties inflicted on Jillian.

Instead, he engaged the earl in talk of politics, pretending rapt interest in his proposed legislation. Then he struck, the first step to ensnaring his enemy.

"Perhaps your proposed bill would foster public support if you demonstrated the good it can do," Graham suggested.

Stranton leaned forward. "What do you suggest?"

Graham kept his tone deliberately casual. "Why don't you find a victim of the vilest of the sex trades—say, a young boy—and reform him? Teach him a trade and create a living model of the good the bill could achieve."

Silence filled the room. Graham ignored Kenneth's worried look. He focused all his attention on the earl. Stranton steepled his long, thin fingers and nodded.

"Excellent suggestion. A young child living in the streets, given a new chance and turned into a model citizen. Where would I find such a child, though?"

"I could help you find one. My groom, Charles, used to live in St. Giles, an area known for such wretched activity."

"I would greatly appreciate your support, Caldwell. But... I think it best our little venture remain between us. We should not tell the other lords, should it prove a dismal failure."

Graham fought to keep his emotions level. Oh, it would prove a dismal failure, when he presented Stranton with a gift the earl could not refuse....

"I promise," he said evenly.
Like you promised me you would help me escape the al-Hajid, you bastard.
Promises could be broken.

He dared to sweep his gaze about the room. Jillian kept her gaze downcast. Lady Stranton looked as meek and distant as her daughter. But Kenneth shot Graham a wary look.
What the hell are you planning?
he seemed to say.

A shard of guilt speared him. Graham ignored it and turned to Badra, asking about the baby. The woman, bless her, picked up his cue and skillfully turned the conversation into small talk of children. Graham smiled and listened with half an ear, only growing wary when the earl's wife asked to see the newborn.

Badra rang for the nurse, who came into the drawing room with the boy, handing Michael over to his mother. Lady Stranton perked up at the sight of the sleeping baby. The earl leaned forward, his thin face sparking with interest.

"May I see him?"

Distress seized Graham as Badra went to the earl. As she lowered the tiny bundle for his inspection, Stranton smiled.

"
Such a pretty boy
," he crooned. Graham went perfectly still.

The words echoed in his head, a jagged memory piercing him. That voice, those words, as he shrank away in numb terror, hating himself for what he did. Hating that man...

Such a pretty boy. No. No. No. Not again. Not this time!

The earl reached out to touch the newborn. Graham bolted from his chair, mindless of the perspiration dampening his back. "Let the proud uncle hold him, Badra. He is my heir," he said, fighting to keep the tremulous note from his voice.

Bemusement darkened her expression, but she handed Michael over. Graham took the baby. He cooed over him as a proud uncle should. Inside, he quaked violently. Forcing a stiff smile, he regarded his guests.

"I think he needs to sleep now. Surely being about all these adults is not good for him. I'll see him off to his nurse," he said, nodding as a means of good-bye.

Ignoring Badra's dumbstruck look, he forced himself to walk slowly out of the room, cradling the baby against his chest.
I must not let him touch Michael,
he thought. He had to shield him, protect the boy from Stranton. Michael, so vulnerable and innocent.

Graham held his precious nephew as he entered the nursery with its cheerful yellow walls and the elaborate, carved cradle Kenneth had made. The round-faced nurse in her crisp white apron and sensible gray dress sat reading at the window seat. She sprang up at his entrance.

"Your Grace?"

Ignoring her, he carefully laid the baby down in the cradle. Then Graham stood guard, rocking the baby, trying to quell the violent panic inside. The nurse watched.

Michael stirred, whimpering in sleep. Graham put a gentle hand on his head. "I won't let him hurt you, Michael. That's a promise. I'll rip him to pieces before he ever lays a hand on you," he whispered in Arabic.

He looked over at the nurse, who stood quietly nearby. "See to it that no one but the baby's parents, Jasmine and myself enter this room. Under no circumstances is Michael to leave the nursery until I give permission."

"Yes, Your Grace."

He quietly thanked all English servants, who always obeyed odd orders from their employers and did not ask questions.

A knock sounded at the door. His body tensed, Graham whipped around, his arms spread over the cradle as if to shield the baby. The doorknob jiggled. His blood went cold. Memories asserted themselves, piercing like knives. Such a pretty boy...

The
jambiya
he'd taken to hiding in his jacket since seeing Stranton slipped into his hand. Its steel edge gleamed. The nurse gasped and reached into the crib to take Michael.

Graham reacted swiftly, the blade slicing the air, stopping a whisper from her throat. "Don't touch him," he warned. Roused from sleep, the baby began a thin, reedy wail.

Graham swung back toward the door. A key turned, the door began to open. Assuming a defensive stance, he held out the knife and waited in wary dread for the in¬truder to enter. A man stepped into the room. Graham raised the knife.

"Graham, please put the
jambiya
down before you hurt yourself or my son."

Relief filled him as he recognized Kenneth and Badra. But he did not lower the knife or leave his post.

Blue eyes met dark brown. "Nurse, leave us," Kenneth said.

She floated past them out the door, a gray ghost in a crisp white apron. Gray like Jillian. Invisible.

"What happened down there?" his brother demanded. Badra put a hand on Graham's arm. Her gaze was unwavering.

"Such a pretty boy," she said in a singsong tone.

Graham trembled, the knife shaking in his hands. "No," he grated. "He mustn't touch Michael. Must not touch, don't touch, don't touch, leave him alone."

"Graham!"

He blinked, tried to focus. His sister-in-law. His brother.

"Oh God, no. It's him, isn't it? Stranton's the one. He's al-Hamra, your future father-in-law!" Kenneth spat a mouthful of Arabic curse words. "And you invited him here!" Revulsion tightened Kenneth's mouth. But revulsion of whom?

Graham stiffened. "I would not let Michael get hurt." Never. Ever. Either by Stranton or himself. Sudden grief squeezed his chest. Did Kenneth think so?

"Of course not. The baby is hungry, I imagine," Badra observed. She offered a gentle smile. "May I feed him?"

He stared at her then realized he still held the knife. The duke sheathed the blade and tucked it away, stepping aside from the cradle. With remarkable aplomb, Badra retrieved her son, nestling him to her breast.

"I know you were trying to protect him, Rashid...."

Her use of his Arabic name jerked him back to the present. Graham took a gulping breath, struggling to regain his usual, detached self. As she walked over to the window seat with Michael, he forced his normally rigid control to return.

Kenneth was not so calm. He stared. "Why are you marrying Jillian if you know her father's al-Hamra? What is your purpose?"

"To know an enemy's weak spots, one must study them intently. Even infiltrate their defenses by slipping among them, blending and coaxing them out," he recited.

"Jabari always said that." Kenneth shoved a hand through his hair. "That's why you did it. You're marrying the enemy. Good God, Graham, are you insane?"

"Completely," he managed.

His brother stared, then threw his hands into the air. "Whatever," he muttered. "It's your life. Marry her. But I'm telling you this, Graham, I'm staying out of it and so is my family. Plot your revenge, but I will not have my family hurt. Is that understood?"

A hollow ache settled in his chest. He felt terribly alone once more. "You have my word," Graham said quietly.

Kenneth looked bewildered. "I don't understand you, Graham. I feel like I never will."

"No, you never can, Kenneth," he agreed. And thank God for that.

Mustering his resolve, he headed for the door. "Excuse me. I must return to my guests." And to the ghosts of his past.

Chapter Eleven

Graham and Jillian were married in their quiet church ceremony. She wore a modest gray gown; her father expressly forbade her from wearing white. When Graham solemnly slid the thin gold band onto her finger, it felt like the jaws of a steel trap shutting.

The wedding luncheon was torturously slow. Hosted by Jillian's parents, the funereal atmosphere depressed her, with the heavy burgundy drapes shutting out the sun from the ominous, long mahogany table where they all stiffly sat. One only needed dirge music. Even Jasmine failed to fill the air with her excited chatter, for she was not present; Graham had thought it wisest to leave her home. The duke's brother kept studying her and then staring at her father as he talked with Graham. Badra's attempts at conversation with her mother withered and died.

When it was over, Jillian uttered a silent prayer of gratitude. Graham escorted her home and upstairs to the duchess's quarters. She gazed dully at the pretty blue and white bedchamber with its spacious sitting room.

"I'll leave you to rest. Dinner is at seven," he said.

"I'm not certain if my gowns have all arrived."

"I had them burnt," he said calmly.

Jillian raised her brows. "At least Father allowed me to wear my underthings. Do you wish me to walk about naked?"

He smiled. "That's the spirit. But no. I took measurements from the gowns your father had sent over, and had new ones made. I don't want you to wear gray. Wear emerald. Sapphire. Jewel colors to match what I know lies inside you. No gray."

"What lies inside me, Graham?" she asked. Today she felt only keen despair.

He touched her cheek. "Passion. A spirit that was nearly extinguished, and that needs encouragement to turn into living flame."