The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (20 page)

Disturbed at what he saw, she patted her head with a wry smile. "To match my hair? Father ordered me to wear dull gowns to suppress it. I prefer dark colors."

A somber look entered his eyes. "Don't, Jillian. Darkness can be terribly lonely."

He dropped a light kiss on her cheek. "Since you lack a lady's maid, I've assigned one of the more experienced upstairs maids as your attendant. Wear the sapphire gown. I know it will look lovely on you."

Then she watched him leave, wondering if the darkness he mentioned wasn't the reason for the secrets in his own eyes.

Too nervous about the night to come, Jillian barely tasted her dinner. The informal casualness here shocked her, especially allowing Jasmine to dine with the other adults instead of taking a tray in the nursery. Yet Jillian found herself growing wistful as Kenneth, Badra and Jasmine talked and laughed with each other. Here was the type of family she had always wanted—open, honest and affectionate, not remote and cold.

Only the duke remained slightly aloof, smiling now and then. Over the top of his wineglass, his brilliant gaze regarded her. Puzzled, she stared at Graham's flute as he set it down. A footman sprang to fill it with water.

"I don't drink," he said. "But I don't wish to ruin the table setting either."

Then he grinned, the same boyish smile he had displayed their very first night at Madame LaFontant's. Jillian laughed.

After dinner, the little maid he'd assigned as her personal attendant helped Jillian remove her sapphire gown. Jillian sighed as she caressed the smooth satin. Never had she owned anything more vibrant or luxurious. Emily helped her into a cream satin peignoir. Its heavy flowing lines draped her body.

"The duke had this made for you as a gift. He said his beautiful bride deserved to wear something special on their special night," the maid explained, gazing in admiration.

Jillian touched the nightwear with a trembling hand. White, for her wedding night. She wasn't a virgin, but he was treating her as honorably as one. Father called her a whore and shamed her in front of the servants; Graham called her beautiful and honored her before them.

She drew in a ragged breath, apprehensive and excited, as she sat on the massive four-poster. The bed was enormous, with waves of soft cotton sheets and piles of silk pillows. She swallowed hard, wondering what awaited her.

The duke had bought her virginity, but this was different. Before, there had been nothing but physical intimacy and a parting of the ways. Tonight her lover would not be a stranger, but her husband who expected to share her bed each night.

The door to their adjacent chambers opened. Graham stepped inside, wearing a black robe that stretched over his broad shoulders and fell to his bare knees. The sight of his muscled, taut calves with their thick dusting of dark hair seemed more sensual than when he had uncloaked himself in the brothel.

As breathless as their first time together, she studied his face. A thick sweep of ebony hair fell rebelliously over his forehead. Dark eyes, lit with fierce intensity. A proud, straight nose, sculpted cheekbones displaying his aristocratic lineage and firm, sensual lips. Her gaze flew to the thick muscles in his neck, the long, almost feminine eyelashes. Goodness, he was beautiful. Almost pretty, but for the hard line of his taut jaw and the slight bristle shadowing it. Graham prowled toward her with lithe grace, silent as a cat.

He held out a hand. "Come with me."

Confused, she stared. "Why?"

His deep voice, smoky with unspent passion, caressed her skin. "It is tradition that all the heirs to the duchy are conceived in the duke's bed."

Obediently, she rose. His large palm swallowed hers like a tiny bird. It mattered not, for he would take her where he willed. Her bedchamber or his, the results would be the same. No baby would be conceived.

The duke led her to his bed. Massive wood pillars thick as tree trunks dominated the oak. Graham swept her into his arms and laid her carefully upon the sheets. He stood back, unsmiling, and unbelted his robe. It parted and puddled at his feet, and he stood before her fully nude. The chamber was flooded with light, unlike her first time.

Suddenly shy, she shrank back. "Why so much light?"

"I want to see you this time. Everything."

Trepidation filled her. She didn't love this man, but felt a deep sensual pull toward him. It made her scared and vulnerable. Jillian couldn't forget the unbreakable bond between them. He had been her first lover.

Yet, years of his sexual experience stood before them. She lifted her arms as he tugged the nightwear off her. Jillian lay on the bed, nude.

"You are truly a redhead," he mused, staring at the tangle of soft curls covering her womanly parts.

A heated blush covered her cheeks. He knew all. There was no deceiving.

Graham studied the contours of his wife's body, the firm, heavy breasts tipped with reddened, taut nipples. Her ivory skin lay smooth and silky, begging for his touch. A slightly rounded belly gave way to the flare of her curved hips. His breath hitched as he spied the red-gold curls hiding her womanly parts.

A becoming crimson blush, like a sunrise, crept from the horizon of her throat to her cheekbones. His breathing grew heavy and ragged. Fierce desire mingled with tender passion. Blood flooded his groin. Her lush, full mouth parted and her emerald eyes darkened with evidence of her need.

He joined her on the bed, one hand tenderly cupping her breast, the other caressing her cheek as she gazed up at him. Her hands rose, touched his face as if charting a map. He trembled.

Oh God, he wanted her so badly. Too much. He had never wanted, not since childhood. Graham had learned to relinquish, never to permit his desires and wants to rule him.

Not now. He could no more prevent his furious need than he could force a Khamsin wind to halt. He let the wind envelop him in its hot, torrid embrace as he caressed her—his wife.

Her skin was pale and luminous, white as alabaster from the ancient ones in Egypt who carved statues in homage. Graham wanted to worship her, to cover her ivory skin with adoring kisses until she writhed beneath him. Cinnamon freckles peppered her pale shoulders. Intrigued, he bent closer, studying. He had not seen them in the brothel. Laying her down, Graham brushed his lips against one, gave a delicate lick then began kissing each one of the tiny, adorable dots. Hot anticipation curled inside him as she moaned and clutched his head. Graham pulled back, driven by a need to explore her soft body.

Jillian lay outstretched like a naked sacrifice for him. He stared, enraptured. Graham placed a warm palm upon her silky skin. Very slowly, he traced a line from the deep indentation in her trembling belly down to the soft tangle of red-gold curls. With gentle reverence, he placed a kiss upon her stomach.

His hands stroked the smooth skin of her legs. She recoiled as they slipped upward to the tight clasp of her clenched thighs, delving deep within. A startled look entered her eyes and Jillian jerked away.

He soothed her with a husky murmur of masculine reassurance, then continued his exploration, kissing his way down her legs, then kneeing her thighs apart and slipping between them. Her hands rose, shaking wildly, pushing at his chest.

"We made a bargain, Jillian," he told her softly. "Remember? You will be my wife in every sense of the word."

She didn't want this—didn't want him and his dark, exotic sensuality overpowering her. But hunger ate at Jillian, teasing her to open, to accept him. The burning need in his eyes echoed her own internal ache. Her loins felt heavy and wanting.

Jillian moaned as he kissed the hollow of her neck, stroked her skin in small, delicate caresses that filled her with hot yearning. Graham lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. She whimpered, her body growing taut as his tongue rasped the hardening peak. Her hips pumped upward in nameless need.

Graham settled between her legs, pinning her wrists to the bed. His muscled torso slid across her body, his springy chest hairs caressing her aching nipples.

He entered her in a hard, quick thrust. Blunt pressure between her legs, thickening and filling. No pain this time, just this endless stretching and pushing—oh, so incredible. She pressed her hands against his sweat-slicked muscles to urge him in further. He rose above her, his nearly black gaze pinned to hers.

He began to move, quick thrusts hinting of restrained power. She felt engulfed, surrounded, as if he tried to absorb her into himself. Or push himself into her. The part of her she protected flared into light. Jillian closed her eyes, afraid to let him see her secrets flickering there.

"Open your eyes," he ordered. "I want you to see me."

Her eyes flew open as she saw him straining above her, his fingers laced through hers. The soft mattress squeaked in rhythm to his pounding thrusts, her arching hips. The dance, she thought in a heated haze of pleasure. The dance of flesh meeting flesh.

She cried out as heat flared and exploded inside her. Graham groaned deeply and gave a hoarse cry, then gave a final thrust. His hot seed spurted inside her.

Jillian lay still, curled against her new husband in the aftermath. Regret funneled through her. If only this could be real. If only she loved him and he loved her and she could confess her heart's desire. But she trusted no one.

He stroked her hair in a gentle caress. She reminded herself there was no love between them. Physical intimacy did not equal emotional intimacy. Two silent tears slid down her cheeks.

Graham pressed his lips to one, kissing the salt water. "Jillian, why are you crying?" he asked quietly.

She made no reply, trying to resist the fierce impulse to turn into his shoulder and bury her head. Worry filled his gaze, and he sat, cupping her face in his large, warm palms.

"Did I hurt you?"

Overwhelmed at his concern, she shook her head. "I'm just... a bit dazed. I'm fine."

"I feared our dance might have taxed you." He grinned.

Her chin lifted in challenge. "Never."

"Of course. You're a strong dancer." His charming expression lifted her sadness. Jillian laughed as he pulled her against him. "You, my lady, are quite capable of engaging me."

They lay quietly a while, absorbed in the silence. Jillian pillowed her head against his chest. Graham was hard, firm and muscled—so different from her soft, giving body. Rapt with fresh wonder, she slid her hand through the dark hairs dusting his thigh, relishing their silky feel. She drew in a hesitant breath, staring at the thick flesh dangling between his legs. An instrument of some pain their first time, and of deep pleasure now. She touched it. It jerked violently, and she gasped.

Graham's eyes flew open. His amused gaze met her embarrassed one. "It's all right. You won't hurt me."

Encouraged, she gave another tentative stroke. It stirred and hardened before her fascinated gaze. His husky chuckle filled the air. "The Khamsin, the tribe I... stayed with once, call it ‘the scimitar of love.' They say a woman's passage snugly fits a man's scimitar, much as a sheath caresses its sword."

Jillian sat up, frowning, peering closer at his male part. "It does not resemble a sword, Graham. Rather a very thick cucumber. Or a squash."

Dark brows quirked in apparent amusement. "Are you comparing my manhood to a vegetable, Jilly?"

"Or maybe a fruit. Perhaps a large banana."

Blood drained from his face as Graham anxiously glanced down. "A banana! Soft and spongy!" he sputtered.

"Well." She hid a smile. "It is curving to one side...."

A rough growl erupted from his chest. He rolled over, pinning her to the bed, enfolding her in his tight embrace as she laughed. A sudden hardness probed her naked thigh.

She glanced down. "Oh my. It's no longer curving...." Jillian dragged her captivated gaze up to meet his, fierce with desire.

"Not a banana, Jillian," he said thickly.

"No," she whispered as he feathered hot kisses over her flushed skin. "The Khamsin were right. Definitely a sword."

Intense triumph filled him. Jillian, his fiery redhead whose passion equaled his own. Sweat beaded his forehead. He could not resist the sweet calling of her flesh to his. He wanted her. Needed her.

In minutes, he had her beneath him again. Large green eyes, brilliant as rare jade, met his gaze. He kissed her, his tongue tracing her mouth, coaxing her lips open. Instinct pounded, demanded. He fought it, took his time, exploring her body with eagerness but not haste. Taking her nipple into his mouth he suckled the tender flesh, delighting in her little cries. Jillian undulated her hips, sending fresh heat through him.