The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (21 page)

Slowly, so slowly this time, he entered her. Jillian wrapped her long slender legs about his narrow hips, pressing him close. He teased her with small, gentle thrusts until she whimpered and pounded at the hard muscles tensing his back. "Graham, please," she gasped, bucking.

His low laugh filled the air. He rode her hard then, his hips slamming against her, darkly triumphant at the way she sobbed and writhed beneath him. His. All his. He'd taken her, claimed her, loved her with a hot madness. He had taken away from her father a virginal daughter and turned her into a wanton creature begging him for that burning, sweet pleasure.

She screamed and clung to him as the tight wet warmth of her sheath clenched in release. Graham groaned deeply as he poured himself deep into her. Ah, God, she was his. Part of her would always be.

He rolled off, cradled her to his chest, feeling their damp skin rub against each other. It was bad, this mindless lust whipping through him. He could not resist. And if he could not resist, he would have her again. And again. Love her until she screamed and begged and sobbed. Until she craved him like opium and thought no other would suffice. Bind her to him with lust and she would not leave him.

A chill went through him as he thought of her father. That evil half grin, the cold green eyes glittering like dead stones. Not green fire like Jillian's. Graham resisted a shudder. He would avenge himself, and all else be damned.

He had not intended this, but it struck him as perfect. Taking his enemy's daughter, claiming her body and causing sweet cries to wring from her pouty mouth.

The woman in his arms stirred, her silky tresses rubbing against his bare shoulder.

Mine
, he thought
. All mine
. His hand splayed on her belly, caressing the soft skin. He had planted his seed deep inside her, twice. Perhaps she already was carrying his child. Graham felt a glow of fierce satisfaction.

Then she raised her head, regarding him sleepily. "Graham, we must talk. Please, I have something to tell you."

In her peignoir, Jillian reclined in the ducal sitting room, tightly clenching her hands. Graham had promised to return shortly to talk to her. He was downstairs, fetching a small snack.

He returned in his black velvet robe, balancing a plate of small, tawny cakes and a brandy snifter filled with white liquid. Jillian raised her brows in a questioning look.

"Milk and gingerbread," he explained, settling into a chair by the crackling fire. "Now, tell me what's troubling you."

"Graham, I want nothing but truth between us," she said earnestly. "I don't want a baby. I need to inform you I've been taking herbs to prevent conception. Considering my family is not very fertile, I doubt I shall conceive."

She expected an angry scowl. Instead, a thoughtful look entered his eyes. Graham set both plate and glass down on a small table beside the chair. "It's all right. Kenneth has a son who will remain my heir. I don't need a son right now."

Immense relief filled her
. Good. Because I also can't risk making love with you again. You'll make me lose my resolve to leave you.
"Then I need not share your bed," she ventured.

A slow smile twisted his mouth. He stood and yanked at his robe, shrugging it off. The duke resumed his seat. Naked. Oh goodness. A furious blush covered her cheeks.

"That's better. I feel more comfortable now. You were saying, Jillian, that you don't want to share my bed?" Her hungry gaze caressed the thick muscles rippling beneath his skin as he twisted to take up his glass again.

"Er, there's no need. I d-don't plan to remain with you," she stammered.

Over the rim of his snifter, his dark gaze pierced hers. "You still wish to run away after our three months are passed?"

Oh goodness, this was most peculiar. Here she was, having a serious conversation with her naked husband, a powerful and influential duke. Seeming perfectly at ease, Graham lounged in the overstuffed chair. His long legs, taut with muscle and dusted with dark hair, stretched before him on a blue ottoman. The plate brimming with gingerbread sat next to him on the spindly inlaid table. He took a small square of the dark cookie, licked it in slow, sensual strokes.

Jillian's feminine center tightened in memory.

Graham popped the cake into his mouth. He sat near the crackling fire, eating like a pampered pasha in his silken tent. His long, tapered fingers held a gingerbread square out to her.

Jillian stared as if he offered forbidden fruit. Shook her head. The duke tossed it up and caught it between his teeth.

A delicate shiver wracked her in memory: his teeth, ever so softly biting her nipple...

Remaining here was fraught with hazards. The longer she stayed, the more Graham lured her with his sensual snare. An inner sense warned if she didn't leave, heartache would follow.

"You want to run away from me, Jillian?" he repeated. The statement uttered in flat tones startled her. She felt as if he could see into the darkest part of her.

"Leave. Not run away," she corrected.

"You're not running away from me, Jilly." The endearing way he said her name in his smooth, silky tone made her quiver. He swirled his milk as if it were the finest brandy. "You're running away from yourself."

"I beg your pardon?"

Graham quirked a dark brow. "There's no reason to beg anything from me. We're husband and wife now. Stop this formality as if you're addressing royalty."

"Don't be silly. Usually when I address royalty, said royalty is wearing a bit more clothing. Or should I call you your naked grace?"

His loud, deep laughter rang out in the room. Amused, too, she smiled. Graham sipped his milk. "You're so delightful. Were you ever like this at home?"

Her mirth slipped away. "No."

His gaze dropped to her hands, which were clenched tightly in her lap. Graham set his snifter down. "Jilly, there's no reason to be afraid. I'm your husband now. Was it always difficult at home?"

The sheer gentleness of his tone nearly undid her. Jillian sucked in a breath. But he could not understand.

"My life was the typical English girl's upbringing."

"I see. Dancing lessons, embroidery, how to host a perfectly delightful tea, be a perfect model of decorum— and on that perfectly dreadful wedding night, your mother tells you to lie back and think of England."

Startled, she quirked a smile. "That's so odd, you saying that. It sounds so... English."

Unsmiling, he studied her. "And I'm not English."

"You're like some forbidden exotic land, calling to me."

"My tutors would faint in disgrace if they heard you, what with all their attempts to groom me for the duchy after my return from Egypt. What spoils it—the accent?"

"No. It's just an air about you of standing apart." She pointed out, "Most dukes don't drink milk from a brandy snifter."

"Or sit about perfectly naked conversing with their wives."

A furious blush ignited her cheeks. Jillian squirmed in her rigid chair. The rich satin caressed her naked bottom, reminding her of Graham's hands. She changed topics. "You mentioned tutors. Did you attend school in Egypt?"

Graham studied his snifter, swirling the milk. "The education I received there wasn't up to English standards. I've always wanted to attend Oxford or Cambridge, like my peers. I suppose I have a great thirst for a standard education that I never satisfied. No time or opportunity."

His confession touched her. "You could go to school now."

"There are too many other duties requiring my attention. No time. Perhaps one day I shall. But I digress. Back to my original thought. You're determined to leave, no matter what. But is it me, or something else?"

For a moment she wanted to confess her secret dream. But would he understand, or condemn her for sharing his longing for education?

"Graham, this marriage was... arranged under the most peculiar conditions. I appreciate you feeling honor bound to marry me. But do you truly wish to remain my husband?"

His two dark brows drew together. "Why do you ask that?"

Her lip trembled. "You'll grow bored with me and take a mistress. Many husbands do in these marriages. It happens. I'm not a fool, nor ignorant of the fact."

He studied her intently. She tried not to let her fascinated gaze drift down the smooth, warm skin of his arms, across the dark nest of hair on his chest, lower to the rippling muscles in his flat stomach to his... Her breath caught in her throat. Goodness, he was—

Graham caught her gaze. A sensual smile touched his lips. "Although we just finished making love, I already desire you. I will not grow bored with you,
habiba
."

She seized on the term. "What does
habiba
mean?"

"It's Arabic for beloved. An endearment. But you didn't answer my question. Is it me you wish to run from?"

His dark gaze demanded truth. Jillian rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand. She shook her head.

"You're safe from him here," he said gently.

Nowhere is safe from my father's reach except America
, she thought.

"You can't run away from what you really are."

The words stirred ancient memories. Jillian felt deeply disturbed and didn't know why. "I can try," she whispered.

Graham abruptly left his seat and walked over to her. Warmth surrounded her in the form of his strong arms. "Jilly, don't run from me," he murmured. "Don't."

He clasped her face in his warm hands and lifted it. His lips touched hers.

He tasted slightly of ginger. She closed her eyes and gave in to the sensual strokes of his tongue. Demanding more, subtle caresses—every silken flick coaxed a response. Jillian surrendered and joined in the dance, sucking on his tongue with such terror it was as if she were drowning and only he could rescue her.

Or imprison her in his sensual embrace.

She jerked away, trembling violently.

"Jillian," he said quietly. "Look at me."

She shook her head. He turned her to face him. "Why are you so afraid of me?" he asked in his softest voice.

"I'm not," she managed.

She wasn't fearful of her husband; she feared what he could do to her.
You could make me fall in love with you and trap me here.

Morning broke, washing the large bedchamber in a ghostly gray dawn. Graham slipped from his bed, glancing at his sleeping wife. Spending all night in her arms had chased away his nightmares. He dressed, pressed a kiss to her forehead and went downstairs.

Rising early was a habit learned from years of dawn prayers with the al-Hajid. He could not break it now.

To his surprise, Kenneth sat in the gloomy quiet of the breakfast room. His brother studied him.

"I didn't think you'd awaken this early."

He shrugged. "Old habits."

Graham sank onto a chair, watching Kenneth. Something was bothering his brother, who did not meet his gaze. Instead, he drummed his fingers on the table.

"Actually, I was hoping to catch you before everyone else awoke. I've discovered something. I didn't want to ruin your wedding, but it's time you know. I paid a visit to our accountant last week, and he finally gave me the full statement of our finances that you asked him to tally. The losses we had from the B&O Railroad, and others... The news isn't good."

Kenneth slid a paper across the table to him. Graham slowly read it, a sick feeling gathering in his stomach. He pushed it aside, his gaze meeting his worried brother's. "But this means we are..."

"Nearly broke," Kenneth finished. "All our investments failed. We're on the edge of financial ruin."

Chapter Twelve

Graham stared at Kenneth, feeling sick.

How could this happen? He must have money. The Yorkshire estate badly needed repairs. He had a small battalion of tenant fanners who had done poorly in the last harvest. To compensate, he'd planned to breed Arabians, using Prometheus to breed with new mares he had purchased from the Khamsin tribe.

And of course his plan to ruin Stranton needed funds. For a wild moment he wanted to run back to the harsh sands of Egypt, to being Rashid, the Bedouin warrior who ruthlessly cut down enemies with a sword. But this was England. The only weapons that mattered were money and power. And without money, he had no real power.