The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (4 page)

"You tricked me," he said.

"I had no choice. All arrangements were made previously with Madame. I was desperate."

He moved with ruthless power onto the bed and seized her chin in one strong hand. The tender lover had vanished, replaced by a dangerous stranger whose iron grip held her captive. Her insides quivered in remembrance of those strong hands touching her with slow gentleness, rousing sweet fire. His fury frightened her, but she did not drop her gaze.

"Why were you desperate? Who are you?" he demanded.

"I needed money. I must remain anonymous. I dare not reveal my real identity."

He studied her. "You cannot hide being a well-bred lady. Do I know you?"

Jillian hoped he didn't hear the wild thudding of her heart. "Perhaps, my lord. We move in the same circles. So let us remain as we are now—two strangers sharing one night, faces in the dark. A memory best forgotten."

"Forgotten," he echoed. His gaze narrowed. "Damn it, I want to forget you. But bloody hell, I know I will not."

Then he drew her face to his and kissed her ruthlessly. His lips moved over hers, coaxing a response. Jillian released a frustrated sob and flung her arms around his neck, dragging him closer, needing his heat, his passion.

When Graham tore himself away, Jillian put a hand to her kiss-swollen mouth, longing tearing through her. How could one man make her feel this way? He aimed a look at her so piercing, it arrowed into her like a knife.

Gulping in a harsh breath, he said, "We must never see each other again." And grabbing his jacket, he whirled and left, slamming the door with such violence the hinges rattled.

Jillian was left alone, naked on the bed. A chill seized her. She was a whore.

In the Egyptian desert, he had been known as Panther, the silent cat that hunted prey alone. Never socializing with other warriors, never joining them around the crackling bonfires at night to laugh and exchange boasting tales of virility and fearlessness in battle. He'd stalked, keeping to the periphery of the fire's reddish glow, just outside the circle of men and light and warmth. Always hiding in the shadows, a nocturnal creature who hated and feared the night but ultimately could not resist it.

Like the panther, Graham was smaller than other predators but had powerful muscles that could strike an enemy with quick, killing blows. He had adapted out of a pure instinct for survival. This ability had served him well when he finally accepted his heritage and came home to England, leaving the desert, its draining heat and bitter memories, to shapeshift into the role of duke.

He'd forced himself to transform from a simple desert warrior into a sophisticated duke. Yet inside, he had not changed. He prowled the margins of a different campfire now—the glittering balls and London fetes, with their sparkling crystal and equally sparkling conversation. Smiling and nodding, he maintained an aloof yet polite presence. It had created an aura of mystery that ladies found irresistible, and it hid his inner torment, camouflaging his pain much as a thorn tree's leaves disguised a panther.

But once in a great while, his carefully cultivated composure cracked. A face seen in a crowd could cull shameful memories, and the duke would dissolve from fierce jungle cat into wounded kitten; a scared little boy trapped in Egypt, sobbing for the parents he'd seen brutally killed, who'd been dragged into the dark interior of a black tent where an evil predator had pounced upon him. A terrified child who only wanted to scream and scream...

During those times, Graham would shudder. He'd fight the childish compulsion to shriek; he'd gulp down deep, calming breaths. He'd flee to a deep place inside himself where no one would witness his shame, and would force the outside world to see only a man with a tight smile.

He had not experienced one of those episodes, outside of the usual dreams, in more than a year. Until now. Until the woman he had taken in the fierce heat of desire turned out to be his living nightmare.

The violent tremors affecting him since fleeing Madame LaFontant's had ceased. By the time the hackney cab reached his home in Mayfair, he was able to present his usual quiet control to the stiff-spined footmen attending the massive oaken door. Disappearing upstairs to his expansive rooms at the end of the long corridor, he firmly shut the door behind him. Graham shoved a trembling hand through his damp hair.

The redhead in his dreams. Emerald eyes. How could it be?

Fate
, his inner voice mocked.
She is your fate. Your destiny
. Yes, said his superstitious Egyptian upbringing. His formative years had been spent molded by tales of wicked jinn haunting the desert sands. His English side scorned such ideas and pushed the thought aside.

Striding to his dressing room, he stripped off his clothing, balling it up and tossing it onto the floor. Nude, he padded over to the adjoining water closet and splashed cold water into the basin. Graham doused his face and flung back his head, spraying droplets onto the mirror. His face, pale and drained, stared back at him.

He glanced downward and flinched at the dried scarlet on his thighs and his soft member. Her virgin's blood marked him.

With a low curse, he wetted a towel and scrubbed himself vigorously, but guilt assailed him at the thought of taking her innocence and the callous way he'd abandoned her, lying in bed, looking at him with those wide green eyes stamped with hurt. Treating her like a whore.

But she tricked me!

Graham tossed aside the towel, padded naked into his dressing room and snagged the fresh clothing his valet had laid out the previous night. He dressed quickly in a crisp white shirt with a starched collar, black and gray silk trousers, black cravat, a double-breasted charcoal gray and black vest, a gray morning coat and patent leather shoes. The gilded mirror showed a dark-haired, dark-eyed, expressionless aristocrat in proper English dress. It did not show the violent turmoil churning inside.

He went downstairs in search of food and calming routine.

The pale yellow, cheerful breakfast room was empty. On a polished sideboard, silver hot plates contained his favorite dishes. Graham selected freshly scrambled eggs, a warm muffin dripping with golden butter and four strips of crisp bacon. He sat and picked up the
London Times
lying in its accustomed place and buried himself in it.

"Tea, Your Grace?"

Graham peered around the paper at the footman. The servants knew he drank strong, bitter Arabic coffee each morning, one reminder of his Egyptian life he'd not relinquished.

"There's no more coffee?"

"I'm so very sorry, Your Grace. Your brother drank it all. Cook is sending someone to the market for more. I can go myself next door right now and borrow some if you want...."

"Never mind." Graham ducked behind his newspaper again, scanning headlines. Another aristocratic London family was auctioning off their valuables. A wealthy American named Henry Flagler had built a railroad from Jacksonville, Florida, to some godforsaken place called Biscayne Bay.

Graham devoured this second piece of news with interest. American railroads were a good investment. But the family's losses in the Baltimore & Ohio were beginning to pinch; they needed to recoup their money. Still, things weren't too terrible. He was rich enough to buy a virgin for one night of enchanting pleasure... and then wake to the horror that he'd eagerly bedded the witch of his nightmares. His fingertips trailing over her skin, soft as rose petals... His heart pounded as he remembered her throaty cries of pleasure, the searing heat as he took her.

It was just sex, he firmly admonished himself. As hot and sweet as it had been, only sex. Nothing more. Surely he'd feel the same with any other woman.

He returned his attention to the paper, forcing himself to concentrate. A clanking noise made him set down the broadsheet. Graham glanced up as the downstairs maid shuffled past, carrying a coal bucket. Her head was down. Shy and timid. He remembered Kenneth's warning about being friendly with servants and dismissed it. A civil greeting couldn't hurt.

Graham lowered his paper and watched her set the bucket down. She began to shovel coal into the grate, her head turned away like a shy bird.

He offered a brief, friendly smile. "Good morning."

The little maid stared, then a hesitant smile touched her lips. She bobbed an awkward curtsy. "Good morning, Yer Grace. I'll have yer fire all nice and cozy soon."

Fires in the summer—a necessary luxury after living in Egypt for years. He watched the delicate blue flame catch and the coals begin to glow. His thoughts turned back to this very room where he'd shared breakfast with his indulgent parents. Graham smiled, lost in memory. Raspberry tarts. He'd loved those.

"A warm tart..." he mused aloud.

He heard a gasp and, glancing over, was startled to see the maid's blue eyes widen. "Ye like tarts, Yer Grace?"

"Oh yes." He smiled, remembering. "Licking their centers, having that delicious sweetness flood your mouth..."

She moistened her lips. "Ye like to tongue tarts, Yer Grace?"

"Yes. Perhaps I should ask Cook to accommodate me."

A look of comic incredulity filled the maid's face. "Her? I can serve ye, Yer Grace. It'd be my pleasure."

And to his astounded shock, the maid set her shovel down and bustled to his side. She leaned down, pressing her ample breasts against him. "Yer Grace. Yer such a fine, strapping man, fit to warm a girl's bed. It's so cold in the attic."

Graham felt a strangled breath escape. "I'll fetch you a blanket," he said.

Her hand reached into his lap and fondled him. He gasped, but his cock gave an interested twitch.

"You like tarts. I like yer sausage," she purred. "Care for a table-ender? Right quick?"

"I beg your pardon?" he gasped. Beneath her eager, massaging hand, his cock jerked again.

"Cor, blimey—it's a big, thick sausage," she said with an admiring gaze. He didn't know whether to reprimand or thank her.

She rubbed her generous breasts against him. His body tightened, but not with the raging desire he'd experienced last night. Last night had been tender, passionate. This felt lustful, tawdry. The knowledge filled him with fresh dread. He needed to forget that redheaded witch, but his body could not.

He grabbed the maid's hands, trying to escape the hold she had on his nether parts. "There's been a misunderstanding," he said.

Firm footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor, clicking toward the breakfast room. Graham looked up as his brother appeared in the doorway. The little maid released a shocked gasp and fled, snagging her coal bucket as she ran. Kenneth's puzzled gaze followed her, then shot back to his brother. He slid into a chair next to him.

"What happened?"

"The downstairs maid... squeezed my sausage," Graham rasped.

Kenneth gave him an exasperated look. "The help? Surely you wouldn't..."

"I would not," Graham shot back, offended. "All I did was mention how much I once loved tarts...."

Kenneth stared. "Good God, Graham! Didn't I warn you about being friendly with servants? Don't you know that in street language, tart means a woman?"

Graham felt a flush flood his face. "Obviously not," he muttered. "She thought I wanted to lick her..." He buried his head in his hands and groaned. He peered out through splayed fingers. "What's a table-ender?"

"Sexual intercourse on a table."

Graham groaned again.

Kenneth grinned. "It can be quite the thing, but I wouldn't recommend it on a table with dishes. Rattles the china, you know. Speaking of, er, the topic, any news to share?"

Forcing himself to recover his composure, Graham gave his brother a level look. He drank some tea, grimacing. An Englishman he might appear, but he hated this insipid drink. Oh, for a cup of strong, bracing coffee... "Only the news that you drank all my coffee. Again."

His brother shrugged and picked up Graham's muffin, nibbling the edges. He said, "I'm an expectant father, what do you want? I'm drinking for three. Myself, Badra and the baby."

"You must store coffee like a camel stores water. And you're clearly eating for three as well," Graham admonished, snatching the muffin away and tossing it back on the blue-veined plate. "Keep eating like that and you'll grow larger than this house. Or your wife."

Kenneth lifted a mocking brow and patted his flat stomach. "Always room for more. And as for my wife—as soon as we're done with this one, we're going to have another."