The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (41 page)

A lone figure appeared hours later on the shimmering horizon. Graham urged Solomon into a gallop. Dust kicked up behind him as he pushed the protesting camel on. Reaching her, he jumped off, grabbing his goatskin bag of water. Jillian lay prone upon the burning sands. He raced to her limp form. Deep, gasping breaths rasped from her parched lips. Dehydration had set in. But they had no water.

As he stared at her lying on the ground, the wind lifted a corner of her white scarf, licking her face and teasing out a tendril of flame-gold hair. Red hair, billowing from the force of the wind whistling across the desert plain. Just like in his nightmare.

Jillian's eyes fluttered open. Those green eyes, brilliant as glossy emeralds, stared at him, not in scornful challenge but with resignation. Her eyes closed as if it were too much effort to keep them open. She was dying.

"No, no, Jilly. Don't leave me," he moaned. The harsh yellow sun grated on his body, mocking his pain.

Graham threw back his head and screamed and screamed. His screams echoed over the barren plain, disappearing into the dust.

Chapter Twenty-six

The tent he erected on the sandy plain shielded his parched wife from the yellow sun's harsh embrace. Graham knelt beside her, his throat raw. The woman he had loved in the night, who'd coaxed him into facing his darkest demons, lay on a blanket. So dry. Her pale, delicate body was so dry. Squeezing his eyes shut, he saw her desiccating like a mummy, forever preserved, the moisture squeezed out, each precious drop of life drunk by the greedy sands.

His hand touched her hips, slightly rounded. She wasn't pregnant. He thought about her carrying his child, imagined her grunting and straining and sweating to bring it forth, just as they had grunted and strained and sweated in passion.

Gently, as carefully as Badra had done with her new son, he handled her, uncovering her body, tugging the grimy dress from her shoulders, removing the loose trousers and boots. Naked, she lay upon the blanket, her skin slightly shriveled.

There was no water left. None but in his own parched body. Graham licked his cracked lips, summoning saliva. He kissed her, his slightly moist lips to her dry ones, passing on his precious fluid. Harsh, ragged breaths labored in her chest. In. Out. Barely moving. Life slipping away from her, like water into the sand.

His parched mind began seeing her body as fruit. The small, delicate breasts in their roundness were apples. He imagined the tart sweet juice running between his lips, sharing, passing on moisture to her—to refresh, to give life.

Her navel was a pitted date, easing the ache of his dry throat, soaking the cotton in his mouth, refreshing his arid body. Wetting his fingers, he touched her belly, leaving twin tracks of moisture like footprints. He was passing on his moisture to her, willing her to absorb his life. His fingertips trailed her pale skin, that freckled skin dotted here and there like strategic geographic points on a map. He delved briefly into the tangle of red curls between her thighs, tunneled to the hollow his body had eagerly sought. Dry there, too, as the hot sands. He imagined the rosette of a dewy pomegranate half, its plump moistness beckoning him to sink inside and refresh his parched body and spirit.

Graham took an empty water bag, squeezed it over her parted lips. One last droplet fell onto her mouth. He pushed it with his finger past her lips onto her tongue.

Clutching both goatskin bags, he emerged from the shallow protection of the tent into the glaring sun, the brightness hurting his eyes, threatening tears. No moisture should be wasted in the desert. He was a survivor. No tears in the desert.

Graham envisioned Jillian on the sand, its caress dry and hot upon her dying flesh, enveloping her like a lover. Her body, bleached dry and so alone, covered by sand as he had covered her body in the dark night, sand thrusting into her secret hollows, invading her sweetness, knowing her intimately, claiming her in ways he could not. He felt jealous of those hot, greedy sands. They would swallow her whole as he had always wanted to do, sinking into each cell, burrowing into her in ways he could not. Knowing her in ways he could not.

No. The sand would not claim her. "Jillian is mine," he roared. "
Mine
! I will not allow you to have her!"

The silence taunted him as the wind blew the shifting sands into his face. Words roared back, Then a sacrifice must be made.

His gaze fell on the camel lying near the tiny tent. Solomon. His friend in the desert.

I cannot. I must.

He remembered Solomon's birth, pulling the beast from its mother, naming him after the legendary king. He recalled the stubborn way Solomon resisted the harness. Taking dates from his hand. Nudging him as he slept once in the deep desert, warning him of the danger of marauders who desired to rob and slay him as he slept.

Solomon saved his life once. Now, again. Graham clutched his two empty water bags and removed his
jambiya
, stroked his thumb along the sharp edge. He approached Solomon, who raised his head weakly. Graham knelt beside the wounded camel.

Large, liquid eyes held his. Solomon lowered his head, butted it against Graham's thigh. Then he studied his master. Knowledge seemed to burn in his ageless, wise eyes.

No tears in the desert. Graham held up his knife to heaven, an offering to the hot wind, the burning yellow sun, the uncaring sands.

A short prayer and a swift stroke later, Graham held out one bag to catch the blood. Liquid was life in the desert. He drank the blood, forcing himself not to gulp. To sip slowly.

A single drop rolled down the camel's neck. Graham took his finger and captured it, bringing it to parched lips to taste.

When the blood was drained, he tied off the bag and set it down. As his Bedouin family had taught, he slit the animal's belly, found its paunch and drained the water into the second bag. Graham did all this with numb detachment, setting the liquid aside. In a few hours, it would be drinkable.

He took the bag of blood and went into the tent to bring life to his beloved.

* * *

Darkness surrounded her, dragged her down. Jillian let herself slip into it, wanting to slip away into blackness for good.

The commanding male voice had not allowed her to. It had urged her to drink the thick liquid she wanted to spit out. It kept forcing her to drink. She had drunk, fallen asleep, only to be awakened and forced to drink again.

Now a bevy of new voices rang in her ears. Distant shouts, Arabic words she didn't understand. She felt herself lifted, carried off into the scorching sun, then the blessed relief of shade. The hardness of ground was beneath her, cushioned by a thick blanket. The murmuring voices faded. Her body was an iron weight. So tired. Jillian struggled against opening her eyes.

"Shhhh," a different male voice crooned. "Drink."

Her lips parted as liquid was forced past. Jillian eagerly gulped the refreshment, then gagged on the salty-sweet taste. A firm hand closed her mouth.

"Swallow, Jilly," ordered the same deep voice that had not let her sleep, had forced her to drink earlier. A voice with authority. Jillian swallowed, then coughed.

"Good girl," it murmured. "Again."

A cool, wet cloth stroked her skin. She shivered and tried to pull away. The voice murmured reassuring words, crooned for her to remain still.

Why was she feeling so sick? Her head pounded like war drums. She just wanted to slip away and sleep forever.

"Don't you die on me," the deep voice ordered. "Don't you dare die. Not now. You're going to live. Fight it, Jilly."

The instinctive need to obey could not be pushed aside. It mandated she struggle against sinking deep into the peaceful sleep and leaving behind the pain. Deep inside, a spark flared and caught. As the cool, wet cloth caressed her naked flesh, Jillian began fighting to five.

Graham stared down at his wife as he stroked the damp cloth over her bare torso. A swath lay across her breasts and hips for modesty's sake. His anxious gaze sought Ramses.

"If you hadn't arrived..."

"But we did. Thanks to the marker she left, we knew how to find you. It saved both of you, my friend. As did your sacrificing Solomon to give her fluids," he said calmly.

Ramses raised Jillian's head again, pressing a small cup to her lips. He forced her to drink the mixture of salt and sugar that would replenish her body's fluids. Heartsick, Graham stared at her lying nearly lifeless on the blanket.

"Jilly, I love you. Don't leave me. I don't know what I'll do if you don't make it," he whispered, stroking her hair.

Jillian's eyelids fluttered. Ramses smiled. "I believe she will. She has something to live for, my friend. You."

When Ramses left the tent, Jillian tried to speak. Graham laid a finger upon her sore, cracked lips. "No, love. Don't speak." He stared in awed wonder. Life. Such a precious gift. "You have an amazing will to live, Jilly."

She struggled to speak. "For a weak Englishwoman."

Graham brushed her mouth with his. "No, not weak," he said quietly. "I knew you had it inside you—the inner strength you kept seeking. It was there all along."

"You saved me."

"You saved yourself, my Jillian. All I could do is point the way." He felt his chest compress with the awful truth. "Had you not been so strong... you would have perished long ago."

Her gaze sought his. "You... knew I'd make it?"

"I knew it," he said solemnly, stroking her forehead. He looked away for a moment. "I didn't want you with me because I knew out here, there are no secrets. I didn't want you discovering mine."

Cradling the back of her head with one hand, Graham lifted the cup to her lips. She drank, her gaze locking to his.

"I'm glad I know," she whispered. "You're free now."

Free? He didn't want to be free, not of his wife. He pushed aside the thought, concentrated on her.

"I was confident you could make the journey across the desert. You're a strong woman. You needed to believe you could do it on your own. That you could endure the worst the desert had to offer, and emerge victorious."

"You believed in me?" she whispered. "No one has ever believed in me. Father said I was a weak woman. Like all women, I needed a strong husband to lead me."

Graham's jaw tensed beneath his black beard. "No, Jillian. Not to lead you. To walk with you, not in front. To allow you to be who you are, not push you into the shadows." He paused, struggling with his pride and dignity. "To remain at your side. Please, forgive me for being such an ass and lying to you. Trust in me and let's make our marriage work."

The duke glanced down, studying the sweep of red-gold lashes feathering her pale cheeks. She made no response. There would be time enough later for her to make that choice.

And if she couldn't trust him after all? He must deal with it as he had dealt with all the other painful events in his life. But deep down, Graham knew this would hurt worst of all. He loved her.

He just prayed she felt the same.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Slowly Jillian recovered from the devastating effects of dehydration. They remained at the Khamsin camp, giving her time to fully recuperate. Graham hovered, attending to her with fervent devotion. As she recovered, Jillian felt fresh guilt. Her father was dead, but she couldn't forget the damage he'd done to her husband. How could their marriage work? Every time Graham saw her, wasn't he reminded of the horrors of his past? She didn't dare ask.

Finally they prepared to depart for Port Said. Jillian bade good-bye to her friends. Emotion overcame her as she hugged Elizabeth. She had spent several hours with the sheikh's wife, confiding in the older woman her father's shameful past, her own torment about it. Wisdom flared in Elizabeth's blue eyes.

"A man's love can help you get through your own darkness."

Jillian studied her. "I don't know..."

Elizabeth's smile faded. "I do," she whispered. Then she glanced at Jabari, her eyes shimmering. "Trust me, I'm right. And trust in Graham's strength. Give him a chance."

Doubts filled her. Could they make it work? Or would the pain of their individual pasts prove too much to overcome?

It was a quiet, uneventful journey back to England. Graham retained his distance from her, even booking separate cabins for them. He said it was to give her enough rest. Jillian suspected otherwise. Pain speared her, but she graciously smiled and thanked him for his consideration.