The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (42 page)

Now she stood quietly in her husband's London study, watching as he pored over paperwork at his satinwood desk. He scribbled in bold, masculine handwriting on an official-looking document. Graham tore the paper out and handed it to her.

Jillian took it, her eyes never leaving his. "What's this?"

"I had two of my Arabian mares sold at auction. They fetched enough money to provide a small living for my family."

"Oh, Graham—the horses." She knew how much he loved those horses. He gave a dismissive wave.

"One must make choices. They will be well-treated."

A gasp fled her lips as she stared at the amount. "A bank draft for one thousand pounds?"

"For you. Enough to purchase passage to America and attend college. Enough to pursue your dreams of attending school." His expression remained impartial, but dark torment swirled in his velvet brown gaze. "It's your choice. You know everything about me now. You'll always know that..." His fists clenched. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he stared out the window. "You'll always be aware of my past, and what your father did to me. It's not an easy thing to live with, and I understand if you choose to leave. If you do leave, I will not try to stop you. You can run as far as you like, if that is what you truly want."

Torn by indecision, she stared at him, the check gripped in her fingertips. "Do you want me to leave?"

Graham looked directly at her. "No. You can leave me, Jilly, but in the end you can't hide from the truth. It will not change a thing. And neither will my love for you. Try as hard as you like, it will follow you. My love will not change. It's a fact you can't escape, even across the Atlantic." Then he resumed his impartial look. "It's your choice."

He stood and pushed back from the desk "I will await your answer in the drawing room."

The bold letters on the bank draft stood out in stark relief. A violent trembling seized Jillian's hand. The paper fluttered as if caught in a windstorm. Money. Enough to achieve her dearest dream. Education. A new life, far from the tawdry scandal dogging her footsteps. Far from Graham.

Whether her marriage would fail or not, did she truly wish to leave the man she loved?

Pacing the length of the drawing room, Graham fought the tumult of emotions rushing through him. Dimly he felt grateful Kenneth and his family hadn't arrived back from Yorkshire. He needed to be alone to gather his composure if Jillian left.

"Graham? I'm ready to give you my answer."

He jerked his gaze to the doorway. Jillian stood there, her long, curly red hair falling softly about her shoulders. A forest-green day gown draped her lush figure, matching her sparkling green eyes. His desperate gaze hungrily drank in the fight sprinkling of amber freckles across her cheeks, her rose-petal soft lips. One last look—he'd have one last look before she left him.

Graham watched cautiously as she held up his check. Pieces fluttered in the air as she ripped it to shreds.

He didn't dare stir, fearing it was a dream and he'd awaken. "You're not leaving me? Despite everything?"

Her emerald gaze briefly mirrored his past torment. She hung her head, staring at the carpet. "Only if you truly want me. I love you so much it hurts. Every time I think of what my father did to you, I feel guilty and ashamed of myself, but..."

Stricken, he approached. Putting a hand beneath her chin, he tilted it upwards, forcing her to look at him. "It's not your fault, Jilly."

"But he was my father," she whispered. "How can you not look at me and see him?"

Graham cupped her cheek. He wasn't Stranton's only victim. "How,
habiba
? Because I love you. When I look at you, you're all I see. The beautiful, warm flame that lit the darkness inside me and allowed me to leave behind my past." A single crystalline tear spilled down her cheek, splashing hot wetness onto his hand.

"Can we get over this, Graham?"

"You never get over it," he said somberly. "You get through it. And you go on. It's possible, Jilly. Will you try with me?"

A tremulous smile touched her lips. "In Egypt, I received some wise advice from a smart woman. She told me a man's love can help a woman heal from her own darkness. All I had before was gray shadows. I didn't even wish to acknowledge what deep inside I knew was true. Now I need to push on. But I need you by my side."

Graham clasped her hands. "I can't promise it will be perfect. I'm not perfect. But I'll try."

"I don't need a perfect husband or a perfect marriage. I just need your love."

"That's perfect enough for me," he said softly.

He crooked a finger. Jillian went to him and he enfolded her in a tight embrace, then tipped her face up. A feeling so intense, so powerful, overcame him and he wanted to shout for joy. He kissed her gently then and she responded, deepened the kiss. His now. Forever. This redheaded witch had turned into his beautiful angel.

A delicate cough drew them apart. They glanced at the doorway and a red-faced butler. "Er, begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you have a caller."

"Blast it," Graham muttered. "Can't we be alone?"

The butler ushered in Jillian's aunt. Jillian beamed and ran toward her. Graham hung back, uneasy. He hadn't killed Mary's brother, but would she find him responsible anyway?

"I'm so happy you're back," the woman said, lifting her frail, rice-powdered cheek for a kiss.

Jillian's somber gaze met Graham's. "I'm afraid I have rather horrid news, Aunt Mary. Father is dead."

No emotion flickered over her aunt's face as Jillian slowly relayed the tale, leaving out the more lurid details. When she finished, Mary sighed. "At least he's at peace now."

Tension fled Graham. He studied his wife's aunt, wondering uneasily about her reaction. It was almost as if she knew what her brother had been.

Her aunt showed no grief at Father's death. Bemused, Jillian watched Mary wave a hand, as if to brush aside the news.

"Now, the reason for my visit. I heard of your financial circumstances, Jillian. I need to hand over your money."

"But I don't have any money," Jillian protested.

Mary offered a serene smile. "Mr. H.M. Pepperton does." As she stared, her aunt explained. "Jillian, when my Horace died, I longed to return to England. But your father was a spendthrift. I was afraid he'd mismanage my money, so I told him I had very little. That wasn't exactly true.

"Every time you gave me advice about what Mr. Pepperton should do with his finances, I passed it along to my solicitors. Some of the results are sitting in an account for you, my dear. You are the child Horace and I never had."

Jillian blushed. "Why did... why did you tell me to go to Madame LaFontant to sell myself if I had money?"

A twinkle sparked in Mary's eyes. "Not just sell yourself to anyone, but to the duke. Catherine, the brothel's owner, is a friend. When she told me about how the duke was searching for an articulate, pretty virgin, I immediately thought of you. I'd met him at the Knightsbridges', was charmed with his directness and warmth, and knew you two were perfect for each other."

Graham stared. "She told me she was discreet!"

"My dear duke," Mary said with mirth, "you should know nothing is discreet in a brothel."

"Why are we perfect for each other?" he asked. Jillian felt him reach for her hand. His fingers laced about hers.

Sorrow etched her face. "Because you both had that same haunted look. Years ago, I overheard our father arguing with Reggie. Papa had caught him with... one of the stable boys. Totally classless, Papa shouted. Reggie had laughed and said he did the same to an English boy in Egypt who was clearly an aristocrat. The boy was being held captive by a hostile tribe. Papa was horrified. He'd said the boy could be one of the Duke of Caldwell's missing grandsons. Reggie had said the boy only endured what he himself had in childhood. And then I knew..."

Graham fell silent. Sweat coated his hand where it rested in hers. Jillian gave his palm a reassuring squeeze.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, for all my brother made you suffer."

"Graham," he corrected quietly. "Please call me Graham. We're relatives now. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Mary nodded. "Now, about Jillian's inheritance—"

"Keep it for my wife to draw upon as she needs in college."

Jillian stared, not daring to believe. "Did you..."

"I sent my secretary to someone knowledgeable about which English colleges are open to women. He tracked down Emily Davies, a suffragist. She recommended University College."

Fresh hope filled her as she regarded his tender smile. "Then you must take the rest of the money, Graham."

Two stubborn lines furrowed his brow. He shook his head. "It's your money, Jilly. We'll manage, somehow."

Mary looked thoughtful. "Your Grace—er, I mean, Graham—I understand you're quite an expert on horseflesh. I have two Arabian mares, recently purchased from your stables, but would like to breed them."

"You bought my horses?" Understanding dawned on his face. "Ah, I see. Mr. H. M. Pepperton did."

"Good horses, too. I understand you have a fine stallion with blooded lines. What would you say to joining forces and entering into a business together in breeding Arabians? I'll be your financial backer," Mary proposed.

"Only if you take twenty percent of the profits. I don't want charity, even from family."

"Fifteen," she shot back.

"Twenty-five," he countered.

"Twenty, with the stipulation Jillian reinvests the funds."

They shook hands. Mary smiled. "Well, I'm pushing off as soon as I visit my solicitor and have him send you a bank draft. I'm taking your mother to America for a visit, Jillian. I haven't seen her so animated in years."

"Aunt Mary, one question. How did you become friends with a brothel madame?" Jillian asked, deeply curious.

Mischief sparked in her aunt's dark eyes. "For her to find me male companionship, my dear. I may be old, but I'm not dead."

Then her aunt swept out of the room, chuckling.

"The last word, as always." Jillian shook her head. "Male companionship!"

Heat flared in Graham's gaze. "I'm quite ready for some female companionship. Would you care to engage me in a dance?"

She tugged at his hand. Laughing, they sped up the stairs toward his bedchamber. Graham closed the door with a firm click, locking it. Heat flared in his eyes as they undressed and tumbled onto the bed. He showered her with tiny, hot kisses. She clung to him, arching as he entered her.

"Look at me, Jilly," he said softy. "Look at me."

She had seen passion, tenderness, stark male possessiveness, but always it seemed something was missing from his gaze. As if a protective shutter dropped, a barrier preventing her from seeing inside him. Now Jillian looked up into her husband's face and found what had been missing.

Graham made love to his wife with exquisite tenderness, and they wrapped around each other in a desperate attempt to become one. He held nothing back. Every raw emotion was clearly expressed, from awed wonder to heated desire.

They shattered together in a blinding explosion of heat. For a long moment he lay atop her, gasping as she pulled him closer, then he rolled off. He pulled her to his side, needing to feel her softness. He relished her heat, her proximity. Truly now, he had found what had been missing.

Jillian gazed into Graham's eyes, heavy-lidded with satisfaction. A soft smile quirked her mouth. "We should send a thank-you note to Madame LaFontant for bringing us together," she mused. "I knew you were special from our first moment alone. When you handed me those roses and gazed into my eyes, it was like..."

"Destiny. One red rose and one white rose," he said softly. "I didn't know then what the colors meant I do now."

"What my love?"

"The red stands for passion and love. The white for purity and innocence. Combined, they symbolize our differences and unity."

His lips were warm and firm against hers as she surrendered to his kiss. How perfect. He had chosen well, her husband. Two roses, two innocents, bound together. United in past torment. Unified now, in love.

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