The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (5 page)

Graham shook his head. "Give the poor woman a rest, man, in between filling all those empty nursery rooms upstairs," he advised. A fond smile touched his mouth, then he glanced at the ceiling, frowning. "How is Badra? She hasn't been down for meals in two days. Is she well?"

He knew his brother well enough by now to discern the worry darkening Kenneth's eyes. "Tired. Fretting. The doctor said the baby should be here any day. She's ready. More than ready." He blew out a breath. "So am I."

Graham felt awkward. He sensed Kenneth's anxiety, but didn't know how to offer reassurance. "She'll be fine," he said crisply.

"I know she will. Enough of this." He stretched his legs and tapped fingers on the white lace tablecloth. "How did you fare last night?"

The question, asked casually, masked Kenneth's anxiousness, but Graham knew it was there. He leaned back with a rueful smile, remembering the act. "I fared... quite well."

Delight shone in his brother's eyes. Graham felt a deep wave of affection. This brother he'd only just begun to know this past year. This brother he'd once considered an enemy. This brother he'd never see again once the deed was done and he swung from the gallows....

Kenneth gave a great shout and slapped him on the back. "I knew it! Congratulations." Then he looked around hastily and reddened. "Sorry. So tell me, did everything go as planned? No mishaps?"

His smile slipped as Graham fisted his hands and said, "Just one or two. She had red hair. Green eyes. Like the nightmare."

Kenneth looked shocked. "Damn it!"

Graham nodded. "She—the woman—was wearing a wig. And in the dim light, the color of her eyes was difficult to discern."

"I'm sorry, Graham. I didn't—"

"Why should you apologize? If not for you pushing me into this..." He shrugged. "The goal was accomplished, and most pleasantly, I might add. Of course, I woke this morning and realized I'd been duped."

His brother's glance was sharp. "You slept there?"

"All night." Graham sighed. "All night through," he said significantly.

Kenneth's eyes widened to saucers. "No nightmares?"

"None."

Kenneth clung to the topic like a puppy with a bone. "Perhaps... It sounds like she's the answer to your dreams," he suggested, studying Graham.

Graham snorted derisively. "My worst nightmare?"

"Graham, there's a reason why things happen the way they do. I believe it. And you do as well. Destiny."

Graham started to protest, then stopped, staring at his plate. Both he and his brother, raised in separate Egyptian tribes when their parents were murdered during a caravan attack, held fast to their superstitious Bedouin upbringing. They could no more erase that than they could change their English genes.

"You're still attending the Huntley's ball tonight?"

"Yes," Graham said quietly. "Social obligations."

"Well, you've trained enough. You almost sound completely English again. You eat like an Englishman—you even waltz far better than I. No one can tell you were raised in Egypt. And heaven knows you're as stiff-spined as an Englishman," Kenneth joked.

When Graham was reunited with Kenneth last year in Egypt, he had agreed to return to England with him, his new wife, Badra, and her daughter, Jasmine. They'd gone to the family estate in Yorkshire. From there, Kenneth circulated an elaborate story about Graham's past to make his acceptance back into society more secure. In the quiet countryside, Graham studied English mannerisms, etiquette and lost most of his Egyptian accent. The first few balls and parties in London this past month had proven successful. But waltzing with debutantes was far easier than dancing with the devil of his nightmares....

Kenneth's blue eyes were sharp. "You think he will be there, now that the Season has fully arrived—that redheaded nobleman... what did you say the al-Hajid called him? Al-Hamra?"

"Yes. The red one. I have other names for him."

"He might not be there tonight."

"The entire ton attends the Huntley's' fete. I'm certain he'll be there. He lives in London, Kenneth. I'm positive it was him I saw last year in the square."

Last year, before he'd set aside the life of an Egyptian warrior and revealed his true heritage, Graham had visited London. While walking in the park he saw a redheaded nobleman he felt certain was al-Hamra. Unable to stomach the idea of facing his tormentor, he had fled in shaky panic back to Egypt, where he'd remained hidden, vowing never to return to England. It had taken a great deal of encouragement from Kenneth and Badra to coax him back. He had too much shame, too much fear.

Now that he'd returned and begun relearning the English life, his shame had slowly dissolved into bitter anger. Al-Hamra must be stopped from preying on other desperate, helpless children. And an idea had suddenly crystallized, like a caul lifting from his face. He'd seen the installation of himself as duke with fresh purpose: to mingle at the balls of his first Season, and then reveal his past...

"Graham, all the
ton
thinks you were raised by an eccentric, doting English couple who traveled throughout Arabia. Besides, you were only eight years old when he... when... you know. He couldn't possibly recognize you."

Graham lifted his tormented gaze to his brother. "I'm not worried about him recognizing me. I'm worried that..."

He'd nearly slipped. He compressed his lips.

His brother leaned forward, his look compassionate. "Are you worried you'll run away like you did before?"

The words were not intended as an insult, but Graham felt their piercing sting. "I'm not worried I'll run. This time, I'm worried that once I recognize him… He gave a smile as chilled as he felt. "I'll kill him."

* * *

She had always been a good girl. Proper, quiet and polite.
Yes, Father
. No outward temper. Spine straight, molded by her father's will. A ghost of herself. A red brick wall hiding silent fire. Inside, how she burned and raged. Never outside. Never.

Jillian tapped her morning egg with the knife edge, hard quick taps like a chick trying to break free from the shell.

There were always hard-boiled eggs at Lord Stranton's household, because her father wanted only hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. One day, she promised herself, she'd have eggs scrambled. Perhaps with a dash of pepper tossed in, and hard cheese. She'd taken a far greater step toward freedom last night.

The Earl of Stranton grunted as he whacked his egg with neat, precise strokes. His shock of red hair going gray was balding, and he had a body that was razor thin and a pasty complexion. His brilliant green eyes were like her own. And they missed nothing. Jillian felt her pulse quicken with dread. Could he know what she'd done?

She thought of the money earned, carefully hidden in her room. So much money, all for a night of passion in a stranger's arms. A stranger she could not forget.

Her jaw clenched and she stared with nausea at her egg. In tiny bites, she began to eat. Jillian thought of the loose board upstairs in her room hiding other secrets. Soon she'd be in America. Adventure. College. Life. That dreadful finishing school Father had insisted would mold her into a model wife for a rich aristocrat had only whetted her appetite for learning.

Surely in America someone would listen to her thoughts, be respectful. In this house, Jillian felt like furniture covered in Holland sheets—preserved under drapings of civility until her father could marry her off to the highest bidder.

She tried filling the uncomfortable silence with talk: "I understand that the Americans built a rail through Florida, Father. Mr. Flagler ended the line at some dreadful swampland they call Miami. It's fascinating how they continue to expand. Do you think any development will follow?"

Silence still. One might as well talk to the wallpaper. Jillian tried again, pushing back an ache in her throat. Her father never listened.

"Mr. Dow in America has created a fascinating new standard called the Dow Jones Industrial Average. I do think the American depression will end soon, with their presidential election. Father, do you think diversity is an important factor in maintaining one's finances? Aunt Mary says if her husband had diversified his American investments more, she'd not be in such dire financial straits."

Now he did turn and look, his piercing gaze homing in on her. Silence hung in the air once more, razor sharp and deadly. Jillian shrank back.

"Yes, your aunt Mary. Jillian, you failed to ask me permission to spend the night at her house. When I returned last night and your mother told me, I was very upset."

The lie she'd told her mother, using her favorite aunt as an alibi, was about to meet its reckoning. Jillian gathered her courage and boldly met his look. "I'm twenty-two, Father, and not a child. Surely I may be allowed out for a night now and then."

There! She'd done it. Her palms grew clammy as she fisted them in her lap. The deed was done. She felt both exhilarated and fearful. Never before had she spoken back.

Lord Stranton set his coffee cup down very carefully and placed both hands upon the table. He smiled at his wife from across the endlessly long table. But Jillian knew that smile; the Earl of Stranton never raised his voice. He only gave a chilling smile that struck terror into her bones.

Jillian's frantic gaze whipped to her mother, who blanched. Oh, dear God, no, please...

"Sylvia, you've been neglecting that rose garden you claim to love so much, as you've neglected controlling our child in my absence. The bushes are quite overgrown and thorny. Disciplined pruning is necessary for growing anything, be it a garden or a willful child. Isn't it, my dear?"

"Please, Reginald." Her mother's voice quavered.

Lord Stranton beckoned to the attending footman. "James, fetch the pruning shears. Take all the downstairs staff with you to the garden. I want every single rosebush cut down. Immediately. To the roots."

She could not allow her mother to take her punishment. Ignoring her racing pulse, Jillian forced herself to speak. "Father, please—it's my fault. I should have told you. Don't blame Mother. She had nothing to do with it."

The earl focused his attention on the footman. "Immediately, James. Cut them all down. And burn them."

"Yes, my lord," the footman responded.

A lump rose in Jillian's throat as she watched the servant march out of the breakfast room. Her mother lowered her gaze to the table, but not before Jillian saw a faint glimmer of tears. Yet Lady Stranton would not allow her husband to see them.

Familiar bleakness filled Jillian. She concentrated on eating, but could not push back her anger and fear. Darkness pressed behind her eyelids. The old nightmare bobbed to the surface. A door quietly closing, a key turning in a lock, a low cry of pain...

Jillian bit her lip, willing away the darkness. She must keep that door closed forever. She didn't want to know what secrets lay behind it.

"Now, Jillian, your schedule. I'm freeing you from your usual visits this afternoon. I want you primped and polished for the Huntley's ball tonight. And for Mr. Augustine." Her father regarded her mildly over the rim of his coffee cup, but there was no mistaking the iron will in that tone. This was an order, stated as precisely as by a military commander.

"Yes, Father, I will be at the Huntley's ball tonight."

"Good. Mr. Augustine has formally asked for your hand, and I have accepted. I told him I will announce your betrothal tonight."

Jillian's mouth went dry. Something inside her cried out.
Tell him you cannot marry Bernard! Say no, just for once!
The linen napkin crumpled in her sweaty palms. She moved her lips, then heard herself saying in a small voice:

"Yes, Father."

Revulsion clutched her stomach. She stared at her egg, the cracked shell. She was not a silent fire roaring inside. She was an egg, whose fragile outer shell hid even greater softness. So weak. Oh, so very weak.

This is why I have to leave.

It was too late for her mother. Jillian glanced at the silent countess, aching at the purple shadows beneath the woman's large blue eyes, the hollows in her cheeks. Jillian could not bear to leave her, yet Aunt Mary promised she would be watched over. Her father's sister, who'd encouraged Jillian to seek out Madame LaFontant to earn the money she needed to flee. They had worked out the arrangements together, waiting for the time when the earl would be gone from his house on one of the excursions he took to settle matters at his estate in Derbyshire.