The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (10 page)

Sweat dampened Graham's palms. His pulse quickened. The Earl of Stranton would die today. He must.

Forcing himself to take a tiny step, his eyes didn't leave the small dais.
Focus on your quarry. No emotions
. The words taught to him as a warrior echoed through his head. Graham took another step, then, out of the corner of his eye, noticed Lady Jillian standing beside his enemy. Her face was pale. Her smiling lips moved as if in a plea.

Graham hesitated. The terror shining in her eyes masked by a brave smile—oh, how he recognized it! He had seen it enough in the mirror. He knew that helpless fear of being trapped in an inescapable quandary. Bitter anger clogged his throat. No matter. The father would pay.

But her look—ah, so pitiful!

No one had taken pity on that eight-year-old boy twenty years ago. What if someone had?

The haunting possibility diverted him. Graham looked down at his elegant cuff, at the knife hidden inside. His muscles tensed for action, but his feet did not take any.

Jillian's wide-eyed look had summoned a distant memory, pulling him back....

The al-Hajid tribe had called the visiting Englishman al-Hamra—The Red. Escorted by heavily armed warriors, he had arrived at the camp to purchase one of the tribe's beautiful, sleek Arabians. The eight-year-old Graham had stared at the Englishman, the first he'd seen since his parents died two years before. Fleeting hope took wing. Surely this man, whom they said was powerful in the land of the English, could rescue him.

He hovered silently near the circle of men as they talked. No one noticed him, the small, invisible child; he was ignored by most but the warrior who kept him like a prized dog. Graham held his breath, waiting for the chance to talk.

The opportunity came—when the redheaded Englishman went walking and stumbled off to rocks in a canyon to relieve himself. Graham trailed behind. When the redheaded man finished, Graham approached.

"Please, sir, help me. I'm English, like yourself, but a prisoner. I was captured by the al-Hajid as a slave. Please, get me out of here." Speaking his native tongue for the first time in two years, his voice had cracked, filled with so much desperation and hope.

The man buttoned his trousers. "And why should I believe you or help you and risk my friendship with the al-Hajid? Do you have money?"

"No, sir." Graham had felt sinking despair. "But I promise, I will get you some when I'm in England. My family is wealthy."

"Promises from a child. No good."

Graham bit his lip. He had no money. But he had that treasure map, his most prized possession. Torn in two, there was another half.

"Wait here, please," he begged. "I have something."

Then Graham had scampered to the nearby secret hiding place he had dug in the sand. He removed one torn half of the map and returned, offering it to al-Hamra.

"It's a treasure map. Do you know hieroglyphs?"

Al-Hamra snorted. "No, why would I know the heathen writing of the ancient Egyptians?"

"I learned a little. My father... he taught me. This map leads to great riches in a pyramid."

The man studied the ancient, cracked papyrus and sniffed. "Interesting—but not enough to risk getting caught. Do you know what the al-Hajid do to enemies, boy?"

Oh, he knew. He'd seen his parents' blood flow like water upon the sands for daring to cross land the al-Hajid claimed was theirs.

"Please, sir—please, I beg you. I'll do anything." Graham fought to control his tears.

Al-Hamra stared at him. "Such a pretty boy," he said, an odd intensity lighting his green eyes. "So very pretty."

Graham had shrunk back. He had recognized that fierce, wanting gleam.

"What's your name, boy?"

A deep sense of self-preservation learned early among the savage al-Hajid had halted him from giving his real name, or his status as the Duke of Caldwell's heir. "I'm called Rashid."

"Well, Rashid. The map is nice. I'll tell you what. I'll help you escape, if you give me the map and something else."

And then the redheaded devil had invited him to a hellish dance. Horrified, he had refused—until al-Hamra slyly suggested, "What is one time with me, a fellow countryman, compared to a lifetime with your Arab master? Come now, boy. I promise, it will not take long."

And so Graham had closed his eyes and followed the man to his tent where he'd sold his soul.

Stop it! You're perfectly safe. Calm, man, calm.
Graham jerked himself out of the past with forceful effort. Sweat plastered the white silk shirt to his skin.

"Sir? Your glass."

"What?" Graham started, then stared at the white-gloved servant in total confusion.

"Your champagne glass, Your Grace. Would you like another?"

Graham glanced at the crystal, which was tipped upside down in his left fist. He took a shuddering breath.

"Yes."

He handed over the now-empty glass and took a fresh one. Gulping down the contents, hardly noticing the bubbles tickling his throat, he dimly thanked English protocol that prevented servants from asking questions of dukes who spilled champagne on their trousers.

The moment was lost, his resolve weakened. The earl would live. For now.

Graham locked his attention on the dais, trying to control the wild beating of his frantic heart. His gaze flicked to Jillian. He tried to look away from the plea in her eyes, but they called out to him, begging for help.

He tried to tell himself it mattered not. Jillian would survive. Just as he had survived. But at what price?

Graham set down the empty champagne glass on a nearby table, fisting his hands. He stared at al-Hamra. The earl was nodding and smiling as congratulations were offered to him. Watching, Graham realized a terrible truth. The earl was firmly ensconced among society's most influential and powerful leaders, Lord Huntley among them. If he shouted to the assembled crowd what Stranton had done, they'd call him mad. No one would believe. Thanks to the story Kenneth had circulated about his past, no one even knew he'd been raised by the al-Hajid. How utterly ironic that the very story fabricated to grant him respectability among his peers would be his downfall.

He had no proof of Stranton's crime. He needed proof.

The bastard was barking a syrupy speech to the crowd. Graham forced himself to listen. Good God, it sounded like political grandstanding.

"As you know, Mr. Augustine has joined me in campaigning to revive and restructure the Contagious Diseases Act. Not only will we register fallen women in our fair city, but the legislation I propose will heavily tax houses of ill-repute. The money will then be funneled into a fund to help these fallen women gain more respectful employment. The vile vices that plague our society are an affront to the flowers of virtuous English womanhood, such as my daughter here."

Graham nearly choked. Jillian's frozen smile looked ready to crack.

She had sold her virginity in one of those whorehouses. Wouldn't the earl's political influence shatter if anyone were to know? Graham smiled darkly. Yet, that wasn't enough. Stranton must suffer more than mere public humiliation. Graham wanted the bastard on his knees, begging for mercy. Begging as Graham himself had begged.

The answer came as an echo of the past, the words of the Khamsin sheikh who'd advised him as Graham took the oath of loyalty and became a Warrior of the Wind. "Know your enemy's flaws. Be as a predator studying a herd of gazelles. Disguise your scent and cloak your intentions. Learn his secret desires, then use those to weaken and defeat him. Knowledge is a far more powerful weapon than the sharpest scimitar," Jabari had said.

And Graham knew al-Hamra's weakness. But he needed to establish a trusting relationship with the earl to lure him into the right trap—a more difficult and terrifying prospect.

And once he succeeded? Stranton's family would suffer from the scandal. It would crush Jillian. If only there was a way he could protect her from the onslaught.

The answer came to him with the force of a sandstorm sweeping across the desert. Lady Jillian wanted out of a marriage she dreaded. He wanted a close connection with her father.

Surprisingly, he anticipated the solution. He would do it and damn the consequences.

Jillian sucked in a breath, imagining herself proudly addressing her father, exploding with the spirit he had ruthlessly squashed. Telling him no.

Caught up in the fantasy, she darted a glance at the man. Hard triumph shone in his gaze. Her shoulders sagged. She could not do it. Oh, she was too weak to stand up to him!

Movement in the crowd caught her eye. That tall figure in elegant black silk, striding with commanding force. The Duke of Caldwell wended his way forward, the crush parting deferentially. He halted short of the dais, his obsidian gaze sweeping them. Lord Huntley greeted him in a booming, respectful voice, and to her amazement, the duke mounted the steps and stood before the crowd, legs spread, shoulders thrown back in a proud stance.

And in a loud, authoritative voice that rang across the ballroom, he uttered words that froze her blood.

"If you truly mean what you say, Lord Stranton, then why is your daughter no longer a virgin?"

Breath caught in her throat. Oh dear God...

Bernard's jaw dropped. Her father looked comically shocked.

"How dare you insult her!" Bernard sputtered.

Graham's even gaze met hers. "Insult? I know, sir, because last night Lady Jillian and I became lovers."

Jillian stared in astonished shock. Oh God, what was he doing? Admitting such, and just after her father triumphantly announced his campaign against London's demimonde?

"Your Grace, my daughter is virtuous. I myself have safeguarded her maidenhead. Just where did this act take place?" her father asked.

The duke smiled.

Silently, Jillian begged him with her eyes
. Please, please stop. Don't tell them. No, don't tell them where you took my virginity
. If he did, she'd die of shame.

Graham saw her distraught expression. "That, sir, is a private matter between myself and the lady."

Jillian nearly collapsed with relief. But she felt her father's wrathful eyes burning into her like two hot coals.

"Jillian, what is the meaning of this?" he asked in a clipped voice.

Her lips moved in soundless protest. A humiliated flush crept up her burning throat to her cheeks. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Graham's dark gaze transfixed her.

Bernard turned with a whine. "Jillian, why is he saying such things? Tell him to stop."

But she could not.

Graham gave Jillian's betrothed a gentle, almost pitying look. "In good conscience I could not allow you to marry her under false pretenses, Mr. Augustine. The fault lies solely with myself."

Then, with a note of husky admiration in his lowered voice: "I could not resist Lady Jillian's beauty, and I seduced her."

It was an apology without actually apologizing, she realized. And she was grateful.

"Jillian, tell me he's fibbing," Bernard pleaded.

Lips that had lied before moved to agree,
Yes, he is falsely accusing me
. She opened her mouth to deny the duke's words. Jillian's lips moved to whisper, "He's... not."

A dull flush lit her fiancé's face. Bernard shot her father a look of mortified disgust. "Under the circumstances, Lord Stranton, I cannot marry your daughter."

"No, Mr. Augustine, you will not," Graham stated. "Because I am formally declaring for her hand."

Jillian stared at him in astonished shock.

Lord Huntley rubbed his mustache, looking flummoxed. "I'm quite confused. Er, which engagement am I to announce?"

"Mine," the duke said gently. "But first a few details should be worked out before any congratulations are offered."

Jillian's father's mouth worked violently. For the first time in her life, Jillian saw him at a loss for words. The duke had commandeered all the space in the room. His powerful, imposing presence made all other men look diminished. His shocking confession and daring declaration of intent had made every marriage-shy bachelor look weak-spined.