Lord of the Desert

by Nina Bruhns

  Her last thought was of her sisters. Please don’t let them take this too hard….

  Then she collapsed, right into the arms of the stranger.

  Chapter 4

  The fire is laid, the fire shines;

  The incense is laid on the fire

  Your perfume comes to me; May my perfume come to you.

  May I be with you; May you be with me.

  —Pyramid Text 269

  The priestess Nephtys rested her chin in her hands and her elbows on the well-worn rim of her favorite scrying basin, which she’d long ago named the Eye of Horus. Two hands deep and wide as the god’s shoulders, the large round bowl had been fashioned in ancient times from a single piece of the finest golden amber and polished to satin smoothness. It carried a slight fragrance of ambergris. Thus it was pleasing to the senses as well as being unfailingly honest in the visions it produced. The Eye of Horus had yet to be wrong, regardless of how depressing or uncomfortable the glimpses it brought to Nephtys of the future. Or, indeed, of the present.

  Wistfully, she gazed down into the sparkling clear water that rippled gently in the bowl as though the god himself blew softly across its surface.

  Would she see him today? The man she loved. The man who had traded her away without a second thought… Because at the time she’d been a lowly slave, unworthy of the high priest’s serious attentions. A quick sip of her blood, a thorough fucking, then instantly forgotten. A sensual curiosity, no more, mainly due to her snow-white skin and exotic head of wavy red hair, which he’d loved to spread across his fine linen pillow. But to her, even then he’d been every inch the demigod he was destined to become. Black-haired and black-eyed, he nevertheless had skin that glowed with the burnished gold of the sun he so faithfully served. His robes were woven in the hues of sunrise, glittering with strands of golden threads that shot through the fabric. He was truly worthy of awe, and as a captive in his household she had fallen in love with him the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. Still a virgin, she’d given herself to him more than willingly, always yearning for his touch, his glance, his regard. Never daring to hope for his heart, which she knew she would never possess. But she had not expected to be discarded quite so callously. Ceded to his greatest enemy without a backward glance.

  And that, more than anything else, had spurred her ambition, compelling her to rise in station, to become the most powerful priestess in the land. And now, she was the only one who possessed the secret of shifting the flesh of man to beast.

  Oh, how that must chagrin the heartless bastard! Certainly, it had caused his endless attempts over the centuries since to rectify his massive error in judgment by capturing her back. But her adopted brother, Seth, guarded her carefully, sparing no expense or effort in keeping her safely out of enemy hands.

  Her brother was her greatest joy.

  Since that crushing day so many years ago, she had rarely allowed herself to seek her former lover’s image in the magic waters of her scrying bowl. Who needed the painful reminder of her maidenly folly? Even five millennia later, it still stung. And her heart still yearned for…that which her pride would never countenance.

  Sometimes his image appeared in the waters of its own volition, giving her a glimpse into his life, usually more disturbing than helpful. But it had been ages now. Which was a good thing. For whenever his image appeared, trouble invariably followed. For her brother, Seth-Aziz, for Khepesh, but most of all for herself…and her foolish, foolish heart.

  This morning as she gazed into the bowl, the water clouded and the ripples started to swirl. A vision was being formed. She sat up and paid close attention. Abruptly, the water cleared.

  In its depths, she saw the rows of silver, papyrus-shaped columns of the inner temple. Khepesh’s holy of holies. A ceremony was taking place, and she recognized the extravagant trappings of the annual Ritual of Transformation. Seth-Aziz was there, of course, leading the proceedings. A woman stood before him. To her surprise, Nephtys saw that she was a foreigner, like herself, but younger and blond. She was dressed in the gorgeous, embroidered stole that marked her as belonging to the High Priest of Khepesh. Her eyes were heavily made-up, her lips the color of pomegranates.

  The demigod’s blood sacrifice.

  The woman appeared singularly unhappy. And frightened out of her wits.

  Then she looked up and her green eyes flared with hope—along with something that looked a lot like… love. And Seth returned her look of adoration.

  Nephtys peered closer into the bowl, overjoyed. Finally, her brother would find a woman worthy of his love and devotion! Could this be the woman who would become Seth-Aziz’s consort, destined to sit at his side for the rest of her existence, sharing her body with him, as well as her life’s blood?

  The vision abruptly cut to the future. Yes! The woman had become Seth’s consort. The demigod and his bride—appearing somewhat older now without her elaborate makeup—were seated in raised chairs in the audience chamber, holding hands affectionately.

  But the consort was speaking to a crowd of shouting, terrified followers. Something bad was about to befall the palace. Amazingly, when she spoke the people quieted and listened to her, and their agitation calmed visibly.

  The high priest’s future consort was obviously a very wise woman, destined to gain the respect of her husband’s flock. Though what advice she was giving, and toward what end, only time would tell. The visions allowed Nephtys to see, but not to hear what was going on, so she could only guess at what was happening. But it looked grim for Khepesh. Such anxiety among the people could only mean one thing.

  War.

  Nephtys’s stomach sank.

  Seth-Aziz had but one enemy left. And that enemy had only one reason to wage war upon her brother.

  Nephtys herself.

  A shiver went through her, sending tingles of forbidden joy through her flesh. Secretly, in her heart of hearts, a bud of unwilling exhilaration unfurled.

  Soon, Haru-Re, high priest to Re-Horakhti, Keeper of the Sun, Guardian of the Day, and betrayer of her own heart, would be here.

  Her lover was coming for her again. And this time she feared—and prayed—he would succeed.

  Rhys gathered the unconscious woman in his arms. He’d been debating whether he should carry her directly into the palace as a captive, as Seth had urged, or first make an attempt to convert her as a willing initiate of the god, as his own conscience dictated. Not to mention his lust.

  On the one hand, time was short. But Rhys abhorred the idea of shabtis, as the human servants were called, who were as good as slaves. And there was plenty to entice a woman to give herself over to the god and immortality by choice. Even in the early years when one was confined to the palace, despite its perpetual dimness of nighttime, life at Khepesh was filled with sensual delights and challenges for both mind and body. If not for the wretched threats of war with Haru-Re, it would truly be paradise on earth.

  The delicate scent of the woman he carried wove around his senses, tugging at his nether regions. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman. His duties had kept him too busy of late. Standing here in the dark, the soft and vulnerable feminine flesh laid out across his arms was a vivid reminder of what he’d been missing. Soon, he hoped, the situation would be remedied.

  Unless Seth decided to keep her beyond the Ritual of Transformation ceremony. Rhys just hoped he’d be able to keep his hands off her long enough to talk Seth into gifting her to him. The ceremony was less than a week away. He could hold out until then.

  Cradling her head against his shoulder to protect her from scraping against the stone walls, he held her body close to his and ducked out through the tomb opening, blinking back the blinding sunlight as he slid through the needle’s eye in the rock cliff. And was greeted by a sharp shout from below.

  “Hey! What are you doing with her?”

  A very angry woman rushed up at him, rocks and gravel flying as she scrambled. A second woman took a stance stock-still at the bo
ttom of the slope… aiming a rifle at his head.

  “Put her down!” the woman holding the rifle ordered him with cold fierceness. Apparently, she was very sure of her aim. If Rhys hadn’t known he could easily deflect her earthly bullets, he might actually be worried.

  “You must be the sisters,” he called, readjusting the woman’s weight in his arms. She moaned and turned her cheek against his throat, sliding her own arm around his neck to cling to him. The intimate gesture made the sisters’ eyes widen. The one coming at him with raised fists halted in her tracks, staring, giving him exactly the opportunity he needed.

  He gathered his immortal powers and sent out a wave of forgetfulness to engulf them both. Not enough to render them unconscious, as he had the woman while in the tomb, but enough to blank their minds and open them to his control. Slowly the fists and rifle dropped harmlessly to their sides.

  “You will forget you ever saw me here, or your sister,” he commanded. “When we are gone, you will proceed as though this meeting never happened.”

  They stood like statues, their eyes unseeing, hanging on his every word.

  “When she contacts you, you will believe I am not a danger. You will not be alarmed, nor take any action to stop her when she says she intends to stay with me. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” they both chanted softly.

  Satisfied they would obey, he effortlessly swung the woman around onto his back, twining her arms securely about his neck. With a whirl of his cloak and a swirling of sand in the air, he again recited the magic words that would transform him to al Fahl.

  Then, securing his precious cargo on his back with a tethering spell, he reared up and took off at a fast gallop. He’d made up his mind. He would take her to his desert estate.

  And there he would work a different kind of magic on her….

  Gillian slowly became aware of lying on something silky and sumptuous and very large. A bed? Certainly not her own narrow bed back at the villa she and her sisters were renting for the season. She stirred, feeling cool satin sheets slide beneath her body. And realized her shirt and boots had been removed, leaving her barefoot, wearing just her trousers and a cotton camisole.

  Where was she?

  And what on earth had happened to her?

  “Ah, you’re back with me at last,” a deep, masculine voice murmured from the undulating brink of consciousness.

  Her eyes fluttered open.

  A man sat on the bed, looking down at her.

  Tall and muscular, he had black hair and a striking black mustache in an arrestingly handsome face. But it was his eyes that really commanded her attention. Piercing, amber eyes ringed with black and flecked with gold, they watched her with calm, deadly concentration. The gaze of a predator observing his prey…

  A tremble sifted through her whole body. It was…him. The man from the tomb. She knew it down to her still-shaking knees. She wanted to tear her gaze away from those mesmerizing eyes. But couldn’t. Couldn’t, because along with being terrifying, she also found the dark stranger… incredibly attractive.

  “Where am I?” she managed, unable to stop herself from surreptitiously brushing her throat with her fingers, foolishly checking for bites.

  He smiled, revealing a hint of straight white teeth. “My estate. You fainted in the tomb. Lucky I was there to catch you,” he said in his cultured British accent.

  She swallowed, positive it was because he’d been there that she’d fainted. If that’s what had happened. She had the oddest feeling that he’d some how deliberately caused her blackout. Though she couldn’t imagine how.

  “Yes, lucky,” she said, closing her eyes against a shiver. He’d caught her in his arms. Touched her. And carried her off to his house.

  An involuntary frisson zinged through her insides as she suddenly remembered her lack of a shirt. God knew what else he’d done….

  “Shall I call a doctor to make sure you’re okay?” he asked, interrupting her alarming thoughts.

  “No.” Gillian sat up. “I’m fine. Really. A few sips of water, and—”

  “You’re very warm. It might be sunstroke,” he warned. “We should try to bring down your body temperature.”

  Too bad the way he was looking at her had the opposite effect. Which, under the circumstances, was pure insanity.

  “Sunstroke? Inside a tomb?”

  He ignored her pointed comment. “Perhaps you’d like to take a cooling bath?” he suggested.

  She blinked, her nervousness shifting into a completely different sort. Her heartbeat kicked up. “I really don’t think—”

  Rising, he indicated a door next to a lavish built-in wardrobe. “You should find everything you need in the bathroom, through here. I’ll send someone with a change of clothes for you.” He turned to leave the room.

  “Wait,” she said. Had she been wrong about him? She could have sworn she’d seen something hidden, something…dangerous…in the stranger’s eyes. Or was she imagining it all? “You never told me who you are.”

  His smile did a mysterious curl at the corner of his lips. “You don’t remember?”

  She tried to dredge her mind, but it was like peering through layers of fog. “Sorry, no. I’m Gillian Haliday, by the way,” she added, her pulse pounding.

  “Gillian. What a lovely name. Very nice to meet you, Miss Haliday. I’m Rhys. Rhys Kilpatrick.”

  She literally felt the blood drain from her face as the fog dissolved and a flash of disturbing memories came flooding back. Of their meeting in the tomb.

  Oh, God.

  The bizarre inscription. The voice in the darkness. His voice.

  The voice of a dead man.

  Chapter 5

  My heart remembers how I once loved you,

  As I sit with my hair half done,

  And then I’m out looking for you,

  Searching for you with my hair half done!

  —Song of the Birdcatcher’s Daughter

  “Who are you really?”

  Indeed. How much to tell her?

  Before answering Gillian’s curt demand, Rhys finished uncorking a bottle of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé and poured them each a generous portion in his best crystal goblets. Then he turned to his houseguest.

  She stood under the onion-domed archway to the salon, regarding him suspiciously. He had long since shed his keffiyeh and agal, and his black outer cloak, but was still wearing the traditional black riding pants and tunic favored by the Bedouin. A somewhat sinister look, judging by the hint of fear lurking in her eyes.

  Moments ago she’d slammed and locked the bedroom door after him, that same fear shading her whole face because he’d allowed her to remember. But now her expression had turned determined, if a little uneasy. Brave woman. He was impressed.

  Her ivory skin was still damp from splashing water on her face and neck in the sink. She hadn’t trusted him enough to take the recommended bath. Not that he blamed her.

  Wisps of blond hair curled in wet ringlets around her temples, and her large, troubled green eyes peered at him from a face that was lovely despite its lack of makeup. A coil of desire wound through his body.

  “Wine?” he offered, noting with displeasure that she was not wearing the dress he’d had his housekeeper lay out for her. Of the finest faience-blue silk, he’d chosen it especially to complement her delicate coloring. And her attractive curves.

  On the plus side, her thin camisole stretched quite pleasingly over her full breasts. A fair compensation.

  She took a step forward, hesitation in the movement. “Please, just answer the question.”

  “I told you. I’m Rhys Kilpatrick.”

  “Lieutenant Rhys Kilpatrick died a hundred twenty-five years ago.”

  “Yes, he did,” he agreed, somewhat truthfully.

  “Well, then?”

  He met her accusing gaze. Briefly considered bespelling her again to avoid her questions. Discarded the idea. No, he’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.

  Well. Most
ly.

  “What exactly are you accusing me of being?” He chuckled. “A ghost, or…a vampire, perhaps?” He glanced meaningfully through the windows at the blazing sun.

  Her cheeks flushed. “How about a con man?”

  He hiked a brow. “You think I’m lying? To what end?” he asked, curious as to her train of thought.

  “How about a fortune? Playing the long-lost relative to a wealthy English viscount could prove very lucrative to someone smart enough to pull it off.”

  He pursed his lips, again impressed. She was dead wrong, but it was a very intelligent guess, nonetheless. “Believe me,” he said drily, “the last thing I want is for the Kilpatrick family to learn of my existence. I must insist you swear you’ll never mention me to anyone even remotely connected with them. In fact, anyone at all.”

  That drove her into a moment’s silence. “Why?” she finally asked, reluctantly accepting the glass of wine from him.

  “Unnecessary complications. I like my life here in Egypt and would deeply resent any attempt to alter it. Which would inevitably happen if the truth came out.”

  “What truth?”

  “That I am living proof Rhys Kilpatrick did not die as reported.”

  “I see.”

  No, she didn’t. But she would soon enough.

  “Are you his direct descendent?” she asked, her mistrust fading to fascinated speculation.

  “As direct as it gets,” he said.

  She took a thoughtful sip of wine, momentarily distracting him with the shape of her lips. Elegantly curved, lushly plump. Lips made for—

  “So, they are all valid, then.”

  He jerked his gaze up. “What’s that?”

  “The rumors the family wants to disprove. About the lieutenant’s desertion from the army. That he had joined some kind of bizarre Egyptian cult and—” Suddenly she gasped, her eyes going wide. “Oh, my God. The tomb inscription! That’s what it was all about!”