Scandalous Lovers

by Diana Ballew

  With that, Pharaoh turned toward his own suite.

  “Glorious Pharaoh, I greet you,” Sitiah cooed as she stepped between Menkhepere and the open window behind her, allowing the light to outline her sinuous form through her fine linen gown. The white fabric displayed the dark place at the junction of her thighs, and he needed no prompting to understand that the provocativeness of her costume was a deliberate ploy. Her face was garishly painted, and her wig had been soaked in pungent musky oils, reminding him of the temple whores he’d visited in his youth. He had to work hard to suppress the groan of revulsion that threatened to rise up his throat. Would the woman never give him peace?

  Menkhepere gave her a bored look. “You wished to speak with me, Sitiah?”

  With a slow sweep, she allowed her hand to trail down her body as she approached. “Please, Majesty, sit and rest a while.” She motioned to a long divan, arrayed with lavishly beaded cushions; alongside sat a small table bearing a jug of wine and two golden goblets. “I’ve had the servants bring you the very best wine.

  “We have not spoken since you returned from the campaign against the Retennu.” She reclined on the end of the divan, allowing her skirts to expose one shapely leg.

  Although he moved closer, he did not deign to sit. Nor did he intend to sample the wine or anything else she offered.

  “I have little time for leisure, Sitiah. Please state your grievance.”

  Leaning back against the cushions, she let the shoulder of her gown slip until she was almost bared to the waist. Her rouged nipple seemed to swell toward him. “Surely, Majesty, you can take a small moment to renew yourself.” She lifted a goblet and sipped. “The wine is very good.”

  “I beg pardon, Sitiah, but time is urgent. I must be at the temple very soon.”

  As he made to step away, Sitiah darted forward, splaying a hand over his groin, shaping him beneath the stiff linen. “But Majesty,” she murmured sweetly, “would it not be a great portent if you could embark on your coming campaign knowing another royal son would welcome your return?”

  He took a step backward to escape the reach of her grasping hands. “Woman — I do not wish to offend, but I have no time to attend to the begetting of further sons. Amuse yourself however you will until I return from the northern territories.”

  She stood and advanced until her body brushed against his. Again she trailed her fingertips across his groin. “But Majesty, what of your duty to your kingdom? Sons will make Egypt strong, and unlike your other women, I can give you pleasure as befits a living god.”

  With more patience than he felt, Menkhepere removed her busy fingers. “Sitiah — you overstep. It is Pharaoh’s choice as to when, or if, he wishes to lie with any of his concubines. I have given you my answer. Do not seek me again, unless there is a real purpose. If I choose to come to you, I will inform you, otherwise, content yourself in your luxury. I care not what else you do.” He turned to leave just as a servant entered.

  “What is it?” Sitiah snapped at the poor girl, who immediately sank to the floor before her king.

  Keeping her forehead against the stone floor, the girl said, “Vizier Rekhmire awaits outside, Lady. He wishes to speak with Mighty Pharaoh — he said his message is urgent.”

  Menkhepere turned to look at the woman to whom he’d been bound for several years. He knew little about her, and the more he did know, the more he disliked her. Her face had become a mask of anger as she stared at the poor servant on the floor between them.

  “I bid you farewell, Sitiah. The forces of Kmt leave for the north very soon. We will perhaps meet again, when I return. Until then, keep yourself well.”

  After her king swept from the chamber, Sitiah threw her goblet with all her might, straight at the poor girl on the floor; the girl’s outraged squeal of pain the only satisfying event of the afternoon so far.

  “Well, Majesty,” she murmured under her breath, “you have just sealed the fate of many. If you are lucky, I will keep you as my plaything after they make me great wife. Like Hatshepsut, I will rule in my declining husband’s place — and become the greatest leader this land has ever known.”

  She glared down at the quivering girl, too frightened to move despite the cut that oozed blood across the floor. “Go!” she screeched at the girl. “And have someone come and clean this mess. You have defiled my chamber.”

  The girl fled and Sitiah smiled with self-satisfied glee. She relished seeing fear in the eyes of those beneath her. The uncertainty of their lives made them so eager to please.

  When a young boy of barely fifteen harvests, a eunuch, entered with damp cloths to clean the mess, she deliberately exposed her breast and fondled it right before his eyes. She knew he tried not to watch, but couldn’t help himself. She lay back and slowly stretched, writhing sensuously and making little groans of pleasure as he finished his task.

  “Will there be anything more, Mistress?” he asked meekly, his head bowed low, his eyes darting everywhere but at his mistress.

  “Yes. The wine spilled here on the divan, also. Come and clean it.”

  The boy glanced up, visibly appalled. The stain was alongside his mistress’ exposed thigh.

  “Quickly,” she ordered, wriggling slightly to allow him a better view of her upper thigh. She watched his face as he approached, delighting in his terrified expression. She knew that the closer he got, the more he saw. He knelt and tentatively dabbed at the stain. His hand shook as he came perilously close to brushing her leg. He had a pretty young face — such a shame he’d been cut; still, she thought mischievously, a eunuch had his uses. She took the other goblet of wine and slowly dribbled a splash down her belly and between her thighs. The boy’s hand froze.

  “Oh, dear,” she tsk-tsked as she parted her gown and exposed herself completely. “I seem to be very clumsy. Clean it off, eunuch. Perhaps you’d be better served using your mouth.” She parted her legs and poured another trickle over her hairless genitals.

  All color drained from the boy’s face, and Sitiah nearly shouted in triumph. “Mistress—?” he began, but she cut him off with a sharp slap to the cheek.

  “I said, clean off the spilled wine.” Taking his earlobe between her sharp nails, Sitiah drew him down until his mouth touched the place she wanted. She closed her eyes as his tongue darted out to begin its work.

  “Yes, like that,” she sighed as his wet tongue penetrated her swelling folds. “Clean off every drop.”

  Chapter 7

  “Will there be anything further, Majesty?” Rekhmire asked. It had grown late, and the meeting with the ambassador from Nubia had gone longer than expected. But the talks had yielded much, and the ambassador left with a commitment that if his people gave control of one of their gold mines to Egypt, Pharaoh would halve the grain tribute exacted. Grain wasn’t an issue since the tribute from Megiddo currently filled the granaries to overflowing.

  Menkhepere looked across at his vizier and closest friend, if indeed friendship was ever possible for Pharaoh. The light from the lamps showed the tiredness in the man’s face, and he often wondered if Rekhmire was as weighed down by the affairs of state as he seemed.

  “No — nothing more. Seek your rest.”

  Rekhmire nodded and headed for the passage that led to his own rooms.

  Fingering the small square of linen cloth he’d kept tucked in his belt all evening, Menkhepere called the vizier back. “Please send in the most trusted guard on duty. I need him to take a message to the queen’s rooms.”

  Rekhmire drew his brows together, but did as asked before bidding his king a safe night.

  “Alia.” Something touched her shoulder. She batted it away.

  “Alia, wake up.”

  Eyes flying open, Alia sprang upright to see Ineni standing beside her pallet. “Ineni? — what is wrong? Has something happened to Queen Neferure?”

  He held a finger to his lips and motioned for her to follow him outside the room. Clutching a shawl around her, she trailed behind until they st
ood in the lamp-lit corridor beyond the chambers where the queen’s retinue slept.

  “What has happened?” she asked again, fearfully.

  Ineni held the small square of linen under her nose. “Do you recognize this, Alia?”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  A soldier came to stand beside her, and Ineni handed the square to him. “This soldier said if I showed you the cloth, you would know what it means and follow him. Is this true, Alia?”

  “Yes, Ineni,” she whispered.

  Ineni addressed himself to the soldier. “Where are you taking her? Is this some treason you plan?”

  “The cloth was given to my hand by Pharaoh, steward. Our glorious king wishes that I take the woman to him.”

  Woman? Alia thought. She’d never before thought of herself as anything but a girl. Yet, she supposed if this summons meant what she knew it did, she would soon become a woman, in every sense of the word.

  “What say you, Alia? Is this token from our king?”

  “Yes, Ineni. I painted the cloth myself — Pharaoh sent it so I would know it was he who summoned me.”

  Ineni’s regard became incredibly compassionate for a moment. “Is it your choice to follow this soldier? If not, say it now, and I will send a return message to Pharaoh on your behalf.”

  She smiled. “That will not be necessary, Ineni. I thank you for your concern, but I will go.”

  “That is well. May Isis bless you.” With a nod, Ineni withdrew, leaving her in the soldier’s care.

  “Come, Mistress. We must make haste and have care. Follow me.”

  The soldier took her to Menkhepere’s apartments by a very circuitous route, a path she doubted she could attempt to retrace, even in daylight. By the time they arrived outside Pharaoh’s private audience chamber, Alia was completely confused.

  Two guards allowed them to pass before again blocking the entrance with long spears and axes. Her whole body trembled — not because of the guards, but because of what lay beyond.

  Beyond was a destiny that she knew would change her life forever.

  The soldier bowed before her and pointed down the short hall to a chamber lit by lamps that smelled faintly of tallow and fragrant oils. Like a condemned man, she moved slowly down the hall on shaky legs, stopping in the doorway to take a deep breath and steady her nerves before she crept inside.

  He was staring straight at her — Alia could feel it.

  Her gaze darted around the room until they came to rest on her Pharaoh, cloaked in shadow. A shiver arced up her spine as his needy expression called to her as loudly as if he’d cried out her name. Yet he didn’t move closer.

  They both stood immobile for long moments, unable to break the trance of silent communication.

  For once he wore no paint on his face. He appeared younger, almost vulnerable. Glossy black hair hung about his shoulders, loosely framing his strong features. His kilt was plain white and unadorned, except for its golden belt. All the jewelry and adornments he wore as Pharaoh were missing and somehow, he seemed less forbidding stripped of his regalia.

  “You came,” he whispered.

  She took a step forward, into the lamplight. “I promised to answer your summons, Majesty.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Say my name.”

  It was a command she couldn’t ignore. “Menkhepere.”

  Advancing half a pace, he too stood within the circle of light. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “A promise is a promise.” She gave him a hesitant smile before her feet seemed to move of their own volition, propelling her forward until they stood only an arm’s span apart.

  “Yes, it is.”

  As he closed the remaining distance that separated them, he reached out his hand to brush her smooth cheek. “But I would have understood if you changed your mind. Danger already stalks us, and if our enemies learn that you are my lover, your life is threatened all the more. It is selfish of me to want you for my own, so I give you leave to go back to the queen’s suite—” he turned away as if unwilling to watch her go, “—if that is your choice.”

  Alia’s hand trembled as she tentatively placed it on his shoulder. He turned back and searched her face for her answer.

  “From the first time I tended your table, I belonged to you body and soul. I know, only too well, the danger,” she replied, then gave a half-hearted chuckle, though she knew it wouldn’t convince him that she wasn’t afraid, “but I trust you and the gods to keep us both safe.”

  Placing his hand over hers, he grasped it tightly, then drew it up to his lips and lightly caressed each fingertip with his lower lip.

  Fire raced along her arm and down her body until it pooled in her belly. All the air left her lungs in a rush, and her legs became so weak she feared they would buckle at any second. She had no idea her fingers could be the source of such heat. Her face and neck warmed, and she knew she blushed furiously. She gazed up into her Pharaoh’s eyes and realized he was greatly pleased by her reaction.

  He took her in his arms, and she suddenly felt the strength of his arousal. Alia tensed, her eyes flicking upwards in alarm — would he ravage her as those soldiers had ravaged their captives on the way to Thebes? Or like Nany?

  Menkhepere saw the instant the fear sprang into her eyes. Her guileless innocence betrayed her every thought to him. He wondered whether his soldiers had been speaking the truth when they vowed she’d been untouched on her journey to Thebes. If they’d lied, he would soon know.

  “Do not be afraid, sweet one, I promise you will never know harm by my hand,” he murmured as he lowered his lips to taste hers. And for the first time he allowed himself to truly taste her, without restraint, without carefully maintaining his awareness of everything around them for fear of being observed by unfriendly eyes. More than once he’d speculated whether the attack on Alia was the result of their being spied upon in the hall, last time he’d given in to temptation and kissed her.

  Careful not to frighten her, he slid his tongue along the seam of her lips to delicately part them for his entrance. A little at a time, he ventured deeper, coaxing a response, feeling her tension ease as her lips swelled beneath his. When, at last, he felt her begin to melt in his arms and open fully to him, he couldn’t prevent the growl of satisfaction that erupted deep in his throat. The sensation of heat, of absolute pleasure and fulfillment, just from that one kiss, was almost enough to send him over the edge.

  He broke the kiss and looked down into her face, amazed by her innocent expression of rapture. Dreamily, she lifted her lids and her eyes seemed to plunge inside his soul, connecting with it and binding her within his heart forever. It left him light-headed and tingly as if he’d drunk too much wine — yet at the time, he felt sharper and more alert than he’d ever been, even before battle when his mind was so attuned to the task ahead.

  “Come,” he took both her hands and led her toward a long, raised pallet, covered with gossamer-fine linens and scattered with blue lotus petals. Larger than any bed she’d ever seen, it filled half the chamber. Exotic scents flowed around her like a cloud of heaven.

  Keeping hold of one of her hands, he said with a sweeping gesture, “I bid you welcome to my sanctuary.”

  Alia studied the small room with fascination. Beyond the pallet, a scene from a goose hunt by the river, in rich greens, blues, and browns, covered the wall. Menkhepere, surrounded on either side by tall reeds of papyrus, stood poised on the prow of a boat with his spear held aloft, ready to make the kill. Birds flew about him and lesser warriors flanked the central scene. The image was so vivid, even in lamplight, that she stared in mute wonder. Although she’d seen many beautiful paintings since she’d come to Thebes, this was the most colorful. Every tiny detail was exact, every bird, every feather, every reed—perfect. Her Pharaoh seemed to leap from the wall in his magnificence, and she knew that the artists who had made this wall felt great affection for their king because his life essence shone outward.

  “It is very beauti
ful,” she ventured, awestruck.

  “If you think that, then it is very fitting that you are here. You are the most beautiful flower in my kingdom.”

  Alia turned sharply. Did he make fun of her?

  She realized the instant she glanced up at his earnest expression, the soulful welcome in his shining eyes, that his words were spoken in absolute sincerity. She felt her cheeks warm as she considered what she’d done to deserve such honor from a living god. A shiver of delight darted through her midriff, sending a moist warmth to heat all her dark places.

  Still holding her hand, he brought it to his chest and pressed her palm over his rapidly beating heart. Entranced by the intensity of his stare, she felt her own pulse fall into rhythm with his as if they’d become one body, one blood. Not a single muscle of his face moved, yet his eyes smiled, silently acknowledging the connection.

  “Will you share yourself with me, my flower?” His words were so quiet she barely heard them, yet they flowed through her like a plea.

  “Of course,” she murmured in return, “I am already yours.”

  Removing first her shawl, then the fine tie that held her gown to her shoulder, he let the pale cloth fall at his feet, leaving her naked before him. Her breasts rose in greeting and he skimmed first one, then the other, with his palm.

  She whimpered. His touch was so gentle it almost hurt — an exquisite agony. Every pore, every nerve seemed to want to cry out.

  “Please,” she whispered, though what she asked for, she didn’t quite know.

  Menkhepere’s lower lip curved into a broad smile. “Yes, my flower, I will please you, that I vow.” Taking the hand he’d held over his heart, he slowly skimmed it downward over his heated skin until it came to rest over the hardness beneath his kilt.