Reckless

by Shannon Drake

  He stopped her. “Dear, we don’t know what we’ll find.”

  “But I wish to find it, too!”

  “Please,” Brian said very softly. “Let us just see where it leads.”

  She sighed deeply.

  “Camille, we need you out here. What if someone comes?”

  She looked at Abdul, standing next to her, a very capable man. He grimaced at her.

  “You will come back and tell me the minute—no, the very second!—you find anything.”

  “Of course!” Brian said.

  And so Camille stayed behind.

  The two men moved slowly. Here, the walls were covered with paintings. Brian paused, lifting his lantern. Symbols streamed over the walls. Hunter followed the light, frowning as he tried to make out the patterns and translate in his head.

  And there he saw it. The hieroglyph that stood for the name Hathsheth.

  “We’re here,” he murmured.

  “The temple?” Brian asked.

  “I believe that’s what it says. Let’s keep going.”

  Ahead of them was darkness and behind them was darkness.

  Brian swore suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Another wall!” he said with a sigh.

  And it was then that they heard Camille scream their names.

  AS HE HURRIED DOWN the stairs, the man bundled his satchel of cloth tighter, likely trying to hide exactly what it was, Kat thought. On his tail, Kat followed carefully, keeping her distance, not wanting to be seen.

  He paused to give a cheery hello to someone just outside. Whom, Kat didn’t know, because she’d flattened herself against the building. As he moved on, she dared slip out of hiding again.

  He was heading for the stables.

  Again, she followed.

  His voice, once more, was level and steady. Concerned as he spoke to one of the grooms. “I must ride out myself, see what can be done, what can be found!”

  With both men busy acquiring his mount, she slipped through the door. And once they began leading his horse out, she ran hurriedly along the many stalls, looking for Alya, her mare. At last, she found her. No time for a saddle; her hands shook as she tried to put the bridle on the horse.

  He was leaving.

  She grabbed a handful of mane and leapt upon the horse’s back, heedless that she wore skirts and they now bundled less than decently around her thighs. She let the mare press open the stall door, and she ignored the groom as she rode by him.

  Outside, it was growing dark, but the lights in the busy street revealed him just up ahead. His pace was quick, but not heedless. He looked like a fine young Englishman on a mission, careful of the women and children in his way.

  And then he was out of the city, loping across the sand.

  It was dark, she could hardly see, and her own mission was quite insane. But she no longer believed that Margaret was being only held for ransom. And if she didn’t follow, the young woman well might die.

  And if I do follow, we’ll probably both die! she mocked herself. And yet…

  There was really no choice.

  ALI WAS THERE. Despite the fact that he was greatly disturbed and blamed himself, he was coherent, telling them all exactly what had happened.

  “Oh, my God, poor Margaret!” Camille breathed.

  Hunter couldn’t help but clutch Ali’s arm. “My wife…Kat?”

  “She fought with us, Sir Hunter.” He spat on the ground. “Better than the men. And she is well. Safe at the hotel. I saw her there myself. And the man, Doyle, he is fine. Your fellow, Ethan, is hurt, but there is a doctor. Others are hurt. Two men dead. And Lady Margaret, a shame that I must bear forever, taken.”

  “Ali, you fought. Men died. There is no shame in your fight,” Brian said.

  Hunter was already moving.

  “I must see Kat,” he said when Brian would have stopped him. “Ali will come with me. Tomorrow, first light, you, Abdul and the rest of the men must start searching.”

  Hunter was grateful for Ali. The man could see in the dark.

  KAT WASN’T AT ALL CERTAIN how she managed to follow the rider in the darkness. Partially, perhaps, she knew that he was retracing ground that she had already ridden that day. And, thankfully, the moon rose full and high that night, bathing the landscape with a pale glow.

  She decided, after the first few minutes, that riding bareback might be easier than with a saddle. Definitely easier than with a sidesaddle!

  Still…her legs ached. She thanked God for the little mare, who had the ability to move at an even lope, swift and never rough.

  But dear God, how hard and long he rode!

  At last they came to the dune she recalled. She dared to ride to the crest of it, but then she reined in the mare, slid off and carefully trod through the sand, leading the horse, so that she might stop and see where the man was going.

  But he had vanished into thin air.

  She hurried over the dune then, completely baffled. But then she saw it. An area with scraggly pines, dead palm fronds strewn about, and a very small, depleted water hole. Far too sad to be called an oasis.

  She hurried to the area, then desperately began pulling at the fronds. To her amazement, as she did so, a door opened in the sand.

  Ancient ingenuity? No, the door was new, wood, and the contraption had been so cleverly built that one could enter and bring the camouflage back down upon the closed door.

  She hesitated, then gave the mare a swat on the rump. “Go home, girl!” she whispered. She was far more afraid of someone suspecting her presence if he saw the horse than being caught once she was within.

  The hole gaped before her. The steps leading downward were ancient. She hesitated again. Too late to change her mind. The mare was gone.

  She started down into the black hole in the earth.

  HUNTER WAS CERTAIN THAT they reached Cairo in record time. His mount was lathered and he feared that he had nearly killed the creature, but left with the finest of grooms, he would surely survive.

  He needed to see Lord Avery, but first, Kat.

  He burst into their suite, shouting her name. No answer. Damn her! She was angry with him, and surely feeling justified now, but he was going to shake her from now until doomsday if she didn’t answer him soon.

  “Kat!”

  But tearing through the rooms, he realized that she wasn’t there.

  He crashed into Arthur in the hallway. “Sir!” Arthur exclaimed.

  “My wife…is she with you?”

  “Obviously not. No great powers of deduction needed there.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “She must be with Lord Avery.”

  “I have just left him. She is not there.”

  He was afraid he was about to do bodily harm to someone when Ali came striding tensely toward him.

  “She left! Hassam said that he saw her tearing out of the stables, bareback!”

  “What?” Hunter said, an icy hand about his heart.

  “One of the English fellows had gone to the stable, told Hassam he was going to ride out, see what he could do. He had barely left before Lady MacDonald tore out after him,” Ali explained quickly.

  Hunter looked from him to Arthur. And then, absurdly, what he’d seen earlier in Kat’s sketches suddenly clicked in his mind.

  “Which fellow?” Arthur demanded.

  “Never mind! I know!” Hunter said, and ran down the hall for the stairs, Ali on his heels.

  “Wait! I am coming, too!” Arthur thundered. “I have sailed to the ice caps, attended in the service. I am a doctor. I am strong and able!”

  “Come, then! But I’m waiting for no one!” Hunter shouted back.

  SHE WAS NO LONGER BEING kept out of the latest exploration. Her husband needed her to hold the lantern.

  “Brian, there is no more avid enthusiast than I, which is something you know very well,” she said. “But there is tomorrow!”

  He was tapping walls a
gain.

  “Have you ever just had a feeling, my dear?”

  “What?”

  “A feeling, an urge within. Call Abdul again—I’ll need help with the picks.”

  “Brian, please, what are you talking about?”

  “We need to break this wall now. Tonight!”

  She shook her head. She was worried sick herself. Not for her own safety. Abdul had set every man about the camp with a rifle, and his fellows knew how to shoot. They were prepared for trouble.

  But she felt ill. Margaret! Poor, delicate Margaret. And Lord Avery. He must surely be losing his mind. How could Brian be so obtuse?

  “Abdul!”

  The man was already there with the picks.

  She held the lantern.

  Then she wished that she was wielding one of the picks herself. She watched Brian’s face and knew that he was suffering, too. And beating up an ancient wall must have felt very good.

  “My turn!” she cried after a moment, and Abdul was forced to relinquish his tool and hold the lantern while she went to work.

  The wall began to crumble.

  THE STEPS LED DOWN to an anteroom. Sconces held burning lanterns on the walls, and when Kat first came down to the level, it was silent but bright. She quickly tried to ascertain some sort of layout for the tomb or temple and noted instantly the many giant, floor-to-ceiling pillars. Because she happened to have read the papyrus regarding Hathsheth, she knew that she was seeing his name, his sacred scarab, everywhere she looked. Other gods were depicted, but the priest himself was depicted as a god. She heard movement, the shuffle of feet, the sound of voices, and she scurried quickly to the left into a narrow hallway. It was rather ill lit, with only two lanterns, and it was a perfect place in the shadows to try to observe.

  Three men, clad in red cloaks, walked through the center where the pillars rose so high. They were heading westward along another hallway.

  She realized then that the hallway led straight west beneath the desert. There were no massive rises and falls of the sand and the dunes beneath the ground. Straight west would lead to Hunter’s encampment. How far it was, with no natural obstructions, she didn’t know.

  It would be foolish to walk straight into the open. Instead, she sidled along the narrow, dark hallway. There was a dim light at the end of it. She came upon another room. There was a door—once again, a modern addition—at the rear of the room.

  Someone in one of the red cloaks was striding up and down in front of it.

  As she stood there, debating, she heard the soft sound of sobbing.

  Margaret.

  The fellow in the red cloak paid no heed. He just kept up his pacing.

  Kat realized that she had no weapon. And she probably had very little time. But she knew that it was Margaret crying from behind the door, and she couldn’t just sneak out. She would never be able to get help in time.

  After a few seconds of pondering, she realized that the fellow in the cloak was a man of habit. Ten steps forward, ten steps back. Ten forward, ten back.

  She hesitated just a second longer, then tore back down the narrow hallway. It was still quiet. She grabbed one of the torches from its sconce and stared at it. She’d never be able to douse the flame; it had been soaked in something to keep it burning through the night.

  She raced back along the hall to the room—and kept her distance. The fellow was coming forward.

  Ten paces.

  He turned.

  She ran.

  She prayed that she had the strength to hit hard enough. Perhaps her desperate plea was heard. She slammed the torch down on the fellow’s head with all her might, and he went down.

  His cowl caught on fire. Desperately, she grabbed the flaps of his cloak and buried the flame. She turned to the door, terrified that there would be a lock—and no key. But the door wasn’t locked, only bolted. She slid the heavy wooden bolt slowly, praying that it would make no noise. There was a slight creaking sound—enough to solicit a gasp of fear from within.

  She dragged the door open, the torch high in her hand.

  It had been dark within. Margaret, apparently, had been thrown in there and simply left. She was on the floor as close to the door as she could get.

  Kat had expected to find her covered in the desert sand, a result of the fighting earlier. To her amazement, Margaret was dressed in a golden collar and chemise, sheer trousers, anklets and a headdress.

  She looked at Kat, her mouth opening to form a scream.

  “Shh!” Kat hissed. Seeing her, Margaret started to cry again. Kat lifted the torch higher, trying to assess the room where Margaret had been held.

  Her breath ceased. Her heart caught in her throat.

  Rows and rows of the dead lined niches in the walls. She remembered what she had read, and she felt ill. There were dozens of dead women here. They had not been mummified. They had been the wives of the great priest, and at his death, had been locked in here. Buried alive. They had taken their assigned pallets, lain down upon them and awaited the next life.

  Margaret turned, seeing her face. Apparently, she’d never had a look at the dark chamber where she’d been kept prisoner.

  Now she saw it all too well.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth, but not in time to stop the beginning of a terrified scream.

  Inwardly, Kat swore. We might have had a real chance!

  Too late. She had to salvage what she could.

  “Help me!” she commanded Margaret fiercely.

  She thrust the torch into the other woman’s hands and began tugging the cloak off the man who lay on the floor. Apparently, as frightened as she might have been, Margaret also had an instinct for survival. She started to help Kat, working with her free hand. She was feverish in her desperation. Kat could only imagine what she had suffered in the time elapsed.

  Kat was certain that she heard distant footsteps. “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” she urged Margaret. She got the cloak off the man and dragged the body into the mausoleum. She reached for the cloak, ready to put it on, ready to start pacing, ten forward and ten back.

  “I’ve got to shut the door again. It will only be for a minute.”

  “No!” Margaret clung to her.

  “Margaret, I’m going to pretend to be him—”

  “You can’t shut me in here, you can’t!” She was in a raw panic. Her grip was like steel. Her terror was so great that Kat realized that any urging would be useless.

  “All right,” she said, her heart sinking. “Put this cape on. Walk calmly along the hall. You’ll come to an open area and you must go up the steps at the end of it. Push when you reach the top. It’s a door.”

  “They’ll follow me.”

  “No, they won’t. Come on, I’m right in front of you, I’ll lead you to the steps, then you must go, do you understand?”

  Margaret nodded. Kat pushed her down the hall, to the stairs, and for a moment, she dared pray that they both had time to make it.

  Then she heard footsteps. Turning, she could see the men coming. She shoved Margaret. “Go, and so help me God, you figure out a way to get help!”

  Margaret was gone. Kat let out a scream and went tearing past the figures coming their way. As she had expected, they turned, anxious to capture her.

  The hall was vast. She was young and swift, but eventually, she knew, the room must come to an end.

  It did. At a wall. A high wall. And before it was a chair fit for the gods. No, not gods. A god. A god to be worshipped.

  Little did those who were seduced to pay homage here really realize that the god they worshipped was money. That hardly mattered.

  The cloaked figures were coming fast behind her. In seconds, they would be upon her. They would tackle her to the ground, if they had to.

  Kat didn’t have to be stopped. There was nowhere else to go, not from where she now stood. She simply came to a halt and stared at the seated figure, now divinely dressed, eyes done up in charcoal, gold on his chest, a staff in his hand.
<
br />   Naturally, he inclined his head and smiled.

  “Welcome, Kat.”

  The god began to laugh.

  Chapter 18

  THE FULL MOON BATHED the landscape in a glow that allowed them to follow the two sets of tracks.

  The desert, however, was ever shifting. There were several times when they had to retrace their steps, search again.

  As time ticked by, a greater fear seared Hunter’s heart. He thought of the girl, Françoise, and the fact that she had been so swiftly and brutally eliminated, just because she had…what? Failed in some way? Seen something? Threatened someone?

  Beyond a doubt, Kat was a threat.

  He began to wonder, for as he rode his mind was tormented with a never-ending swirl of thoughts and emotions, if David Turnberry was really supposed to have died the day he went off the sailboat, of if that had only been a warning. He was certain that, by the time the massive stone fell in Rome, Kat was the target.

  She must have been an amazing thorn in their sides from the moment she had dived into the river. And then, when he had come up with his plan that had so appealed to Lord Avery, they must have been incredulous and then perhaps even hopeful that it might aid their cause.

  They simply hadn’t counted on her talents. Hadn’t realized how artistic she was or how remarkable her memory.

  “The dunes!” Ali shouted.

  And there they were, caught in the moonlight.

  His pulse quickened. He had thought the full moon a godsend. Now he realized that it was a curse. For the full moon, traditionally, throughout the history of mankind, was a time of sacrifice.

  He swore softly and dismounted, searching the ground.

  The tracks continued up the dune. He followed them first with his eyes. And then he gasped.

  For a moment, he felt the breeze, the chill of night, and it was almost as if he had gone back in time. There was a woman on the crest of the dune. She was adorned in ancient costume, clad in jewels and gold, and as she lifted her arms, the cloak cast around her fell away, and she stretched out her arms to the heavens, a priestess greeting her god.

  Then she fell. And as she began to roll down the dune, he ran toward her, catching her halfway, lifting her into his arms.