Journey to the Lost Tomb (Rowan and Ella Book 2)

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

After they had eaten and Ella could tell that the light had gone from the sky, she was encouraged that they’d been provided with blankets. You don’t keep your victims warm if you intend to slit their throats, surely? It did occur to her that the same logic didn’t apply if you intended to gang rape them a few hundred times before dawn but she put that thought out of her head. The fact was, she was helpless to stop whatever was heading their way.

  It happened a few minutes after she dozed off, nestled with Julia on the floor of the tent. More than the sound of his entrance, Ella was awakened by the smell of him—strong, rank, gamey. Before she had a chance to understand what was happening, Ammon reached down and grabbed Julia by both arms and tossed her over his shoulder. He looked briefly at Ella, almost longingly, before turning and disappearing into the night. When she ran after him, a pair of strong arms outside the tent prevented her. She stood shivering in the night, watching Ammon under the full moon stride purposefully to his own tent.

  Within moments she heard a long scream that seemed to go on and on. The guard at her tent giggled and then squatted down to finish a plate of fried goat.

  Ella stood a moment longer, her heart breaking for her friend. But there were no more sounds that night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shepheards Hotel, Cairo

  The Viscount Digby stretched out his legs in the lounge chair of the opulent lobby and flapped an old copy of the London Times to straighten the creases. He and Abdullah had arrived the day before. Immediately after checking into his room at the hotel, Digby sent a wire to Lord Haversham in London breaking the terrible news to him that his daughter was lost in the desert and presumed dead. He followed this unfortunate news with a statement of immediate need for 10,000 pounds sterling to be wired to the British Embassy in Cairo to aid in funding the continued search for Lady Digby or her remains.

  He and Lord Haversham had not gotten on well, Digby mused. To say the least. The old man had railed against the idea of the abrupt engagement and the no less hurried wedding. Digby shook his head. The old fool had actually suggested that Julia might be in the family way. In fact, in order to completely remove every remaining obstacle to the union, Digby had subtly confirmed that that was precisely the case. Haversham wouldn’t have allowed it any other way. Julia—foolish little romantic that she was—wouldn’t have known Digby’s background of gambling debts and frequent occasions of public mischance but there was little doubt old Haversham didn’t. As much as he loathed the man, Digby found himself at least a little relieved not to have to deliver the news of his daughter’s demise in person. The old tosser was unbalanced. Who knew what he was capable of?

  Digby frowned at the thought of Julia. It was all so sloppy. While he was reasonably sure she wouldn’t just pop up unscathed from the desert at some point in the future, he would have vastly preferred more certainty in her death. Every time he suggested to Abdullah what needed to be done, he felt the big Egyptian became implacable and obtuse. Which was quite odd because normally the man had no trouble understanding him precisely.

  Perhaps he was squeamish about killing a white woman? That was undoubtedly to his credit, Digby decided. She was white, after all. But damned inconvenient all the same.

  As he folded up his newspaper before going in search of a decent cup of tea, his attention was drawn to a cadre of late arrivals in the Shepheards lobby. Flanked by two footmen who were followed by the setpiece of two lady’s maids, a woman with the most elegant carriage and beguiling manner Digby had ever seen glided into the grand hall. Dressed in a formal traveling suit which formed perfectly to her not unsubstantial curves, the woman turned her head from the bank of wide sprawling stairs directly before her to look at Digby.

  His breath caught in his chest at her beauty. Her eyes, a sparkling shade of violet, inspected him with what looked like amused indifference and he found himself believing that she had just taken the measure of him. And approved. He stood and bowed and she returned the gesture with a faint smile and a tiny nod before sweeping past him and up the stairs with her entourage. He walked quickly to the hotel desk and snapped his fingers to attract the attention of the attendant.

  “Yes sir?” the elderly Egyptian responded. He smiled perfunctorily, but his dark eyes were hooded and unreadable.

  “That party who just came in,” Digby said. “I believe I am to meet them later. Can you confirm to me that they are who I believe them to be?”

  The Egyptian looked in the direction that the party had vanished. “That would be the Duchess Bowerman.”

  Digby made a snort of impatience and dug out a twenty-pound Egyptian note which he pushed across the counter to the man.

  “The widow Duchess Lydia Bowerman,” the hotel clerk said. “Recently of Yorkshire. Traveling alone in search of treasure.” The clerk palmed the note on the counter. “Will that be all, sir?”

  Digby turned away without answering. He walked back to his chair and stared up at the now vacant staircase. He had, of course, heard of Lady Bowerman. Her husband, the Duke of Birmingham had been killed in a hunting accident the year before. She was childless. Mid-thirties, ripe, voluptuous. And rich.

  Howard Carter’s Camp, the Valley of the Kings

  The note was brief. It hadn’t been necessary to write more. Its message was clear. Carter held it in his hand as he sat in the rudely constructed foreman’s shack on the perimeter of KV62. He stared out at the throng of men and boys running before him in a circular track of motion and endeavor. On the table in front of him was the funeral vase they had unearthed that morning. The name on the side read Nebkheperura.

  Spenser stood at his side.

  “And you know nothing of who this man is?” Carter asked him, still focused on the frenetic scene before him.

  “He’s American. Says he’s the husband of Miss Stevens. He came up on the boat with Marvel Newton.”

  “The American treasure hunter.” Carter glanced at Spenser. “What do you think?”

  Spenser hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on his heels before he answered. “I think his bedroll was found with a valuable artifact in it while he was doing everything he could to beat it outta here as fast as he could.”

  “And he gave you this sealed note this morning.”

  “To give to you, yeah.”

  “But you think he is a thief.”

  “All signs point to it.”

  Carter looked down at the note again. It read, If you haven’t found Tut’s funeral vase yet, maybe we should talk. “Not all signs,” he said.

  Rowan wasn’t surprised when Spenser came into his tent that afternoon and dismissed the guard. He knew that if his note made it to Carter something would happen. He had spent the long day planning how he would play it. Finally, he decided he would tell Carter he had psychic powers. Rowan remembered from a History Channel show that psychics and mediums were big in the 1920’s. No other explanation would make sense for why he knew the things he did. Besides, he figured Carter lived and worked in a world of superstition and focus on life after death. Even if he couldn’t understand exactly how Rowan knew the things he did, it might buy Rowan his freedom long enough to resume his search for Ella.

  “I don’t know what that note said,” Spenser said, “but your presence is requested at dinner tonight. If you try to run, I feel pretty good about putting a bullet in your back.”

  “Thanks for the heads up,” Rowan said dryly.

  When he approached the outdoor dining table in the center of the camp that evening, Howard Carter was already there. It was clearly just the two of them for dinner. Rowan could see his note on the table.

  Carter stood up and shook his hand. “Good evening, Mr. Pierce. You appear to know a little about my work.”

  Yeah, thank you Discovery Channel, Rowan thought, seating himself at the table. “I didn’t know how receptive you’d be to what I know,” Rowan said.

  “If it pertains to my endeavor, you’ll find me surprisingly open to all sources of credible information
.” Carter narrowed his eyes at Rowan over his wine glass. “May I ask how you knew about the funeral vase? I only discovered it this morning.”

  Talk about cutting it close, Rowan thought. “As it happens, I know a great many things about your particular endeavor. Archaeology is a hobby of mine.”

  “You and every other American I have ever met.”

  “That may be true but I think you’ll find my knowledge of archaeology rather more extensive than the average amateur archeologist.”

  “Really? Are you a scholar in the subject, Mr. Pierce?”

  “You might say that.”

  “What university?”

  “I am not formally trained,” Rowan admitted. In thinking about how far he should go in revealing his information to Carter and how he knew it, he had come to the conclusion that he should tell the truth as much as he could.

  “Ah, I see.” It was a dismissive comment and Rowan waited a beat before stepping in with his pay off line.

  “While I haven’t seen your worksite as yet, I’m wondering if you’re still using the Belzoni method of excavation.” Rowan let the name sink in. He had no doubt it would get an emphatic reaction. Belzoni was considered to be little more than a grave robber and his methods of large-scale search had been the cause of much senseless destruction of invaluable artifacts.

  “Certainly not!” Carter said, putting his wine glass down so hard it spilled on the linen tablecloth.

  “You know,” Rowan said. “I’ve worked with many esteemed archaeologists back in the States who are experimenting with the use of x-ray in excavations. Have you heard of that? It’s nonintrusive and eliminates the need to relentlessly dig everywhere—which, I imagine, is a pretty expensive, not to mention time-consuming experience.” He looked up from his plate to the find Carter staring at him.

  “I only ask,” Rowan continued, “because as I said, I have no first-hand knowledge of your operation.”

  “You seem to know a lot about current archaeological thought,” Carter said.

  “I’m no treasure hunter,” Rowan said. “I am a trained amateur archaeologist. But more importantly, as far as you’re concerned…” Rowan took a long breath. “I’m a psychic.”

  Both men locked eyes.

  “A psychic,” Carter said.

  “That’s right. It’s how I knew about the vase you found today.”

  Carter put down his knife and fork as if he were finished eating.

  “It’s how I know you need to get under the bedrock to find his tomb.”

  “Tutankhamun.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So he’s here.”

  “You know he is. And you’re close.”

  “You’re saying he’s at KV62.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carter. It’s your find. Tutankhamen.”

  Carter sat motionless, not speaking. Finally, he picked up his fork and signaled to the servant to refill their wine glasses. He ate silently for a moment.

  “We leave for the site before light each day,” he said.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  The Bedouin Camp, Somewhere in the Sahara Desert

  The morning after the leader took Julia from the tent, Ella woke up to her friend’s return. The glazed look in Julia’s eye was gone, replaced by an alertness that Ella had not seen in her since before they left Cairo. It soon became clear that her agitation was the result of a need to share her experience rather than be comforted.

  It also became clear that Julia had, in fact, been raped the night before. The startling discovery for Julia seemed to be that she considered the experience much less horrific than she had always been warned about her whole life long.

  Ella tried to process this new turn of events. “Julia, honey, I grant you that whatever happened between you and dune-boy over there was probably heads and shoulders less monstrous than whatever your husband did to you, but it still isn’t good. You know that, right? I saw him throw you over his shoulder and take you to his tent. Did he ask you before he stuck it in?”

  “Must you be so crude?”

  “Well, I assume he raped you since I heard you screaming bloody murder in there. Is that not so?”

  “He…he took me my surprise.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “It was nothing like what Edward tried to do to me!”

  “That doesn’t make it okay! Sex is supposed to be consensual! Do you not understand that concept? You’re allowed to say no! Did you get the chance to say no?”

  Julia shook her head.

  “Right. He dropped you onto his blanket and just took you, didn’t he? He didn’t say hello, are you comfortable, would you like a drink, do you mind if I nail you now? He just pulled your legs apart and went to it. Didn’t he?”

  Julia looked up at her with bright eyes and nodded. “Pretty much,” she said, a smile playing on her lips as she remembered.

  Ella looked at her in horror. “Julia, sweetie, he’s not your boyfriend. He’s not in love with you. Are you so screwed up about men you don’t know when you’ve been raped, for God’s sake?”

  “Ella, I don’t know how to say this and I perfectly understand how you might not be able to understand considering your situation but something happened to me last night.”

  “Yeah, I know. And it’s punishable by death in most civilized countries.”

  “I felt alive. And I know that what Ammon did was wrong…”

  Ammon?

  “But after that first time, he was very gentle with me. And after the second time, I…” she looked down at her hands and Ella saw her blush. “I wanted him to do it.”

  “I am not believing what I am hearing. You know he probably has never had a bath.”

  “I think I love him, Ella.”

  “The heat has fried your brain, Julia.”

  “What do you know about love? A stupid American who threw over her fiancé for his idiot valet who then got her in a delicate condition? I would say you are the last person to be giving advice.”

  “You don’t have to be Dear effing Abby to know rape is a poor start to any relationship,” Ella said hotly. “Besides, I lied about all that valet stuff. The fact is, I’m married.”

  Julia gave her an expression of disbelief. “The valet isn’t the father?”

  “No, my husband is.”

  “Where is he, this mysterious nonexistent husband?”

  “A long way away.”

  “Why aren’t you together?”

  “I had to do a favor for a friend and I lost my money and my passage home.”

  “And your husband is back home in America waiting for you to show up someday?”

  Ella looked at her as if a realization had just hit her. “What?”

  “This husband I’m supposed to believe you have: he’s just waiting for you to come home? You don’t have to lie to me, Ella. I am fully a woman, now. I know what it is like to want a man body and soul regardless of the consequences.” She gestured knowingly to Ella’s stomach.

  “He’s not make-believe,” Ella said slowly. “But you’re right. Knowing him, there’s every reason to believe he’s not as far away as I thought.”

  “You are a mystery to me, Ella,” Julia said, stretching luxuriously. “But I must bathe and rest now. I got very little sleep last night.”

  “You know Ammon probably already has a dozen wives, right?”

  Julia looked at her in surprise. “I don’t think so. You don’t know him, Ella. He is an honorable man.”

  “So, does this mean we’re not prisoners any more?” Ella asked. “Because I see the head hag is still watching us pretty closely.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really understand much of what he says.”

  “Right.”

  “I will try to understand him better tonight.”

  “You’re going back to him?”

  Julia leaned over and patted Ella’s hand. “Poor Ella,” she said. “I’m sure your time will come soon.” She stood and dusted the sand from her petticoat,
then washed her face in the tepid water of the tent basin. Ella watched her and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  The days of living and traveling with the Bedouins fell into a steady monotony for Ella and Julia. Ella slept alone each night, guarded by a man or the old woman. When they weren’t traveling to the next temporarily unspoiled spot of desolate desert, Ella and Julia spent their days helping the old woman with chores. The children were particularly fascinated with the white women and, since they were often put in charge of minding them, Ella and Julia taught them snatches of nursery school songs.

  Julia seemed to mind not at all that her hair was a tangled mess and her clothes were dirty and ripped. The silly woman was in love. Ella decided that Julia’s childhood must have been brutal for her to cling so intensely to her captor. Sometimes Ella caught Ammon watching her and she usually used the moment to protectively touch her stomach to remind him of her condition. The nights that Julia spent in his tent were often noisy ones, but her screams and moans—audible all over the camp— clearly had nothing to do with terror. In the morning, Julia ate what she would otherwise have deemed not fit for the camp dogs in a lusty, hungry manner as if all of life were to be tasted and enjoyed now that she had discovered sex.

  It became quickly clear that Julia was hoping to become pregnant herself. She pulled the camp babies onto her lap—filthy little dears coated with flies—to play endless games of peekaboo. She asked Ella what her first symptoms were and often stood with her hand smoothing her flat belly as if in anticipation.

  It’s true, Ella thought. Love makes you lose your damn mind.

  They had now been with the Bedouins a week. As Ella watched the babies suckling at their mothers’ breasts, she felt a paralyzing terror at the thought of having her baby in these appalling conditions. Ella guessed she was right at four and a half months along. She had started to show but felt fine, no nausea or tenderness. Just an overwhelming urge to get back to her own time. To Rowan. As soon as possible.

  One morning after Julia returned to their tent from another night with Ammon, Ella approached her with her plan to escape.