The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind)

by Bonnie Vanak

  Clouds of thick dust drove upward from the animals’ pounding hooves. Grim determination shone on Khepri’s face as he urged his mount onward, edging ahead of his opponent to cross the finish line. Wild cheers rose.

  Khepri slid off his camel and flashed everyone a cocky grin. Badra ran to him and collided against his hard chest. "Oh! That was magnificent!" She hugged him, relishing the smell of spices in his sweat-dampened binish.

  His gaze went soft as he embraced her. Suddenly a crush of men gathered around, whooping and congratulating. To have won such a prestigious race meant tremendous honor. Badra eased away. Khepri flushed as Jabari slapped him on the back. "Well done, brother," the Khamsin sheikh shouted.

  In black and red robes, Khepri’s opponent Rashid approached. He had the grace of a large cat. Badra studied him, remembering him well from long ago. Unlike his tribesmen, this man’s facial features were delicate, even foreign. He had a slim nose, high cheekbones and large eyes heavily fringed with lashes. One might almost call him pretty. One warrior had. Rashid viciously killed him in a duel over it. Then he’d sliced off the warrior’s testicles, stuffing them into a bag. Into the privacy of Fareeq’s tent Rashid had stormed, tossing down the bag and snapping, "You said I have none of my own because of what that bastard did to me. Can I have these?"

  Sitting nearby, Badra had flinched. Fareeq had roared with laughter and replied, "You will not serve on your hands and knees like a girl any longer. I will acknowledge you as a warrior."

  Rashid had been a victim, just as Badra had been.

  His expression went blank upon recognizing her. She mouthed to him, "I will not tell your secret."

  She saw relief flash in his dark eyes. He nodded, then went to Khepri. "Congratulations," he said graciously.

  Her falcon guard rudely turned away. Jabari frowned and admonished his brother. "You should welcome Rashid. He is becoming a Khamsin warrior."

  Khepri’s jaw dropped. "What?" he croaked.

  "My sister married your cousin," Rashid replied, his gaze courteous. "I wish to join this tribe so she has family and does not feel alone. Tomorrow I take the oath of loyalty."

  Silence filled the air.

  "You may call him Khamsin, but to me, he will always be Al-Hajid," Khepri said tightly. "Do not trust him, Jabari. Do not trust any of them. There may be peace between our people, but deep down, they are merciless killers of women and children."

  Badra’s heart ached as he stormed off. Khepri could not find it within him to forgive, nor forget, the murder of his parents and brother. In some ways, she understood. Her troubled gaze met Rashid’s. The warrior’s black-bearded face remained expressionless, but she glimpsed a vulnerable loneliness. Then it vanished. He murmured an excuse and went off to join his sister and her new husband.

  Khepri stormed into his tent, trying to quell his raging anger. Rashid, a Khamsin warrior? Jabari might call him cousin, but he never could. He fought down fury as he gathered fresh clothing.

  Going to the quarters serving as bathing facilities for males, Khepri sang off-key as he scrubbed the dust away. He thought of the shining adulation in Badra’s eyes. Both outsiders, they had naturally drawn close after years of forced togetherness. Her gentle manner cloaked a fierce tenaciousness. He secretly admired her determination to become literate. She in turn encouraged him to seek his dreams. Badra believed he could do anything. With her at his side, he could. Their love was like the dawn of new creation. Each day resonated with the rich harmony of shared laughter and a melody of smoldering passion. And it all awaited the spark of their first kiss.

  Yesterday he had formally asked Jabari to release him of his vow never to touch her. The sheikh agreed. "But," he had added sternly, "remember her honor. Be very gentle. And patient."

  Tonight he would tenderly initiate Badra into the pleasures awaiting her in his arms. A kiss, nothing more—but oh so much. His body tingled pleasantly. He had seen her cast longing looks at the sheikh’s baby. When women looked at babies that way, it usually meant they wanted one of their own.

  He’d be more than happy to give her one. He grinned. They could be married by the next full moon and spend a delightful week or so conceiving their son. Or daughter.

  Finishing, he dumped the dirty water into a basin where it would be taken to irrigate an herb garden. Despite the secret cave with a bubbling spring, no one wasted water in the desert.

  For five years, he’d clung fast to his vow never to touch Badra. With Jabari married, tribal law required the release of his concubines. Farah had married a warrior. Khepri had immediately asked for Badra’s hand, but she’d refused. Last year, he’d asked again. She’d told him she wasn’t ready.

  But now, surrounded by marriage and babies, surely she must be ready. Even the womanizing Nazim, the sheikh’s guardian and best friend, had surrendered his bachelorhood. He’d married and changed his name to Ramses according to guardian tradition. Now he was expecting twins with his wife, Katherine.

  A patient man, Khepri had waited five years for Badra. He could wait longer, if necessary. But he hoped that after a little gentle coaxing tonight, she would say yes.

  Badra sat beneath a sprawling acacia tree and sketched Elizabeth, who was nursing her son. A book lay nearby. It had arrived in a shipment from Katherine’s father, Lord Smithfield. The man, a wealthy English noble, wanted to help Elizabeth teach the tribe’s children. Thanks to the sheikh’s wife’s work, many of his tribe were literate in Arabic, and some, like Badra, in both Arabic and English.

  "Stop sketching. Time for your lesson. Read to me in English," Elizabeth instructed.

  Somewhat haltingly, Badra read. Elizabeth finished feeding baby Tarik and listened. Approaching footsteps drew their attention.

  Jabari and Khepri. The sheikh crouched down, took the baby from his wife. Expertly he put the boy over his shoulder. Badra melted as Jabari cooed to his son. Khepri’s blue eyes searched hers as the sheikh handed the baby back.

  "He is a fine, strong boy, Jabari. Perhaps one day I, too, shall have a son," he commented, his gaze never leaving Badra’s.

  A hollow ache settled in her chest. As much as her heart longed for marriage to Khepri, she couldn’t make babies with him. The only lullaby she would sing remained with her dead daughter. Though Jabari’s gentle manner had slowly healed her wounded spirit, and Khepri’s protectiveness made her feel safe and cherished, physical intimacy with men was still the last thing she wanted.

  The men moved off, talking quietly. Tarik grabbed a fistful of golden hair spilling from his mother’s blue scarf. Badra stared. "Elizabeth, what is it like when you make babies with a man you love?" Her cheeks flamed. But she had to know.

  Her friend’s expression grew soft. "It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. There’s a closeness of the spirit you share as well as the ecstasy."

  Ecstasy? Perhaps marriage and babies with her falcon guard were not such foolish, idle dreams. She read until she again heard the tread of male footsteps. Jabari stood over her, looking at his wife.

  "Elizabeth," he said, and his voice was husky.

  A sparkle lit the woman’s eyes. Standing, she asked Badra to watch Tarik. Taking her husband’s outstretched hand, she let him lead her into their tent and rolled the flaps down.

  Badra looked at the black tent. Elizabeth had confided they’d decided to give Tarik a sibling. The sheikh was quite determined to perform his duty.

  Deeply curious, slightly ashamed, Badra went and asked Tarik’s delighted great-aunt to watch the boy. Then she casually strolled around the sheikh’s tent to the back, drawn by the low groans and soft cries inside. Elizabeth suddenly screamed. Badra stiffened. Then she realized the cry had been one of pleasure.

  A distant memory returned. She was seventeen, living in a heavily guarded building in the village of Amarna. Jabari had moved her and Farah there to keep them safe during the war between the tribes. Each time she went anywhere, Khepri accompanied her. But this day, he had been freed of his duties. A w
arrior named Ali had escorted her to the market.

  They’d passed Najla’s house. In the marketplace, Khepri had flirted with the young widow, newly arrived in the village. Walking past the women’s abode, sudden intuition flashed. Badra asked Ali to retrieve the wool she’d forgotten. He hesitated, but she assured him she’d be safe.

  When he left, Badra crept around the side of Najla’s house. She heard Khepri’s deep murmurs and a woman’s soft replies, and peered through a latticed window.

  The room was a bedchamber with lavish furnishings and thick carpets. But it was the bed and its occupants that drew Badra’s attention. Khepri and Najla, both naked, stretched out on the bed. He was kissing the woman, and her hand cupped the back of his head. Najla caressed his long, dark locks. Badra’s fingers tightened on the window frame. Suddenly Khepri sat back on his haunches. She could clearly see his exposed profile. Sweat glistened on his hard muscles. He was simply beautiful, chiseled male perfection. His thick, dark hair hung past his shoulders and he shoved it impatiently away from his forehead. Badra’s hungry eyes followed the flatness of his chest, the dark hair arrowing down past his waist to the thicker nest at his groin and the jutting thickness of his ... Oh my.

  Her mouth had dropped in astonishment.

  Fareeq’s male part had been like a wrinkled date in comparison.

  Khepri slipped his hands between Najla’s slender, honey-toned thighs, opening them wide and mounting her. She uttered an alarmed cry as he pressed into her, her hands digging into his shoulders. "It is too large," she gasped.

  Badra winced in sympathy and silently agreed.

  Khepri crooned gently, kissed Najla and then thrust deeper. Najla’s fingers relaxed their tight grip and she sighed.

  Unable to drag her eyes away from the sight of his taut, pumping buttocks, Badra had stared in shocked fascination. Najla arched. Badra flinched as the woman screamed, digging her fingers into the firm muscles of Khepri’s back. He murmured and then kissed her. Seeing Najla’s ecstatic expression, Badra realized the shriek had been one of pleasure. Then Khepri’s powerful body had shuddered as he groaned, and lay still.

  The act that had brought her only pain had brought Najla nothing but pleasure. Jealousy had gripped Badra. Her falcon guard was not exclusively hers. She burned to know the same powerful ecstasy Khepri coaxed from Najla, to feel his heavy weight atop hers and run her fingers over the muscled body that fought to protect her. But still, she was afraid. She’d turned him away for that very reason.

  A low cough jerked her attention from the past. Whirling, she saw Khepri, hand on his scimitar hilt. His dark-bearded face regarded her with tender amusement. She blushed, knowing he’d caught her eavesdropping on Elizabeth and Jabari.

  "Badra," he said softly. "Come, walk with me."

  He slowed his long-legged stride to match hers. When they reached her tent, Khepri touched her cheek, barely a caress.

  "My brother and his wife are eager for another baby. It is natural. Some day you will desire the same."

  Flustered, Badra glanced away.

  "Do you not like babies? I know of only one way to make them," he said, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  "I have work," she muttered.

  As she went to duck into her tent, he lightly grasped her wrist. "Meet me at my tent when the moon climbs up into the sky," he told her. "I have something to show you. Something special."

  Badra shuddered in both fear and anticipation.

  A full moon spilled over the camp as Khepri greeted her much later. Gray light glossed the long, dark hair spilling from beneath his indigo turban and winked upon the steel scimitar strapped to his waist.

  They walked in companionable silence, passing the dying embers of cooking fires and black tents sheltering Khamsin families inside. It was remarkably quiet, but for the brush of the wind against the sand and horses nickering at the camp’s edge.

  "It’s very still tonight," she commented.

  "You do not hear it?"

  "Hear what?"

  "The sound of night," he said softly. "Of passion."

  She heard nothing, then her ears opened. A woman’s soft cries mingled with a man’s deep groans. Rustling fabric, husky whispers. Bodies slid against bodies. Something dark and living and carnal, it was an erotic dance of sound. It poured over her senses, daring her to imagine ...

  Khepri spoke quietly. "When a man and a woman take joy in sharing their bodies, they create the music of love. It is the sweetest sound in the desert."

  They passed the main group of tents and the area where the horses were kept hobbled for the night. A twist of mountain lay before them, jagged boulders whose rugged edges shone blackish-gray in the pale moonlight. Khepri kept walking.

  "What did you want to show me?" Badra asked.

  Khepri halted near the entrance of a narrow canyon she recognized. "In here," he gestured.

  Towering limestone walls flanked them as they wound down through the canyon. Finally Khepri halted before a scattering of large boulders. "There," he said with satisfaction.

  She gasped with delight. Out of one of the tall limestone rocks, Khepri had carved a waist-high Egyptian cobra. Its hooded head reared up in menacing beauty, ready to strike.

  "I wanted you to see it in the moonlight." He ran a caressing hand over his creation. "When the light strikes ..."

  "It looks real," she marveled.

  "It was here I received my cobra totem, so I wanted to mark the memory," he told her, leaning a slim hip against a boulder.

  ‘Tell me," she said eagerly.

  "I was on a hunt with Jabari, looking for small game. He stepped near these rocks and we heard a hiss. I saw it first. A cobra, disturbed from its rest."

  "You killed it?"

  "No. My father told me these cobras do not spit venom and are sacred in Egyptian history, revered as protectors of kings. If I killed it, bad luck would visit Jabari. I remembered a trick an old snake charmer once taught. I took my rifle, forced the snake to wrap around it and the snake went still. From then on I was known as Cobra, the one who acts—swift as a serpent."

  She smiled, remembering how his astonishing reflexes had stayed her hand from using his dagger to kill herself. "You are Cobra. Your totem serves you well."

  He studied her in the brilliant moonlight. The moon. Her namesake. He gestured skyward. "As does your name. Though the beauty of the full moon pales beside you, Badra."

  Nervousness fraught with an odd yearning returned to her. She glanced at the web of starlight glistening in the night sky. "But nothing’s as lovely as the stars. They make me feel as though I could touch them. Like glittering gems I saw once in Cairo."

  "You are more beautiful than all the stars in Egypt’s sky."

  His husky voice was like warm velvet. Khepri lightly clasped her shoulders. Heat emanated from him like from the glowing coals of a banked campfire. "Jabari has released me of my vow not to touch you. Do ... do you want me to kiss you?" he asked softly. "Badra?"

  Yes, her heart cried. Hope rose in her breast. She regarded him in the moonlight. The way he said her name, so soft and smooth, tickled her overly sensitive skin. She shuddered and yearned, fearing and yet craving this new closeness, this heated intensity. He brushed a finger against her cheek, drifted down to her trembling lips and she nodded. Yes. Kiss me.

  "I have waited so long for you, Badra," he murmured.

  A determined, intent look came over him. Khepri cupped her face in his strong palms and lifted her mouth up for possession. He claimed her mouth with a kiss that stole her soul and her breath away. His lips grazed hers in reverent worship, a light caress. Intrigued, she moved her mouth against his. Then he pressed his lips hard against hers, his tongue tracing her bottom lip, flicking it lightly. When Badra gave a small sound of pleasure, he slipped into her mouth. Shocked, she compressed her lips.

  "Come, Badra, open for me," he coaxed. Then his lips captured hers again.

  Her breath was sucked out in a whoosh as she opened her mo
uth. Khepri’s silken tongue plunged in, tasting her, claiming and setting fire to her as she clung to him. His body pressed against hers, all hard muscles and bone. He continued his relentless assault, plundering her mouth with expert strokes. He ravished her mouth, rousing an odd fullness in her loins. The heat he created gave Badra fresh hope. Perhaps this was the pleasure Elizabeth meant.

  Then she felt his hard manhood grind against her. His taut arms locked about her like shackles, trapping her against the rock with his weight and strength. Khepri uttered a deep groan. His sudden intensity frightened her, made her feel powerless. Terror replaced her arousal. He would grunt and strain as he violated her body with mindless lust as Fareeq had. And she’d hate him for it ...

  He released her, panting as he looked down. Moonlight and dark desire glinted in his eyes. "You make a man mad with your beauty. I nearly could not stop. If we were married, I would not have," he said hoarsely.

  "You would not have?" she asked, deeply shaken.

  "I’d never let you leave my bed. I would keep you too busy to take walks in the moonlight."

  His words promised old horrors. Badra could not bear to see his gentle, protective manner change as desire darkened his eyes, to wrench away in panic as his powerful body covered hers and he thrust rudely inside her as Fareeq had.

  She realized the horrifying truth: If they married, no pleasured cries would come from their black tent, only her screams of terror. Warriors would look on Khepri with contempt. Whispers would start. She cared too deeply for him to shame him thus. She could not bear to condemn such a virile, passionate man to a marriage as dry as sand. Or to drive him into the arms of another woman to satisfy his body’s needs—as he had done in the past with Najla.

  As they returned to camp, she stifled the haunted sorrow rising in her throat. This presented no real challenge; she had plenty of experience in doing so.

  Khepri’s past came galloping back the following day.

  Humming happily, thinking of how pliant and soft Badra’s lips had been beneath his, he sat before his tent, carving a new wood loom for her. At the thunder of approaching horses, he looked up. A cloud of dust rose on the horizon. Blood froze in his veins as it drew closer. A party of white-skinned English, escorted by his brethren, approached on sleek Arabians.