by Bonnie Vanak
Jabari had warned him about the strangers coming to visit. They’d claimed Khepri might be family. Unease had gripped him, but Khepri joked no Englishman would want him. He was too stubborn, too cocky—too Egyptian to be English.
Two pale foreigners, one with light brown hair, one much older with a shock of white, dismounted. They wore the strange linen suits English archaeologists preferred. Dry-mouthed, Khepri watched Jabari greet them. The sheikh escorted the pair to Khepri’s tent. With a speed surprising for one so old, the white-haired Englishman raced forward.
He halted abruptly. Wrinkles carved his face like well-worn rock. Khepri stared into a pair of eyes as blue as his own.
"Good God, it’s true," the man slowly rasped in English. "It’s Michael, just when he was your age."
Khepri’s panicked gaze flew to Jabari, but his brother’s face tightened and he looked away.
"Kenneth, I’m your grandfather. So long I’ve prayed to find you. I am Charles Tristan, duke of Caldwell," the man continued.
The younger Englishman, with a thick mustache and side-whiskers, his pale brown hair thinning, stepped forward. "Hullo," he said heartily. "I’m Victor Edwards. Second cousin, on your father’s side. Such a relief to find you."
Khepri reeled with shock. "I have no English family," he croaked in halting English. "They were killed by an enemy tribe years ago. The Al-Hajid murdered my parents and brother."
"Yes." Sorrow came into the old man’s blue eyes. "But not you. And now I’ve found you. Kenneth Tristan. My heir."
Heir? What was an heir?
"I am your grandfather, Kenneth," he stated again.
Grandfather? His grandfather, Nkosi, was visiting the Al-Hajid with his wife, Elizabeth’s grandmother. Khepri’s frantic gaze pleaded with Jabari, but the sheikh continued gazing stonily into the distance. How could this be? He was a Khamsin, warrior of the wind. Egyptian. He rode the dusky sands. He was brother to the greatest desert sheikh in Egypt. And now a strange Englishman from beyond the seas claimed him? Khepri’s stomach twisted. He must drive these intruders away.
He thrust out the soles of his feet at them. "Walk away from me. I know nothing of you," he said brusquely.
Of course they would not understand how rude the gesture was. They were English. But Jabari tensed with anger.
"Khepri!" he said sharply. Then he said in a gentler tone, "You forget your manners. A Khamsin always shows courtesy to guests." He turned to the two Englishmen. "Ahlan wa sahlan. You are welcome to my tent."
The news spread like a sandstorm. While the Englishmen’s Egyptian servants unloaded their trunks, Jabari personally welcomed the visitors with gahwa. The coffee ceremony was an honor the sheikh reserved for the most prestigious guests. Elizabeth, Ramses and his English-born wife, Katherine, joined them as a crowd of onlookers hovered outside, staring at the two Englishmen.
Khepri bristled with pride at the skillful way his brother roasted the green coffee beans in a pan over a tiny brazier, cooled them in a wood dish and ground them. The two Englishmen sat on the thick red carpet watching and talking quietly. He glanced at them, irritated. Did they not hear the beautiful music the pestle made as it struck the mortar? Jabari’s artistry failed to impress the foreigners. Khepri folded his arms, glaring at them with indignation.
When the coffee was ready, the sheikh politely served his two guests small, handleless cups. The priceless porcelain had been in the family for generations. The English murmured their thanks and sipped. A barely concealed grimace twisted Victor’s lips. Khepri felt fresh annoyance.
When the guests were served, he sipped his coffee, enjoying the spicy pinch of cardamom. With secret glee he noticed the English sucking on dates between sips. Dates sweetened the bitter brew. These men could not be his family. They could not even drink coffee.
Khepri kept staring at the elderly man whose face was stamped with such similar features to his own. No denying the resemblance. The world tilted crazily on its axis as he listened to the man tell Jabari how important it was to have found his grandson.
When the sheikh slowly nodded, he screamed inside. No! This man was not family. Not his. People gaped with open curiosity at the visitors. On the crowd’s fringes, he saw Rashid. Clad now in indigo, the warrior stared intently at the English visitors. Then Rashid’s gaze met Khepri’s. Rashid whirled and stomped off.
Confused and uncertain, Khepri’s thoughts whipped to Badra. What if the strangers wanted to take him away to their land of green grass? His whole being had centered on protecting her. Watching over her. Keeping his love and desire embedded deep in his heart, his need of her a deep ache. He would not leave her.
"Khepri," Jabari said in Arabic. "Your grandfather is asking you a question."
Not my grandfather, he thought resentfully.
"I kept hoping you or your brother still lived," the Englishman said. "Kenneth, you are heir to one of England’s greatest titles. You’ll inherit enormous wealth and property. I know how difficult this must be, but I’m asking you to return with me to England."
Heir? Title? He glanced at Jabari, who rapidly translated. Khepri felt new shock slam into him. Leave Egypt for riches? Who needed wealth? He had the richness of the open desert.
"Who asked you to come here?" he demanded, furious.
"I did," Katherine said in her soft voice. The wife of Nazim—now Ramses—looked troubled. "My father, the Earl of Smithfield, was good friends with your family. I wrote my father about the blue-eyed warrior living with the Khamsin, whose family had been killed, and he immediately told your grandfather."
Jabari’s guardian slid a comforting arm about his wife’s waist. "Katherine meant no harm. She wanted you to find your real family."
Real family. A family far, far away, forcing him to leave. No. He would not. His land was the arid desert. The rocky canyonlands and the hot sand. Not some foreign land of water and grass. How could he leave behind the burning blue sky and yellow sun? How could he leave his beloved Egypt?
Wildly his panicked gaze whipped about the tent, searching faces. Elizabeth looked troubled. Jabari and Ramses were grim. Katherine looked pleadingly at him. "He is a good man, Khepri. You come from an honored lineage as noble as any Egyptian king’s. He’s your grandfather," she said.
They were letting him go. How could they? Did not family mean anything to Jabari? But he was not blood. His guts twisted. Not real family.
Badra remained his only hope. If she married him, surely his brother would not abandon him to this white-haired stranger from across the sea. He needed her. How could he leave her?
Khepri calmed. Surely she would marry him. All her affection, the gifts presented to him over the years, their camaraderie, and the kiss. Warmth flooded his veins as he remembered her soft lips. Badra felt the same for him as he felt for her. Marriage was the answer. Even leaving the Khamsin seemed less menacing with her by his side. He could face the land of green grass if he must.
Politely excusing himself, he left the tent, ignoring Jabari’s troubled expression. He found Badra beneath an acacia tree, weaving a colorful blanket.
"I thought you were taking coffee with your grandfather." She beamed at him. "Is it not wonderful that your family found you? The entire tribe is chattering about your honored ancestry, how you will have wealth greater than the ancient kings of Egypt."
Her too? He grimaced and sat, feeling peace merely by being with her. "I don’t want any part of it."
Badra’s lower lip trembled. "I don’t understand. You are his grandson. If I knew a child or a grandchild that I had thought dead was found alive, I would move mountains to be with them again. You are blessed. Trust me."
He hated seeing her upset. Khepri brushed a knuckle against her cheek. A tremulous smile touched her lips. Allah, he wanted to hold her in his arms. And never let go.
"I have something important to ask you."
She tensed as he slid down onto his knees before her.
"Marry me, Badra," Khepri said, his gaze f
rantic. "I did not want to ask like this, but time is short. Do not forsake me. Marry me and I will give up everything—the wealth and land awaiting me. Marry me and we will remain here, as Khamsin. Or if you wish, we will make a life in England with riches as vast as the sands of Egypt. I can face anything with you by my side."
Please, he begged with his eyes. I cannot lose you.
She remained silent, biting her lip. He waited in hopeful anticipation. Surely after their kiss, her feelings for him ...
When she spoke, the words slapped him like wet cloth.
"I am sorry, Khepri. I ... I cannot marry you. I cannot feel the same for you as you feel for me," she whispered.
For a minute he remained speechless with shock. He searched her face. No? She looked away. A heavy weight crushed his chest as his last hope faded. All these years, waiting. Honoring her. Hoping. Believing she cared. She didn’t.
Agony fled, replaced by bitterness as thick as a sandstorm. Khepri rose and fished his dagger from his belt, the same one she had once used to try and end her life. Something inside him shriveled to dry dust.
With a deep hiss, he laced open his palm, a symbolic reminder of how he had saved her when they first met.
"This is the last time I will shed my blood for you, Badra. But you needn’t tend to my injuries any longer. Take this. It’s yours now. I have no use for it in England," he snapped. With a look of disgust, he threw the blade into the sand. It stuck there, wobbling.
Then he left, droplets of blood dotting the ground like a trail of red tears. But the burning pain in his palm hurt far less than his insides.
Time seemed to grind to an agonizing halt for Khepri, though several days had passed. He made up his mind. He would go to England. There was nothing for him here. Badra had rejected him. Tomorrow, he would leave.
Jabari expressed sympathy over Badra’s refusal, but the sheikh seemed oblivious to Khepri’s pain. Khepri savagely quashed a bitter laugh as he went to the sheikh’s tent. On the way he nearly collided with Rashid. The muscled warrior blocked his path, giving a sullen stare.
"Out of my way," Khepri ordered. "I have no time to quarrel with you."
But the warrior did not move. Instead he continued staring at Khepri, his mouth twisted. His dark eyes were cold.
"If you have something to say, say it," Khepri snapped. "I must meet with my brother before I go to England."
A sneer replaced Rashid’s searching look. "Your brother? No longer. Go to England. You belong to the land of the soft-bellied English and will fit in well," he taunted.
Khepri made a rude gesture. The other man smiled darkly. "You should show respect for Badra’s new falcon guard."
Shock slammed into him. Rashid laughed softly at his stunned expression, then stalked off.
Khepri was still shaking when he entered Jabari’s tent. The sheikh beckoned him to sit beside Ramses. He did so.
"Rashid claims he’s Badra’s falcon guard," he blurted.
The sheikh and his guardian exchanged glances. "That is true. I want Badra to feel protected when you leave. I have appointed her a new falcon guard."
"She does not need one. Fareeq is long dead," he protested. Allah, he could not bear Rashid near his beloved ...
"There are other men who would not honor her. And Badra ... she asked for Rashid," Ramses put in.
She’d asked for him? An Al-Hajid pig? Rashid would protect what was once his? Everything about Khepri was crumbling into dust. Nothing familiar was left to him, not even his own damn dignity.
"Khepri—uh, Kenneth—I asked you here for a very special reason." Jabari withdrew a beautiful jeweled dagger from its leather sheath. A look of awed respect came over Ramses.
"You are not the brother of my blood, but before you leave, I will make you so. Tonight, beneath the moon and the stars, I will bond us together in brotherhood. And I formally hand you this. The Hassid wedding dagger. It has been passed down from brother to brother. I will give it to you, for although you are not the brother of my blood, you are the brother of my heart." The sheikh held the dagger in his palms with reverence.
He looked up solemnly. "I give it to you for when you marry, so that you will always know that our kinship will never end."
Marry? A hollow feeling settled on Khepri’s chest. How could Jabari be so blind? How could the man closer than a brother expect him to marry anyone but the one woman he’d wanted for years? The woman who’d broken his heart?
A wild torrent of anger and bitterness raged inside him. They were letting him go. Jabari had not even voiced a small protest. They did not want him. Badra did not want him. He would leave Egypt and never look back. And make damn sure they knew he’d never return.
He thrust aside the beautiful ruby-and-diamond-studded dagger. "No, Jabari. I don’t want it."
The sheikh recoiled, astonishment filling his ebony eyes. Ramses’s jaw dropped.
"You ... refuse my sacred wedding dagger?"
Khepri’s guts churned. "Keep your damn dagger. I’m not your brother. I never was and never will be," he grunted. Then he stood and left, ignoring their stunned faces.
He spent a lonely night in his tent for the last time. Unable to sleep he listened to the sound of the desert unfolding. Anguish twisted his guts. Badra had refused him. She did not love him. She never had.
A deadly quiet fell over the tribe as Khepri prepared to leave the next day. Many avoided looking at him. All his possessions went into a trunk. His stone carvings. His scimitar. Books in Arabic. A faint noise sounded outside. He threw aside the tent flap. It was her.
Badra moved inside, even though Khepri did not bid her entrance to his tent. Ignoring her, he tossed items into a large trunk. She had wounded him, just as he’d wounded Jabari. The sheikh still looked deeply hurt.
Sweat dampened her palms as she wrung the fringe on her lovely blue head scarf. Telling him good-bye tore her apart.
"So you asked Rashid to be your falcon guard," he grunted.
"He is a good, brave warrior ..."
Her voice trailed off. When Khepri had announced his departure, she’d approached Rashid and struck a pact. Each vowed to keep secret their tormented pasts and fend off possible suitors by pretending courtship. Neither of them wanted to marry.
The secret she wanted to confess trembled on her lips. She must tell him why she refused. But his tall, muscled frame looked distant. And his eyes—oh, his eyes—were blue ice.
Courage failed her. She could not tell him.
"Khepri, I came to say good-bye and to wish you well." Her voice broke. "I will miss you ... terribly."
His foot kicked the trunk shut. He did not look at her.
"I wish things ... could be different," she whispered.
I wish I could be different. You’ll go to England. You’ll find a woman who will love you the way I cannot. And every time I think of her in your arms, I’ll die inside. But I can’t be with you. My past has shackled me and I’m too afraid.
"Leave, Badra. I need to finish packing," he said coldly. He used stiff but perfect English.
She left, a sob clogging her throat.
There was no ceremony bidding him good-bye. No parting hugs, save from Elizabeth. And from Katherine, who told him to seek out her father. An awkward silence fell as the Khamsin gathered at the camp’s edge to watch the English depart. To watch Kenneth, the duke’s heir, leave behind the only family he’d ever known.
A harsh desert wind blew across the sand, sending stinging grit in his eyes. Surely that was why they watered. Khepri mounted his horse, stole one last glance at Badra. She clutched the sheikh’s hand as if to comfort him. Jabari looked stricken, as if Khepri had stabbed him in the heart.
They meant nothing to him now. He turned and rode off, following his grandfather, cousin and servants. He did not look back.
PART TWO: KENNETH & BADRA
Chapter One
Cairo, January 1895
My daughter lives ... as a slave in a brothel!
Bad
ra stared in anguish at the lovely child she thought had died. Sunlight streamed through latticework windows, playing on the girl’s rosy-cheeked face. Jasmine reclined against silk cushions on a narrow divan, watching a woman paint her feet with red henna.
A decoration for a man’s future pleasure. Only seven, Jasmine’s training at the Pleasure Palace had begun. The brothel specialized in training girls as concubines. Most were sold and never seen again. The most beautiful girls remained prisoners at the Palace, auctioned off for a month at a time. Men purchased their contracts at exorbitant prices for the privilege of briefly owning a slave to fulfill their sexual fantasies.
As soon as she experienced her first bleeding, Jasmine would be sold. Just as Badra had been, long ago.
A calculating look came over the brothel’s chief eunuch as he watched Badra stare at Jasmine. His pockmarked face and pudgy, dark brown eyes sharp and assessing, Masud ruled the Pleasure Palace. Two turbaned guards, honed scimitars strapped to their waists, stood at his side. More armed men fortified the heavily guarded building. Sour sweat of their unwashed male bodies overlaid the sweet fragrances perfuming the harem.
Thoughts collided in Badra’s frantic mind. Which is better for Jasmine? A future as a slave, beaten and raped as I was? Or to have died at birth?
The anonymous message sent to her at the Khamsin camp had been blunt. The daughter you bore to Sheikh Fareeq lives as a slave at the Pleasure Palace. Come to Cairo to barter for her release. This trip to Cairo for supplies, with Rashid, Jabari, and Elizabeth, provided a perfect opportunity to investigate.
Fareeq had sold Jasmine at birth. Badra had a daughter with bright brown eyes and a shy smile. She wanted to trace Jasmine’s oval face, count all her fingers and toes. I can’t bring back the past, but I can be here for you now, she silently promised. But I can’t admit you are mine, little one.