by Bonnie Vanak
"I do believe I owe you something for how you insulted Jabari upon your departure, Khepri," Rashid snapped.
Kenneth smiled grimly. "Then give it to me, if you are man enough, for I do not want to be in debt to you."
Rashid’s hand shot to his side at the same time Kenneth’s did. Badra watched in amazement.
Thankfully, neither had weapons. Hostility filled their stances as they circled like snarling dogs. Both fisted their hands and raised them to their chest. Both men were about the same height, with the same muscled builds. They could easily kill each other with their bare hands.
Voices sounded as the back room door swung open again. The proprietor and Lord Smithfield stepped out. Immediately, the earl stepped forward and placed a hand on Rashid’s arm.
"Let it go," the earl said quietly.
The Khamsin warrior bristled with rage, then tossed off the nobleman’s arm. He backed away, giving a curt nod.
"For the sake of honoring my host, I will not spill your blood here," he told Kenneth, watching him with wariness. "But be warned, traitor. There will come a time."
"I welcome it," Kenneth answered in a dangerously soft voice. "Do not underestimate me simply because I wear English dress now. You know I can defeat you."
She breathed easier as Kenneth seemed to rein in his temper. Rashid’s face was still flushed with angry color. Kenneth’s expression hardened as he glanced at her.
"Your fighting skills are best saved for protecting Badra. She is your first obligation. Or did you forget what Jabari charged you with?"
Her stomach gave a sickening lurch at the violence in Rashid’s dark eyes. "I have not. My first obligation is to protect her from you."
Oh, Rashid, Badra said silently, pleading with her eyes. Please don’t hurt him any more than I already have ...
But it was too late. Kenneth’s jaw tensed as if Rashid had delivered a deadly blow with his scimitar. "You truly think I would forsake everything I honored as a Khamsin warrior and deliberately harm the woman I had sworn a blood oath to protect?"
"You are no longer Khamsin," Rashid said evenly. The words hung in the air, quivering with silent threat.
Kenneth turned to her. "Do you think that I wish revenge?"
Would you take it if the opportunity presented itself? Badra wondered. She thought of the necklace. She smiled to hide her anxiety.
"I think we’re taking up too much of this good shopkeeper’s time and have provided him with enough drama for one afternoon. Perhaps it’s best we leave. Right now," she said.
Kenneth fell back, as if she’d slapped him.
Badra had avoided answering his direct question. Did that mean she thought he would actually hurt her? After all the years he’d spent guarding her life more carefully than his own?
Realizing his mouth hung open, Kenneth assumed a blank expression. He compressed his lips, hiding his inner turmoil. Smithfield turned to him with an apologetic look. Kenneth twisted his lips in a crooked smile.
"Nice surprise," he said.
The earl sighed. "I thought you’d like seeing the artifacts they brought with them to sell to your cousin."
Kenneth shot a look at the quiet but glowering Rashid. "Only if there is a very sharp dagger among them."
Badra stared at Victor. He stood as tall as Kenneth. Sharp intelligence radiated from his brilliant blue eyes, and his features were thin and concave.
"Mr. Edwards, the proprietor ... he’s your cousin?" she asked.
"You should remember. You saw him at the Khamsin camp when he and my grandfather came to get me," Kenneth said coolly.
"I did not realize ..." She turned to Victor. "You have no facial whiskers now, and your hair is ..."
"Gone." Victor smoothed a hand over his nearly bald head. "And I’ve gained weight. Sorry to say I don’t remember you, or this fellow Rashid, here, either. Met a lot of you people that day. Faces all blend together."
"Yes, we people all look alike," Rashid cut in, glowering.
Smithfield looked uncomfortable. He nodded toward his carriage. "It’s best we’re off now. Caldwell? Are you leaving as well?" The earl peered out the window. "Is your man here?"
"I sent him back home with instructions to return in one hour," Kenneth admitted.
He glanced outside the shop window and noted the earl’s carriage. Hot blood suffused his face in sudden embarrassment. Another gaffe. English noblemen did not send their coachmen back to warm their frozen bones before a fire while their employers shopped. Noblemen made them wait in the cold. And if they were kindhearted like Smithfield, they outfitted their coachmen in warm furs and gave them small coal stoves to warm their feet.
"I’m heading back now," Smithfield cut in delicately. "Plenty of room in my coach. Care to accompany me?"
Relief flooded him at not having to brace himself for a walk in the bitter wind. Kenneth managed a brisk nod, silently thanking the man with his eyes. The widowed earl, who had married an Egyptian princess, was a friend. He was familiar with Egyptian culture. He had proven a lifesaver as Kenneth struggled to adjust to English culture. How many times had the man rescued him from social disaster, coached him in the finer graces and instructed him in matters natural to wealthy Englishmen, but utterly foreign to him?
Smithfield turned to Rashid.
"I do believe I will walk," Rashid said. He gave Badra a meaningful look. "Will you walk with me?"
Badra took a step forward and wobbled.
"I doubt she could manage in that footwear," Kenneth suggested dryly. "Unless you carried her the whole way."
"Perhaps I shall," Rashid shot back.
"No, I’ll be fine," she said quickly. "Rashid, I’ll see you at the earl’s house."
Her falcon guard stalked past and left the shop.
Inside the carriage, Badra allowed herself a tremulous sigh of relief as the conveyance pulled away. Kenneth took the seat opposite her. He folded his tall, broad-shouldered frame into a corner, silently staring out the window. Agitation shook her fragile control. Her Khepri. How she missed him! Badra wanted to lace her fingers through his, feel the tensile strength that had protected her for five years and find the warrior this new Englishman had swallowed. Perhaps she could, given time, find him again. Fate had brought them together once more. But Jasmine’s sweet, innocent face swam before her. Her fists tightened inside her muff. She must return to Egypt as soon as possible to save her daughter from slavery.
Badra leaned against the velvet seat and saw Smithfield smiling at her. "Do you miss Egypt?" he asked in English.
"Yes," she admitted. "I feel I will never be warm again until I feel her sun upon my face."
"Egypt is far different from England. I sometimes wonder how Katherine is adjusting," he remarked.
"She’s doing well and misses her father."
The earl smiled fondly. He touched the single gray lock on his raven hair ruefully. "Another grandchild. I’m too young to be a grandfather. But I don’t worry about her. Ramses is a good husband and father."
And he fusses over Katherine, she thought. Badra had easily convinced the protective warrior that the long voyage would overtax his newly pregnant wife. She’d assured him she could deliver in his stead the gold mummy masks the Earl of Smithfield had wanted. Her falcon guard had balked at visiting England. Badra winced, remembering when he’d finally admitted why: the Englishman who’d visited the Al-Hajid camp long ago and abused Rashid, and who still roamed free ...
The carriage slowed. The earl glanced out the window. "Traffic. Unusual crush this time of year."
She and Kenneth centered their attention outside, studying the frozen tableau, empty benches and trees stripped of greenery. Suddenly the tight quarters seemed too tight, too heated. Badra slid the window down, allowing a blast of fresh, icy air to infiltrate the carriage.
They pulled alongside a gleaming black conveyance emblazoned with a gold crest. The carriage rocked back and forth violently. The windows were shuttered with thick curtains.
"That carriage is moving. Very much so," Kenneth observed.
Pleased he’d broken his ominous silence, Badra leaned forward and peered outside. Through their opened window she heard loud moans and cries coming from the vehicle.
Her face went scarlet. She stammered, "I—I th-thought the English only did such things behind closed doors."
"Their door is closed."
"But, they ... are in public!"
He looked again. "Yes. My protocol instructor would have a comment or two about their choice of venue."
A sudden spark of laughter shone in his eyes. Then it vanished, replaced by a calculating look as he watched her cheeks redden. A deep chill seized her. He was relishing her humiliation. The Duke of Caldwell leaned forward. His gaze snapped to the swaying carriage then back to her. His gaze dropped to her clenched thighs hidden by layers of wool. A slow, dangerous smile tilted his mouth upward.
Once, her falcon guard would never have considered such a debasing and dishonorable look. Khepri’s fist would have flown into another man’s chin for such lewdness.
But he was Kenneth now. No longer Khepri.
Heated anger filled her. "Is this something you do as well? It’s vulgar—something I would never have expected of you."
A chill look slid over him. "Not at all. I have no need of a carriage. Several English women find my bed perfectly delightful."
Hot blood flushed her cheeks again as tendrils of jealousy tore through her. Images surfaced of a pretty, blond Englishwoman moaning as she wrapped her white thighs around Kenneth’s pumping buttocks and he pressed her down into the mattress.
Another image replaced it: Sheikh Fareeq’s bloated, fat body advancing toward her, his meaty fist cruelly slapping her tender, bruised skin and then throwing her on his sheepskins and forcing himself inside her. She whimpered and cried in pain...
Badra gulped and slid the window up with a sharp click.
Icy air blasted back into the carnage as Smithfield opened his door and climbed back inside. "Shouldn’t be long now. Carriage ran into a hack. They’re clearing it." His gaze flicked to the object of their attention. "That’s Baron Ashbury’s carriage. But he’s ill, at his country estate. His wife must be in town—but she didn’t get her knocker up."
"She’s got someone’s knocker up," Kenneth noted.
The earl’s blue eyes widened as he caught sight of the rocking carriage. "Good God. She most certainly did."
Kenneth’s chest rumbled with deep laughter. Badra felt her cheeks flame with hot embarrassment. Thankfully, their carriage jerked forward and they pulled away.
The earl looked apologetic. "I hope that didn’t upset you, Badra."
She managed a tremulous smile, not wanting to distress their kind-hearted host. "It’s all right, Lord Smithfield. I’m just not used to seeing ... such things."
"Of course you never have, especially not while living in a sheikh’s harem," Kenneth said in a mocking tone in Arabic.
Smithfield said quietly in the same language, "I think we should speak English. Badra is anxious to practice the language and perhaps if you speak it you will act more like the civilized English gentleman you are desiring to become."
Kenneth muttered an apology in English. Heavy silence fell as he glued his attention to the window. His body went as stiff as wood. Once more Badra was reminded how her falcon guard had changed. He belonged to her world no more.
Smithfield smiled to break the tension. "You’ll have plenty of opportunity to practice English at my dinner party, Badra. Caldwell, I trust you’re still coming?"
The duke’s face tightened. "I would not miss it for anything. I’m eagerly anticipating it."
Tension knotted Badra’s muscles. A formal dinner party? She already felt strange when people glanced at her on the street. She was Egyptian. Different. Khepri had his English friends, his English traditions and culture. He blended into this society’s fabric effortlessly. She stood out like a pyramid on London’s dank, dirty streets.
Silence again fell in the carriage. Badra touched the money she’d received, reminding herself of her greater priority. She suppressed a shudder of dread at getting caught. Arrested, publicly shamed, dishonoring her tribe. But her daughter must be saved. No matter what the cost.
Badra stole a furtive glance at Kenneth, who stared grimly out the window.
Even the cost to herself.
Later that night Kenneth lay in his stiff, heavy, canopied bed where generations of Tristan nobility had been conceived. The opulent bed was as sweeping as Egypt’s dunes, with intricate flowers carved on wood posts thick as tree trunks. He missed his simple Khamsin bed; lightweight, portable, comfortable.
Memories haunted him—cool desert nights and Badra’s sultry singing. He rolled over and punched the feather pillow. He tried for sleep, for blessed forgetfulness. It did not come.
What if she had agreed to marry him and he had remained behind as a Khamsin warrior? Or what if she’d dared to leave behind her life in the desert to be his duchess? A faint dream teased him: Badra at his side as they strolled along Bond Street. Badra presiding over his dinner table with charm and ease. Badra’s nude body pressed beneath him as she gave soft cries of pleasure as they conceived the next Duke of Caldwell. Badra handing him their firstborn child, her glow of pride equaling his own.
Pain gripped him, as intense as a scimitar spearing his heart. Kenneth buried his face in his pillow, stifling a deep groan. He must forget her.
But how could he?
He’d shadowed her every move for five years. Now fate had dealt him a cruel blow; she was shadowing him with equal zeal.
Bloody hell—he liked that English phrase—his body still pulsed with wanting her, desiring her as madly as a man crawling in the desert craved water. He’d thought he was able to banish memories of her sweet laughter, her shy smile. He could no more erase her from his mind than he could scrub away the cobra tattoo on his right arm. Both were carved into him permanently.
Cold sweat trickled down his spine. He wanted to find the thief himself, not rely upon others. Kenneth contented himself with images of capturing the thief, watching a cell door clank closed before him.
Eventually a languid drowsiness came. He dozed off until something nudged him awake. His warrior sense of awareness, honed by years of battle, sprang to life. His gaze jerked to the open French windows leading to the terrace, overlooking the garden. A shadow fell just inside the room.
Kenneth lay perfectly still as the intruder slipped inside. The glow of the full moon shimmered on an upraised gleam of silver.
The knife descended with lightning speed, but he reacted and rolled, seizing his attacker’s wrist. Pain flared briefly as the blade scraped his arm. Kenneth threw a punch directly to his assailant’s middle. A low wheeze of pain was his reward, and his attacker doubled over and wrenched away. Then he fled.
Kenneth sprang off the bed and dashed after the fleeing figure, who turned and delivered a gut-grinding kick to his midsection. Kenneth wheezed, the breath knocked out of him. His attacker vaulted over the railing. By the time Kenneth made it to the terrace, the only evidence left was a dangling rope.
His breathing finally quieted as he cradled his injured arm. Incredulity raged through him, along with a deep-seated fury and growing horror.
The person fleeing into the ghostly London night remained elusive, but the clothing he wore was no mystery. A distinctive outfit, worn by desert warriors who prided themselves on their honor, duty and fierce fighting abilities. A costume he had worn with pride, now tucked away in a chest with memories best forgotten. The indigo clothing of a warrior of the wind.
One of his former brethren had just tried to murder him.
Chapter Five
Shortly after breakfast, not caring that proper
visiting hours were in the afternoon, Kenneth banged a familiar knocker. The butler opened the door, surprise showing on his dour face. Without words, Kenneth removed his greatcoat, tossed it at him and strode angrily into the drawing room. The Earl of Smithfield read before a crackling fire. He glanced up.
"Where’s Rashid?" Kenneth demanded.
Smithfield’s blue eyes widened as he set his book down. "Walking in the park. Poor fellow keeps shutting himself inside his room. I ordered him to get some fresh air. Why?"
"I’m going to wring his bloody neck."
"Calm down," Smithfield ordered. He rang for a footman and issued a crisp order for brandy. Kenneth accepted the cut-glass snifter and sipped, relishing the burn in his throat.
"Now, please explain what has you so upset, Caldwell."
When Kenneth finished recounting the attack, and his suspicions, the earl frowned. "Are you certain it’s Rashid?"
"Positive," Kenneth said roughly. "He hates me."
The earl drummed long fingers on the chair’s armrest. "You suspect he came here to sell your necklace as well as the tribe’s gold?"
"Positive. He may not even have sold it yet." His gaze bored into his friend’s. "I want your permission to search his room."
"And if you find your necklace? What then? Will you have him arrested?" The earl’s voice remained oddly neutral.
"I’ll decide later. Right now I need to get into his room."
"Very well. It’s the third door on the left."
Kenneth stood, nodding at his empty glass. "Thanks for the refreshment. Goes better on a full stomach—the fullest it’s been since I fired my cook."
"You fired Pomeroy—the finest French chef in London?"
"Had to. His dishes were upsetting my stomach."
The earl drew his black brows together as if something greatly disturbed him. "Caldwell, about your grandfather. Had he been ill before he died?"
Kenneth racked his memory. "I recall a time or two he complained about stomach ailments. Why?"