by Bonnie Vanak
Fans fluttered wildly now as many flushed-faced women sighed. Kenneth asked them with wicked glee, "Would you care for me to explain the war dance of the Khamsin warriors?"
A chorus of female voices cried out in unison. "Oh, yes!"
The duke smiled and obliged them. The women craned their necks forward to listen. A mutual sigh of their admiration undulated down the table as he sketched with his hands how the warriors tangled with each other "like wildcats" to demonstrate their prowess to their sheikh. And how they denied themselves their wives’ company before battle but after victory, the warriors stalked off to their tents and demonstrated a "savage, insatiable prowess." Kenneth’s suggestive look hinted at air filled with different cries—female cries of pleasure.
They all listened, clearly enthralled. And by the time he finished, every woman was flushed. Several looked faint.
The duke gave each a polite smile before riveting his attention to Badra. Her insides felt as formless as fresh yogurt. Kenneth’s burning gaze pierced her.
"Well, Badra, I hope my explanation of the Khamsin rituals did not make you homesick," he said.
"It sounds like you are the homesick one," she noted.
His startled expression stopped the breath rising in her lungs. Sadness lingered there, twisting her emotions. In his face she saw a longing, the call of sand and sun and the warbling of warriors racing on their mares to battle. Then the look vanished like thirsty sand drinking precious raindrops.
"Why, my dear Badra," he drawled, his Egyptian accent fading, replaced by a proper British enunciation. "How can I be homesick when it’s clear I am perfectly at home?"
He picked up his crystal wineglass. But the sadness she could not forget. It reminded Badra of all she’d lost herself. His camaraderie. His fiercely protective nature. His love.
For she had become his enemy.
It was terrifying. Deep inside, Kenneth was a Khamsin warrior still, tempering his might with a veneer of urbane witticisms and genteel nobility. If he knew her crime ... would he release the turbulent emotions raging inside him and unleash them on her?
Her heart lurched. Badra dropped her gaze, remembering her secret dream. She had become his wife and joined him in this strange, new world—a journey together, a challenge faced as one heart, one soul.
But it was a dream as elusive as mist. She was a former slave, a concubine. Now a smuggler of the duke’s treasure, who belonged to a tribe that had banished Kenneth from their midst forever.
Chapter Seven
How could he have forgotten the effect Badra had on him?
It took all the restraint and control he’d learned as a warrior to keep his emotions in check. Her subtle jasmine scent teased his senses. A soft glow of the crystal chandelier reflected in the dark pools of her eyes. As the ladies rose to retire, Kenneth drew in a harsh breath, watching Badra with the keenness of a cobra eyeing prey.
God, how he still wanted her. Would the ache never cease? When he’d seen her gracefully stroll into the anteroom, he’d hid his emotions behind an expressionless mask as his Khamsin brethren had taught him. Then her woebegone expression had tugged at his heart and he’d steered her through dinner.
The women had retreated to the drawing room now, dragging Badra off, insisting on hearing her tales of Egypt. She had thrown Kenneth a panicked glance over one shoulder.
Protocol insisted he remain with the men. Kenneth swirled his brandy. A nasty suspicion rose in him. The women were going to probe details of her life. Curiosity had filled their faces. Every bone in his body urged him to rescue her. By God, he’d once vowed to rescue her from danger and here he was, leaving her in the clutches of women whose tongues were sharper than an Al-Hajid sword ... But it’s no longer your concern, he reminded himself.
Lord Huntly puffed on a cheroot and directed his attention toward Kenneth. "Simply amazing, Caldwell, how your grandfather found you after all these years. Quite a miracle. Seeing you were the sole survivor and now heir. If not for you, your cousin would inherit the title, is that not right?"
He offered a twisted smile. "Victor is a second cousin, but yes, I suppose you are correct. He would have inherited."
"The old Caldwell never gave up hope one of you might be still alive—either you or your brother."
Graham, the brother he vaguely remembered. Six years old when the Al-Hajid raided their caravan. Kenneth’s chest tightened like wet leather as distant memories flickered. His parents frantically trying to find a place big enough to hide Graham. The look of horrific terror on his brother’s face as he whipped his head around and saw the Al-Hajid galloping toward them. Their mother shoving Kenneth into the basket and closing the lid. The death screams...
"I say, shame about your grandfather dying so quickly. I miss the old man. We shared an adventure or two in our youth when he dragged me off to Egypt." Huntly’s voice dropped. "Even visited one of those forbidden brothels in Cairo. He became quite enamored with a lovely little missy there."
Kenneth startled. "My grandfather?"
"Quite randy in his salad days." Huntly’s face contorted as silence fell all around. "I do apologize, Caldwell."
Viscount Oates seized the opportunity. His knowing gaze burned into Kenneth’s. "Randy as his grandson, I’m certain. Yet, look at how you’ve fit into society, Caldwell. Why, I daresay, one could not even guess you belonged to those ill-mannered heathens who raised you."
"No more than the ill-mannered heathens who raised you," Kenneth shot back calmly. Lord Huntly coughed out smoke and sputtered with laughter. From the corner, Smithfield quirked an eyebrow and smiled in silent amusement.
Kenneth could hold his own among those who scorned him because of his Arabic upbringing: he had learned to. But Badra? Were the women scorning her as the men had him upon his first return to England? Panic had flashed on her face as the women escorted her out.
He could ignore the impulse no longer; Kenneth murmured a polite excuse, set down his snifter and strolled to the drawing room. The door remained open. He lingered outside, listening with stealth, not all his years of training forgotten after all.
Inside, spine rigid, Badra sat on a plush crimson chaise. Women eyed her like vultures eye fresh carrion. Kenneth’s alarm intensified as he spotted several former lovers. One pressed close to Badra, hazel eyes sparkling with malice. He stifled a groan. The Honorable Millicent Williams, newly come out last season and not, as he had discovered, a virgin. In a frantic effort to forget Badra, he’d bedded several ladies, had been a randy Arabian stallion among a herd of willing English fillies.
Hearing of his affairs, his grandfather had gently urged a little discretion. Kenneth had rapidly disentangled himself from the liaisons, realizing he didn’t need to act like his peers in the bedroom in order to assimilate into this new and odd society—a society which disdained naked table legs but not seeking pleasure between the spread naked legs of other men’s wives, as long as the affairs were, like the table legs, discreetly out of sight. His lovers had pouted, but he had been firm and polite when they met during social occasions. Far more polite than they were being to Badra now. His heart twisted at her stricken look.
"Oh, but it must be so very fascinating living in Egypt. I imagine you lived in a harem. Did you wear those frightfully scandalous clothes?" one woman asked eagerly.
Badra flinched. Her delicate fingers curled tightly around her silk skirts.
Lady Millicent made a moue of prudish distaste. "I hear these tribes have women who exist only to serve men. I hear there are harems of brown-skinned, immoral women who wear practically nothing and do all sorts of wicked acts." A loathing glance cast at Badra indicated her intent.
Kenneth’s rage grew. Wicked acts? He remembered Millicent’s very wicked mouth around his very willing cock, teasing him to full arousal. Now those same lips spouted hypocritical moralism. Almost subconsciously, he started forward, angered by the roses rising in Badra’s lovely cheeks.
But Badra gave Millicent a cool look.
"The Khamsin are an honorable tribe and their women are equally honorable," she retorted.
Brava, Kenneth said silently.
The elderly, nearly deaf Mrs. Stephens leaned forward, rapt interest sparking in her rheumy eyes. "Arabs have harems where women do all manner of disgusting things," she nearly shouted.
Badra drew back as the woman’s sly eyes roved her form. The others leaned forward, their eyes bright with cruel speculation. Kenneth’s former charge looked like a terrified horse ready to bolt. Silent rage filled him. He hesitated, remembering she was no longer his responsibility. Need to protect her combated with old hurts, but habits died hard.
Kenneth’s frown deepened. He instinctively knew all had witnessed his aiding her during dinner and sensed a weakness, like crocodiles who would drag prey below the Nile for a kill.
The instinct arose to storm inside, scoop Badra up over his shoulder and charge out, warbling the Khamsin war cry to make those harpies shake with terror. They leaned close, slashing with the claws of their words, vultures dressed in satin, jewels dripping from their ears and necks. But Badra was holding her own, her little chin bravely thrust out. Then he saw it quiver. Kenneth steeled his spine as a warrior prepared for battle.
"Ladies? Surely this is not a conversation I would expect of well-bred women such as you."
With proud carriage, Kenneth strode into the silk-paneled drawing room. Soft, startled gasps filled the air. Badra watched with relief and pride at his entrance. Every starched spine and creaking whalebone corset shifted as the women swung their attention to him. Authority rode on his black silk-covered shoulders. The duke raked each woman with razor-sharp blue eyes and a contemptuous gaze.
"My understanding of English hospitality was one always makes a visitor in this country feel welcome. Especially a visitor who is unfamiliar with English culture. A visitor from the land, and the tribe, where I was raised."
His voice grew dangerously soft. "When you insult them—or her—you insult me. Thanks to the Khamsin, I was rescued from death. I owe them a great debt."
A flutter of female voices rose in a chorus of false protests, twined with anxious looks at Badra. Kenneth cast the women a look hard enough to cut diamonds.
"Enough of this," he said in clipped tones, his deep voice tinged with the wonderfully soothing accent that reminded all he was raised in another land. Badra’s land. Her culture. He held out a hand, no longer quite so darkened from the sun. Badra took it, stiffly bidding the others good-bye.
In the foyer, she fought back an impulse to hug him. He seemed cold and distant, quietly studying her. What if he hadn’t charged forward, snatching her away from danger? I truly am alone in the world. Khepri will not always be there for me. Never again.
"If you’re quite all right, I’ll be leaving now. Tell Smithfield I’ll knock him up tomorrow."
He smiled briefly, touched her cheek. Then he jerked his hand back and walked out of the house. Leaving her. Distant and remote, as stony as the great pyramids they’d once both admired.
Badra raced outside, placed a gloved hand upon his arm. "Please wait a minute, Khep—I mean, Kenneth." Moisture blurred her eyes as he turned. "Thank you for what you did for me. I don’t know if I could have taken another minute of those women."
Kenneth touched a tear trickling down her cheek. The glistening droplet clung to his finger. His expression softened. "They are ill-bred, despite their titles, and quick to judge what they do not understand. They preen and put on an appearance like colorful birds, but their minds are as empty as tombs." He paused and considered, arching his brows. "Actually, that’s an insult to the dead."
She laughed. He continued, "They are far below you, Badra, vapid chits who never strive to improve their minds as you have. Do not give them another thought."
A tremulous smile touched her lips. "You’re the same Khepri, rushing again to my rescue—only this time from a horde of women instead of enemy warriors."
"With tongues sharper than those warriors’ scimitars," he quipped, and she laughed, pressing her fingers against his arm and squeezing.
"I miss you. I truly do."
He tensed and pulled away. "I must leave."
His eyes were as chill as the frosty air. Badra felt her insides twist. This was so difficult, trying to regain old ground. But she couldn’t let him walk away without trying to mend the rift between them.
Her warm breath misted the air as she exhaled, struggling for words. Once, she could tell him anything. Anything except her abuse at the hands of Fareeq. Anything but her deep shame.
"Kenneth, I know this must be equally difficult for you as it is for me. I had hoped—perhaps we could mend the break between us. We could at least be friends."
He gave her a blank look. "Why?"
Badra swallowed hard. "I-I didn’t mean to hurt you. Truly, I did not. And I think you resent Rashid for becoming my falcon guard when you left Egypt."
His face remained expressionless. Like a Khamsin warrior still, he concealed his feelings.
"I wish you and Rashid would put aside your differences. It troubles my leb, my heart. He is my friend."
"A friend and nothing more?"
At her nonchalant shrug, his gaze sharpened. "Don’t get too close to Rashid, Badra. There may be ... trouble."
Trouble? "Is that a warning?"
"Consider it advice."
Ruminating on his cryptic words, she nodded. "I would enjoy seeing your home, Kenneth. Truly, I would. May I visit?" She paused. "I will bring Rashid. He owes you an apology for his rudeness."
He glanced away, a tic in his jaw muscle as if he fought some deep emotion. "Yes, of course. Come to tea tomorrow. English tea is served at four."
No emotion colored his voice. The cool, polite English duke overwhelmed the hot-blooded warrior beneath. Badra sighed and, remembering a gesture of Western civility, stuck out a palm.
"Thank you. I do not want tensions between us. Friends?" she inquired softly.
Kenneth silently studied her hand. Slowly he reached out and clasped her palm. She stared back at him. Then he tugged her hand and, quickly as a snake striking, yanked her toward him. His arms locked like steel bars around her. She gasped, panicked, feeling like prey in the coils of a giant anaconda she had read about in one of Lord Smithfield’s books.
A slow smile stole over his face. Badra became alarmed as his hard male body pressed against her. She had forgotten how very strong he was. She had forgotten his persistence in pursuing something he wanted. She had forgotten a lot of things.
He bent his head toward her. Her insides turned to warm jelly. Fear battled with desire. His scent enveloped her in a warm cloud. A foreign spicy scent clinging to his smooth-shaven cheeks mixed with sandalwood soap. The latter reminded her that this was Khepri, her warrior protector. Once, his zealous devotion had eagerly assured obedience. If she’d asked him to walk off the cliffs of Amarna, he would.
No longer. Determination shone in his blue eyes. His relentless, warm grip warned her she was no longer in control. The knowledge flooded her with fresh panic.
He eased her fears as he lowered his mouth to hers in a gentle, reverent kiss. His lips feathered over hers. To her surprise, she found herself accepting the invitation. Daringly she tasted him back, intrigued by the warmth surging through her, by the new sensations pooling in her like a low, steadily burning fire.
He cupped the back of her head and angled his mouth more securely over hers, then he deepened their chaste kiss into something more. The intensity made her heart beat wildly. Badra opened her mouth wider as he tasted her, probing its inside with expert licks. His teeth nipped her lower lip. A small whimper of pleasure rose from her throat.
Then, just as suddenly, he released her. She staggered back, nearly losing her balance.
"Friends, Badra? Are you really quite so confident you want that?" he asked huskily.
She was still trembling as he stalked off. Her hand shook visibly as she twisted the brass knob and went back
inside. She dashed upstairs. She needed to check on Rashid—and to tell him of Kenneth’s enigmatic warning.
Badra started to rap on his door. Sounds of distress came from inside. Alarmed, she went in, turning on a lamp.
Rashid lay on his bedroll, tossing and turning, moaning in his sleep. Pitying him, Badra brushed a hand against his brow. "Rashid, wake up. You’re dreaming."
He sat up with a start. Sweat trickled down his temples. His gaze met hers and he drew back. "You should not be in here, Badra."
"I must talk with you. Khepri warned me to avoid you and said there might be trouble. Why would he say such a thing?"
A long sigh escaped Rashid’s lips. "It is as I thought. He found it and thinks I am the thief."
Badra went very still with panic. "Thief?"
"Someone examined my bag. The marker I placed over it was disturbed." He snorted derisively. "Khepri is not the warrior he once was. He has forgotten much."
"What is it? What does he hold over you?"
Her falcon guard reached down into his bedroll, withdrew his woven bag and dug inside. He held up the item. "This," he said soberly.
It was the gold necklace of Princess Meret.
Chapter Eight
The necklace mocked her as she rubbed her eyes in disbelief. It kept returning to her, sticking like tiny granules of evil sand she could not brush away.
So, Rashid knew she’d sold the pectoral. His dark gaze met hers.
"Why, Badra?" he asked, his words harsh in the quiet room. "Why did you steal from Khepri? Money?"
She offered a helpless shrug. "How did you get that?"
He heaved a long sigh, swinging the necklace from his fingers. "I saw you selling it. When the shop closed, I went back and broke in and took it." His face grew stern. "You will return the necklace to the tomb."
Her stomach gave a sharp twist. She remained silent.