by Bonnie Vanak
"You will, or I will hand it over to Khepri and confess I am the thief. And take whatever punishment awaits me."
Panic welled inside her. "Please, Rashid, you must not!"
"I must. I am your falcon guard, sworn to protect you. If you do not return it, I will. Why did you take it?" His dark eyes looked troubled.
The words spilled from her lips. "In exchange for the freedom of a slave at the brothel in Cairo. They would not take money."
It was a glimmer of the truth—the heart of it, really.
He sighed heavily. ‘Trading one wrong for another will not settle the weight upon your leb, Badra."
"Please, Rashid. Do not question my heart on this."
"You are the most stubborn woman I know. But I will not see you punished as a thief."
Rashid arrested, publicly humiliated? The hurtful image haunted her: her falcon guard dragged off in chains by a grim-faced Khepri. How could she allow this?
"I will hide it in Khepri’s house, then it will no longer be stolen. I asked to see his home," Badra reasoned.
As Rashid nodded, the necklace burned coldly in her hand like her past burned in her mind, enslaving her as she had once been enslaved to a man’s lust. Never again.
The gold pectoral, sewn to the inside of her skirts, weighed Badra down like heavy shackles. She shivered, her superstitious soul hating to touch the artifact.
She and Rashid had come in Lord Smithfield’s shiny black carriage for tea at Kenneth’s house. She looked around with avid curiosity. Two stiff-spined men stood at rapt attention, their green-and-gold finery sparkling like the gilded hallway chairs. The mansion radiated quiet dignity, shimmered with polish and elegance. But it felt as welcoming as a cold stone tomb. Where best to place the necklace in this immense museum?
Rashid’s face tightened as a footman escorted them to a formal drawing room. She shot her guard a warning glance: Behave.
Dressed in an elegant, crisp gray suit and a silk tie, Kenneth greeted them courteously. No reflection of their kiss shone in his eyes. A tiny hurt pinched Badra.
He escorted them throughout the immense house, explaining the history of how the Tristan family had become titled more than two hundred years ago. Sweat dripped down Rashid’s temples. His face became a harsh mask, as if he couldn’t bear the opulence. Badra’s heart sank as they toured the rooms. She could not see the right hiding place.
When they returned to the drawing room, she took a seat on the large striped settee. Kenneth sat on one side of her, Rashid on the other, flanking her like two grim-faced bookends. Egypt and England. Khepri was gone, hidden by layers of stiff gray broadcloth, his black silk tie knotted neatly at his throat; the duke had absorbed her friend as sand dunes swallow skeletal remains. Her chest tightened with sadness.
An odd jangling noise sounded. A footman appeared.
‘Telephone, Your Grace. It’s the steward at your country estate, a matter of the accounts this month," he stated.
Kenneth sighed. He turned to Badra. "I’m afraid I must take this in private. Please, remain here. I’ll be with you momentarily."
She watched him go. Now was the time.
"I’m going to look around," she whispered to Rashid.
His eyes closed and he nodded. Poor Rashid. He looked miserable at even being in the duke’s house.
A hiding place, she mused, slipping into the hallway. A place where Kenneth would not immediately find the necklace. The dining room? Badra headed there and slipped inside, eyeing the imposing polished table and matching sideboards, the expensive silk-paneled walls. A polished silver tea service sat on a sideboard. Badra lifted its gleaming silver cover.
"May I help you?"
She jumped at the pompous voice behind her. Badra whirled. "Er, no thank you. I was ... looking for the duke."
"In the teapot?"
She peered into the pot’s depths and offered a smile. "You’re correct. I do believe this is too tight a fit for him."
The footman stared impassively at her. Not a hint of a smile cracked his face. She sighed and walked off. These English, did they not know how to laugh? Perhaps it was prohibited among servants.
Badra hurried and returned to the drawing room, sitting just as Kenneth walked back into the room.
"Well? Shall we have tea?" he asked.
Servants set up the tea service in the drawing room, complete with lacy doilies and stiff linen napkins. There were paper-thin sandwiches with leafy greens, sugared scones and squares of dark brown cakes Kenneth explained were gingerbread.
His mouth turned downward. "My brother, Graham, loved gingerbread. Grandfather told me he used to eat it at Christmas until he got sick."
She had forgotten all his prior losses. His grandfather’s recent death had probably reminded him of the tragedy of losing his other family members. "Were you close?" she asked gently, moved by the sadness in his eyes.
"I was only four. I don’t remember much, except Graham was bigger." His mouth twisted in a crooked smile. "I do remember one thing. Graham used to call me ‘Runt.’ I called him ‘Canary’ because he whistled all the time, like our pet bird."
She wondered how he felt, all alone in this enormous house, only servants for company, ghosts of the past haunting his thoughts. Upset by his melancholy look, she tried to steer him toward more cheerful conversation; she asked about the house’s history. The haunted look fled his face, replaced with quiet pride as he relayed how generations of Tristan nobility had entertained kings and queens inside the mansion. Badra felt the tightness inside her ease. She hated seeing Kenneth forlorn and lost. She pressed further, asking about his new life in England, desiring to coax him out of the sadness of his past.
It worked, for his charm and wit sprang to the surface as he dutifully regaled her and Rashid with stories of balls and society teas. A new sadness pulled at her; she could not see a trace of the Khamsin warrior who had protected her, who had sworn his eternal love. That man seemed to have vanished.
She reached for another scone and nibbled its edges. Rashid drank more tea and ate another gingerbread cake. Soon the sweets vanished. Conversation ground to a halt. Rashid looked ready to bolt. Badra shot him a pleading look, which Kenneth, to her dismay, intercepted.
"I’ll have my man drive you back to Lord Smithfield’s. Badra, you will remain here. I have something to show you. I can have my man return you a bit later."
She wondered at this new Kenneth, his seeming ease at commanding servants, the implacable set of his lips. She felt drawn to his mouth, the sensual full lower curve of his lip. His air of arrogance mixed with courteous regard intrigued her, despite her inner trembling at her continued deception.
She set her teacup down with a shaky clink. Rashid left. Kenneth leaned forward, hands on his knees.
"I did not show you the entire house. There is something rather special I think you’ll like."
He stood. Badra gathered her courage and smiled. How could she plant the pendant with him hovering over her?
Lacing his hands behind his back, the duke strolled with her up the curving main staircase. Scents of lemon and beeswax hung in the air, mixing with the faint smell of his cologne. She stole a glance at him. Polished as the staircase. His black signet ring winked in the light.
How could she fool this man?
Kenneth caught her looking and raised an inquiring brow. "Are you nervous being all alone with me, Badra?"
A speculative light glimmered in his eyes. Startled by his scrutiny, she stumbled and pitched forward. Kenneth reached out. She caught hold of his steadying arms. Her fingers curled tightly around the hard muscles, and he looked down at her solemnly as she grasped him.
"Are you hurt?"
Yes, she wanted to say. I’m hurt that there is this cold distance between us, that I’ve done something despicable in order to achieve another end. I’m hurt that our worlds are too different to bridge the canyon between us.
"No," she said automatically. "I’m fine."
H
e grasped her elbow as they cleared the last step and headed down the hallway. Her cheeks grew flushed at his continued touch, the warmth searing through her wool sleeve. He steered her toward a massive set of paneled wood doors and twisted a brass knob, ushering her formally inside.
A delighted gasp fled her lips.
He stood with a quiet air of pride, his hand gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, forest-green carpet and carved mahogany fireplace. Tall brass lamps flanked oversized leather armchairs. The effect was quietly masculine and yet, as she breathed in the scent of leather-bound learning, Badra had never felt more at home.
"Oh, Khepri!" She caught herself, flushed and added, "I mean, Kenneth." She turned, her eyes shining, burning with excitement and wonder. "May I?"
"But of course." He strolled over to one wood case and thumbed through the selections. He chose one and handed it over with reverence. She fingered the tome and read aloud the gold lettering on the jacket.
"David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. What type of book is this?"
"Some call it popular," he said, peering over her shoulder.
Badra clutched the book to her chest like a child holding a treasured toy. "May I borrow it?"
Kenneth smiled. "Of course."
Her mouth worked up and down as she stroked the calf-leather binding. No one had ever given her such a treasure.
"I never told you, Badra, but do you know how proud I was when you learned to read?"
A flush of pleasure at his compliment lit her cheeks. "Thank you," she said shyly.
The loud ringing of the telephone was followed by a soft knock at the door, breaking the tension between them. "Yes," he called out impatiently.
A white-gloved footman stepped inside. "Beg your pardon, Your Grace, but there is another telephone call."
"Very well." He glanced at her. "I’m afraid I have some pressing business I must finish. Please, enjoy yourself. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If you see anything else you like, feel free to borrow it."
She thanked him, setting down Mr. Dickens. Like a starving man eyeing a banquet, Badra combed through the books, hungry for each one. Between the stacks, she would hide the pendant.
After a few minutes, something nagged her about Kenneth’s collection. The books all seemed too new. None had a well-worn feeling, pages thumbed and bindings creased from frequent use as the cherished books sent by Lord Smithfield to the Khamsin camp did. Were all the titles Kenneth stocked merely for show, as one would display rare Egyptian artifacts?
She did not think him a shallow man, yet he had changed...
Badra wandered over to another shelf and examined the titles. The books were all in Arabic. She chose one and thumbed the pages. It was well worn, much used. A few others showed the same signs.
She doubted any of his English friends read Arabic books. Clearly Kenneth read these. Why not the English?
She pursed her lips over this mystery. Perhaps the Arabic was a link to a life he seemed determined to leave behind, yet could not. Badra shrugged. A wooden ladder rested nearby. Lifting her skirts, she released the necklace from the threads holding it captive. Prize in hand, she climbed the ladder, carefully slid the pectoral between two volumes, and peered between them. Excellent. It was well-hidden.
A volume with an interesting title caught her attention. Badra retrieved it. "The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana," she said aloud slowly. "Translated by Sir Richard Burton."
She skimmed the pages and nearly fell off the ladder. Her eyes widened. Oh my. A book of instruction on sexual pleasure!
Badra replaced it, selected another book with illustrations. She peered at them in shocked fascination.
Could a man and a woman really do that?
It looked difficult, like one of the daring moves Ramses made with his scimitar while performing the Dance of the Swords.
Climbing down the ladder with the book, she set it upon a small polished table and leafed through the illustrations. A blush flamed her cheeks as she encountered one in particular. The erotic image before her brought an odd surge of heat low in her belly. Did Kenneth do these things?
Badra moved on, lingering over another drawing she found particularly interesting: a nude man and woman. The woman’s face was contorted not with pain, but pleasure.
Did her former falcon guard do this with English women? Did their white limbs drape over his hips, pulling him closer? Did their faces show the emotions the woman in the drawing did?
Did they cover Kenneth with their heavy scent of cloying perfume, and the musky smell of their sex?
Badra trembled. She could not digest such ideas. Still, the drawings held a fascination for her. She turned another page and stared at an illustration of a naked woman with eyes closed in apparent pleasure. The man had his face ... Oh my. Oh my!
She had heard whispers of the pleasures a woman received from the Khamsin warrior’s secret of one hundred kisses. Yet she could not imagine such a thing for herself. Her fear ran too deeply.
Still, she earmarked the page to consider the possibility and continued leafing through the book.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. In desperation, Badra closed the book with a snap and looked around. No place to return it among the tightly packed books on the lower shelves. No time to climb the ladder and replace it.
Kenneth was returning. What would he think if he caught her with this private, very revealing book?
Panic rushed through her, but she was trapped.
Chapter Nine
She had to hide the book. Badra glanced down at her thick skirts. She just managed. Just as the door opened, they fell back into place with a swish.
Kenneth came forward. "Did you find anything you like?"
"Oh yes, indeed, I have Mr. Dickens and I am quite looking forward to indulging myself," she babbled.
He nodded. "Excellent. Why don’t you read it to me?"
"Read to you?"
"I miss the sound of your voice." His warm gaze locked with hers. "When you speak, it’s like hearing Egypt. Hearing you read a book in English would please me."
This simple admission moved her. The duke gestured toward the large, overstuffed striped chairs. Badra burned with embarrassment. Making herself comfortable with a heavy, leather-bound book sandwiched between her thighs? She could barely walk.
But neither could she remain standing here wearing a silly smile. Badra swallowed, shifted her calves in an awkward walk.
Kenneth’s brow wrinkled. "Are you still having trouble with those shoes? Lord Smithfield can find you another pair more comfortable."
"These are fine," she answered, taking another awkward step. She felt the leather begin to slide downward.
Badra halted.
Kenneth frowned. "You’re walking as if you’re in tremendous pain. Let me assist you."
She held up a hand. "No, please, I am quite ..."
Thunk! The volume fell from between her clenched thighs with a heavy thud on the carpet.
Kenneth raised an inquiring eyebrow.
"Did you drop something?" he asked politely. Her cheeks burned as he pointedly looked at her hem.
Badra stepped back, revealing the forbidden book concealed by her skirts. Kenneth bent down, picked it up, and flipped it over, and it fell open to the page that had fascinated her—a man pressing his face deep between a woman’s plump thighs.
"Interesting," he murmured, his blue eyes twinkling. "Badra, if you wish to learn more about this, I advise reading the book, not using it to ape the illustration." The teasing light in his eyes grew as he set the book down on the table.
Heat filled her cheeks. "I ... I wanted to know your tastes." Then she blushed deeper, realizing her words.
The duke simply looked at her. Hunger filled his rich blue eyes, which shone like jewels. He reached forward.
His forefinger gently brushed her bottom lip. "My tastes have always been constant."
Badra closed her eyes, trembling at the warmth of his touch. A shard of deep year
ning pierced her.
"You are so beautiful." His voice evoked shudders of need within her.
Why could she not have mustered the courage to tell him yes when he’d proposed? Would Kenneth have hurt her as her former captor had? She had no courage. She could never do the things the woman in that book did. Not willingly. Never. She had to remind herself: Kenneth deserved a woman with passion to equal his own.
If only she could dare feel a little of the desire flaring in his intense eyes. Could she? Badra yearned to try.
He moved closer, his thumb resting at her bottom lip, teasing it back and forth in a feather-light caress. His gaze locked with hers. So different. Yet so familiar. Her hand touched the firmness of his chiseled jaw, as she stared into the deep, intriguing mix of green flecks in his blue eyes, which were fringed by a sweep of long, dark lashes.
Thick, dark hair fell across his forehead. With a trembling hand, she reached up and brushed it aside. Once it had swept past his shoulders; now, it was close-cropped. She grasped for her Khepri, the man who would have given life and limb to protect her.
Kenneth took her hand, brought her finger to his lips. His eyes closed as he gently pressed a kiss there. His lips were moist and warm; then he rubbed her hand against his cheek. The intriguing brush of that masculine, clean-shaven skin unleashed a torrent of wild uncertainty in her. Badra wanted to pull back, torn with yearning and deep-seated fear at the raw hunger evident in his expression. Where would this lead?
Once, he’d sworn an oath to shed every last drop of his blood to defend her virtue. Would he now strip that very same virtue away? No longer Khamsin, he was now a powerful English duke. He was no longer governed by the same rules.
She laughed to cover her nervousness and let her hands rest upon his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath the texture of his jacket. That lean, tensile steel of a warrior still existed beneath his tailored finery.
"You look so different. Yet this suits you. Like your cobra totem, you have shed your Khamsin skin for an English one and blended in perfectly."
A flicker of sadness shone in his eyes. "I am a cobra, maybe, but one uncomfortable in his new coat," he admitted. "Stuffed and shoved into a skin totally unfamiliar."