The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind)
Page 12
"Lady Stenson-Hines," she introduced herself. "My husband, Sir Walter Stenson-Hines. And these are my daughters, Iris, Rose and Hyacinth."
Kenneth did not stand. He accorded the woman and her English flower garden a polite nod. Lady Stenson-Hines gushed, "It is so good to see you here in Egypt! I was telling Walter the other day I absolutely could not wait to arrive at the Shepherd’s and mingle with civilized people. These natives ..." She wrinkled a bulbous nose. "Disgusting, the way they live. Greedy, unscrupulous and cowardly. Sly, lazy heathens. One must keep constant vigilance."
Sir Walter cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Felicity, my dear, I think the duke was raised ..."
Kenneth offered a thin smile. "Do not let me delay you, Lady Stenson-Hines. I’m certain you and your family are anxious to settle in—with the help of the assorted lazy heathens," he said dryly.
She gave a vigorous nod, his sarcasm soaring over her head like a flock of doves. "Perhaps later we shall see you in the lounge. Come along, girls!"
The matron and her flower garden traipsed off. The husband, twirling his waxed mustache, gave Kenneth an apologetic look and retreated.
Acid churned in Kenneth’s empty stomach. He signaled for a waiter and ordered a honeyed pastry. When it arrived, he bit into the flaky treat and swallowed disappointment. It tasted mediocre and not half as excellent as Khamsin cakes.
But disappointment was an emotion he’d learned to live with these days. Kenneth brushed crumbs off the table as he spotted his cousin snaking his way through the crush.
A wet cigar stump protruded from Victor’s lips, its glowing end punctuating a determined mouth. He carried a small leather valise, which he promptly set down by a chair. Kenneth stood and his cousin vigorously pumped his hand.
They settled into seats while Victor mopped his perspiring brow.
"Bloody heat," he complained. "Feels like sticking my body into an oven. Give me London’s winter any day."
"Ah, yes, the yellow fog and blackened skies from the factories. I relish the smell of sulfur in the morning," Kenneth remarked dryly.
Victor’s blue eyes, much like his own, searched the terrace. Kenneth’s second cousin owned a prosperous antiquities shop here in Cairo as well as the London store. He had built up a successful business trading in them. He was also closely connected to Kenneth’s affairs here, and the dig at Dashur.
Yet, Kenneth felt reluctant to reveal what he’d discovered. Victor exhibited some of the same prejudices many Englishmen had toward Egyptians. If he knew Rashid, an Egyptian from the tribe that had raised Kenneth, was the thief, he would insist on calling in the Cairene authorities. The Khamsin would be disgraced. Honor would be irrevocably lost. This was a battle Kenneth intended to fight on his own. He would not shame the tribe that raised him.
"So, any news from Dashur?" Victor asked.
Kenneth examined the rim of his teacup. "De Morgan assures me they are making progress each day, and he expects to find the second necklace soon—and more jewelry, making it one of the season’s most spectacular hauls."
"I’m glad I can be of assistance to you," Victor commented. He gave Kenneth a steadying look. "I mean it."
"I appreciate your help, Victor. You’ve been invaluable."
His cousin tapped his cigar on his chair edge. Ash fell like dust onto the terrace. He reached down, fished in his valise and withdrew a thick, intimidating sheaf of papers.
"While you’re here, I have some documents for you to sign regarding the share of your proceeds from the shops."
The shops. Kenneth’s father had invested in Victor’s antiquities business and taken a cut of the profits as payment. Kenneth felt his chest tighten, wishing Zaid were here to decipher the documents. But the secretary had begged off for the afternoon. He took the pen his cousin proffered, pretended to scan the papers, and signed them.
He started to hand them back, then hesitated. "If you don’t mind, I’d like to have my secretary look these over, record the pertinent information. And seeing the shop in Cairo is half mine, I’d like a key," he said casually.
Victor’s eyes widened, and the cigar wobbled on his lips. Hard anger appeared for a moment, then he blinked, banishing the look. Kenneth’s dismay grew. What was his cousin hiding?
Victor dug into his waistcoat pocket and flipped a brass key over. "Shop’s quite dusty. I had an assistant, but had to dismiss him. Couldn’t quite trust him."
"Why not give me a tour right now?" Kenneth asked casually.
Color flooded Victor’s cheeks. "Now?"
"No time like the present. I need to depart afterward."
‘To the dig? Shall I accompany you?" Victor asked, puffing on his cigar as they scraped back their chairs.
"No. I’ve a small business matter to clear up first. I’ll meet you at Dashur." Kenneth thought of his next destination and swallowed hard. The journey would take all his strength to complete. He dreaded returning to the Khamsin camp, and to the sheikh he’d sworn to never see again.
"You promised to release her!"
"I lied."
Badra gathered her dignity about her like a warm cloak as she stood in the harem at the Pleasure Palace. The trip from England to Egypt had frayed her nerves like silk threads unraveling from a Persian carpet. Intensely worried about Jasmine, she’d delayed returning to the Khamsin camp, giving Rashid the excuse that she was shopping in Cairo for a day.
"You have your money. Give her to me," Badra said.
"Something happened while you were gone. Her value has increased. There is only one way she will leave here. You must take her place," Musad grunted.
Badra’s insides crumbled. She could not resort to becoming a concubine again. "Never. There must be another way."
"Perhaps. If we could get the next necklace ... We have a worker on the site who took the first one. But they are suspicious. They will not suspect a woman. Omar made arrangements with a high official on the dig site for you to be there as an artist. Find the second necklace of Princess Meret, bring it here and your daughter will go free."
"Omar wishes me to become his thief?"
"Or his whore. It is your choice."
Impotent rage coursed through Badra. She drew in a trembling breath and glanced at Jasmine sitting quietly with a woman on a divan at the room’s far end.
Musad caught her look. "I have a buyer."
Terror whipped through her. "You told me she was not to be sold! She is but seven years old!"
"Nearly eight. A European man liked her looks. He offered a good price for her contract and gave us money already. She will be sold when he returns in six weeks. As we speak, Jasmine is being instructed in her new duties to her future master."
Badra’s heart twisted as she looked at her daughter. Jasmine looked confused and her wide, dark eyes held fright.
Oh, dear God. How could she abandon her baby?
Badra returned to Musad. "If I do this thing for you, and bring you the second necklace, you will immediately release her to me. If not, I will tell the Duke of Caldwell exactly who is stealing from him." Her eyes hardened with resolve.
Musad’s nostrils flared. ‘Tell him and your brat gets sold tomorrow and you will never find her again."
Fighting fear, Badra locked gazes with him. "Are you familiar with falaka, eunuch?" The blood drained from his face. Satisfied, she leaned forward, and pressed her advantage. "Because if you do not free her once I return the necklace, I will lay responsibility for all this at your feet. The Duke of Caldwell will give you to the authorities to beat the soles of your feet to elicit a confession."
Musad grunted. "It is a bargain, then. Return with the necklace and she will be freed."
He added in a lower tone, "But if you do not bring back the necklace, you may only free her by remaining here, your contract sold each month to the highest bidder. That is a promise."
Badra drew in a trembling breath. Making such a dangerous offer to a cold-blooded reptile such as Musad was like dancing with a snake. But her love
for Jasmine outweighed all the risks.
"May I have a moment alone with my daughter?" she asked.
He grunted again, but ordered the other woman to leave. Badra went to Jasmine and enfolded her in a tight hug. Twin emotions of gratitude and guilt pulled her. "I’ll take care of you, precious."
"Badra, I do not understand the things that woman told me. Why would a man want to do those things?" Jasmine asked, uncertainty and fear shadowing her sweet face.
"Forget them, my darling," Badra whispered, kissing her forehead. "Let them slip from your mind and think only of pretty, pleasant matters." She rocked her child in her arms and began singing an English lullaby she’d heard Elizabeth sing to her son.
A few minutes later, a guard appeared. ‘Time to leave."
Badra gave her daughter one last hug. A brave smile wobbled on her trembling lips. Never again. My daughter will never suffer as I have. Even if I must take her place. But I will not fail.
The camel’s gait soothed Kenneth as he listed from side to side. As he approached the Khamsin camp, Kenneth felt stabbing regret that he had not accepted Victor’s offer to accompany him.
His cousin’s shop had turned out to be a dusty storefront in a deserted alleyway. Kenneth’s suspicions flared. If there were any profits coming from the store, he doubted it. He promised himself to have Zaid do a little checking into Victor.
Black tents dotted the pebbled sand. Warriors posted at the camp’s edge noticed him and gave an undulating cry.
It was of warning—not of welcome.
Kenneth slid off his camel, grabbing the reins. Sweat plastered his shirt to his drenched skin. He’d never sweated in the summer heat as much as he did now, facing the tribe he had thought to shun for good—facing the sheikh who had called him brother, but who called him brother no more.
People began gathering, whispering and nodding toward him. Since it was impolite to point in the Arab world, they simply stared. Kenneth felt naked, exposed. He returned their stares with a grim smile and halted short of the first tent. A herd of sheep bleated, running from him as if he were a wolf.
He felt like a snake slithering into Paradise. Not one face showed a welcoming smile. Two warriors scowled, holding their rifles at chest level, but not pointed at him.
Not yet, anyway.
A pretty woman in indigo, a blue scarf wrapped around her blond head, rushed forward. "Kenneth," she cried softly.
Elizabeth’s two slender arms surrounded him as she hugged him tightly. Emotions washed over him as he embraced the sheikh’s wife. The women were much more forgiving than the men.
"You have come back to us," she said in English. "I knew you could not forget us."
Kenneth released her, his fingers curling about her arms, hating to banish the hopeful look in her blue eyes. "Elizabeth, it is not what you think," he began.
His voice trailed off as a tight band of indigo-draped warriors marched toward him. He spotted two very familiar faces leading the pack. Once they’d been friends. No longer.
Two sets of eyes, one black as pitch, one dark as gold, burned into him. Jabari and Ramses. The sheikh and his Guardian of the Ages. There were no signs of welcome in their tight-lipped expressions. The sheikh moved near, his dark eyes blazing. He unsheathed his ivory-handled scimitar and held it to Kenneth’s throat.
"Get your hands off my wife."
Chapter Eleven
His Egyptian brother had become his enemy.
The cold steel sword rested upon Kenneth’s throat. He felt an odd calm settle on him, though anger radiated from the depths of the Khamsin sheikh’s dark eyes. Those eyes had once expressed affection and understanding. Now a chilled blankness resided there. Kenneth did not remove his hands from Elizabeth. He could not let Jabari intimidate him, or he would incur the sheikh’s contempt. Better his wrath than his scorn.
"Odd way of saying hello to a visitor, Jabari," he drawled in Arabic. "I suppose this means no welcoming cup of coffee?"
"Jabari, stop it. Right now," Elizabeth snapped.
The sheikh gave a disapproving grunt but lowered his scimitar. He did not sheath it, but kept it tightly clenched in his hand.
Elizabeth stepped back, breaking Kenneth’s hold. The flare of disapproval in her blue eyes faded. She placed a sun-darkened hand on her husband’s shoulder. "Jabari, Kenneth is visiting. Will you not at least show him hospitality?"
Jabari grunted again. "I suppose I must, since as sheikh I am obliged to show hospitality to visitors."
Ramses stepped forward, amber eyes flashing. "Well, I am not," he said calmly, and suddenly Kenneth felt a huge fist smash into his mouth. Elizabeth cried out. Kenneth staggered back, overcome by shocked dizziness and pain.
Righting himself, he wiped a trickle of blood from his lip, examining the crimson on his fingertips with a rueful smile. "I deserved that," he admitted. He locked gazes with his sheikh’s guardian. "I deserved it for what I did when I left. Shall we call it a draw, or will you force me to return your kindness?"
Ramses’ cold gaze burned into him. "A draw? I am not so certain."
"Stop it—stop it now, all of you," Elizabeth cried out. "Kenneth is your foster brother, Jabari. Why are you treating him like this? He’s family!"
The normally self-possessed woman began to cry. Tears gathered in her luminous blue eyes and ran down her cheeks. "He’s family, don’t do this to him," she sobbed.
Instantly Jabari’s expression shifted to contrition. He sheathed his sword and embraced his wife. She wept into his chest. "I am sorry, my love, for upsetting you."
"Elizabeth? Is everything all right?" Kenneth asked gently, more surprised by her shattered composure than worried by the present hostilities.
"She is emotional because of the baby. She found out just yesterday that she is with child," the sheikh explained.
A petite, dark-haired woman clad in the same manner as Elizabeth—indigo kuftan and a light blue scarf about her head—pushed her way through the crowd. A scar flared on her left cheek. She had deep green eyes. Katherine! Her face lit up with a delighted smile.
"Khepri!" she exclaimed, and hugged him.
With a blank expression, Ramses gently reached out and pulled his wife to his side.
Terribly uncomfortable, Kenneth offered them both a rueful smile. "Your father sends his best wishes for all of you, Katherine, and the new baby you’re expecting."
Silence from the men. The women looked troubled.
Bloody hell, this was so damn difficult. He wished he’d never lashed out in anger at Jabari when he’d left. Those words had wounded deeper than any physical injury could.
He tried again, focusing on the women. "Well, I’m not surprised you’re both expecting. Ramses always did brag that a man’s hair length was a sign of his fertility."
He gave a pointed look to the two Khamsin warriors, whose long locks spilled from beneath their indigo turbans. Then Kenneth touched his bare head, his waves of dark brown hair clipped and barely feathering his collar.
"Contraception?" he suggested.
The women laughed, and Ramses and Jabari both offered reluctant smiles. Kenneth turned and headed for his camel and rucksack. He withdrew a parcel and an envelope and sauntered back, handing both to Katherine.
"From your father. He sends his love."
Katherine took the items, an eager look on her face as she handed her husband the package and ripped open the envelope. "A letter from Papa. Oh my! A long one, too!"
Ramses unwrapped the square box and wrinkled his brow, reading the label. "English tea?"
"The best," Kenneth commented. Hell, it could have been arsenic for all he could read.
Elizabeth’s red-rimmed eyes shone with pleasure. "Real English tea. What a treat!"
"Thank you." Katherine glanced up at Kenneth from scanning the pages. "It’s good to see you made friends with Papa."
"He’s been a tremendous help to me."
"Kenneth," Jabari said slowly. "You have returned to us."
A flicker of emotion showed on the sheikh’s tight-lipped face. He nodded and glanced at Ramses. "Both of us will hear what you have to say." He jerked his head sideways toward the large, black ceremonial tent where war councils and important decisions were made.
The men detached themselves from their wives and strode toward the tent. Katherine clutched the white vellum in her hands, looking at Kenneth a bit bemusedly. It wasn’t a good sign. Between that and Jabari’s failure to order his men to set up guest quarters, it meant they clearly did not intend for him to stay.
He hooked his thumbs into his belt and strode purposefully, following the two warriors who were once his closest friend and brother.
He sat crossed-legged on the tent’s colorful carpet. The flaps had been rolled down to allow for privacy. Wind ruffled the sturdy sides. Kenneth studied the sheikh and Ramses, taking care to appear calm and unruffled himself. His breath came steady and even. No trace of anxiety showed. Yet sweat soaked the inside of his lightweight khaki trousers. After years of living with the desert heat, it was as if his body had totally forgotten how to adjust.
Once he’d worn this uniform of a tribal warrior: indigo binish, trousers, soft leather boots, and sharp scimitar dangling from his belt. No longer. Today his well-tailored khaki suit set him apart.
Jabari regarded him with a guarded expression. Kenneth studied the sheikh with equal care. Animosity crackled like flames leaping into the air between them. Kenneth’s hand briefly touched the small cobra tattoo on his right arm as if to remember another time and place when he’d fought alongside these men.
"You indicated very clearly the day you parted for England that you did not wish to see me again," Jabari said flatly.
Kenneth rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the muscles there tense. Forging ahead immediately with the news that Rashid was a thief wasn’t wise. First he must make peace with the past, with the sheikh. Deep in Jabari’s dark eyes flickered the damage Kenneth had inflicted when he left. I’m not your brother and I never was.