The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind)
Page 15
"Badra, were you afraid of me?" His voice was gentle.
For a wild moment she wanted to confess all, to confide in the man who had sworn an oath to protect her. All her sexual fears. The truth about Jasmine. Then Badra’s spirits sagged. She must do everything to protect her child. Masud had warned if she told the duke, Jasmine would be sold and vanish forever.
No, she needed to push Kenneth away. If he discovered she was here to find the necklace ... Badra worked up the courage to utter words she knew would hurt.
"Do you remember the night under the desert stars when you kissed me?"
His gaze softened. "I will never forget."
"Well, I acted the way I did in your library because I was curious to see if you desired me as much as you did before, Kenneth. And you did. I saw for myself, then changed my mind."
Steel glinted in his eyes, cutting through any previous trace of softness. "Admit it, Badra. You wanted me equally."
She lifted a shoulder. "I’ll admit I can act very well."
"Was it acting, Badra?" he asked softly.
Sweat beaded her forehead. How could she deceive this man? His gaze burned her. "Call it what you wish. I will call it what it was for me—a mistake. One I will not repeat."
"Sometimes the mistakes we make turn out to be the greatest lessons life has to offer us. And some of us must repeat the mistake over and over." To her shock, Kenneth clasped her trembling palm and pressed a kiss there. His lips were warm and firm.
"I would be most happy to help you learn your lesson, Badra," he added. His deep voice rubbed against her like velvet.
Badra gulped. "I assure you, I have no such need of any lesson from you."
"That remains to be seen," he murmured. His gaze bored into her as she stormed off.
It was no act. It couldn’t be. Kenneth knew a woman’s response, the signs of arousal. She had displayed all of them in his library. Why had she changed her mind? Was it because she wanted to tease him like she had when he was her falcon guard?
"This was a horrible mistake. I told you once before, Kenneth, I can’t return the feelings you have for me."
Kenneth clenched his hands until the knuckles whitened. He forced a calming breath. She frustrated, angered him. Tormented him. And still he wanted her with a fierce desire that was merciless. He’d do nearly anything to have her.
A familiar voice sounded at his elbow. "Friend of yours, Your Grace?"
"Not quite." Kenneth glanced at Zaid, grateful to see him. He had given explicit instructions for his secretary to join him in Dashur, and to report to the dig. He wrinkled his nose at Zaid’s beard and mustache.
"New look, Zaid? Trying to fit in with the locals?"
A look of surprise flashed in the man’s dark eyes, then they regained their usual blank expression. "The women find it charming," he replied in his soft voice.
Kenneth laughed. "I’m certain they do." He cleared his throat. "I have papers I need you to look over, papers my cousin had me sign. I left them at the Shepherd’s Hotel. I also have some correspondence for you to handle. And my cousin’s shop to look into. I want to know all about it—what he’s selling, if it’s turning a profit."
"Shall I return to Cairo immediately?"
"You can remain for today if you want. The excavation promises to be a bit thrilling, if you want to watch."
Zaid considered. "It’s best I return to the hotel to immediately resume work, if it’s quite all right with you."
"Fine," Kenneth agreed absently, spotting Victor in the distance. "Make sure you charge any expenses to my account. And report to me as soon as you have the information I require."
Then he walked off, suddenly absorbed in the other matters consuming him as much as his desire for Badra. His cousin. Was Victor hiding something from him? And what?
Chapter Fourteen
An hour later, the tomb surrounded him.
Kenneth watched intensely as digging commenced to find the secret chamber he and de Morgan knew must exist within these ancient walls. Suffocating heat drenched the workers with sweat, which trickled down their temples as they scraped the earth. A stifling odor of bat droppings, dust and age layered the air, but it could not overpower the smell of tense excitement, sharp as Lebanon cedar shavings.
Workers piled debris into a small mound. Clad in Egyptian dress, her head covered with a blue scarf, Badra sat on a stool sketching the scene as Elizabeth had taught her. Her artistic gifts sprang to life in brilliant hues captured on her paper.
She abandoned her work, stood, gave a sinuous stretch and paced. Kenneth quietly watched her instead of the diggers. Beautiful Badra, taunting him with her lithe grace. Teasing him to madness with her seductiveness in his library, just to satisfy her curiosity, then calling for him to stop.
Suddenly she screamed, the sound echoing through the chamber. Forgetting all resentment, all anger, his inbred protectiveness raged to the surface. As he had so many times before, Kenneth sped toward Badra. Her wide-eyed gaze met his as he clasped her arms.
"What is it?" he asked.
"N-nothing," she stammered. "A bat. I was startled."
The workers all laughed loudly, and one remarked on the ill luck of having a woman among them. Kenneth shot him an icy look, quelling the mirth. "Return to work," he ordered.
Badra’s large brown eyes met his. "Thank you, Kenneth, for your concern," she said softly.
Giving her an abrupt nod, he joined de Morgan. The archaeologist hovered over one particular section of diggers. Remembering the way his heart jumped at her scream, remembering her moans of pleasure as he kissed her and pressed her down to the desk, he shook his head. She confused the hell out of him. Work was much more logical, much less frustrating.
Badra remained standing for a minute longer. She didn’t dare look down. When she was assured no one was watching her, a lowly woman, she lifted the hem of her dusty indigo kuftan, revealing her blousy trousers and delicate sandaled feet. Her left foot had sunk into the pile of debris at the edge of the sarcophagus. The hidden chamber. Excitement poured through her like hot water. She eased her sandal out, standing guard near the debris lest someone else sink into it.
Later tonight, when all slept, she would return. And she would dig.
Rose, lavender and gold dusted the sky as the camp prepared the evening meal. Small cooking fires lit the sands, crackling flames leaping into the falling night. The acrid stench of smoke stung Kenneth’s nostrils.
Under a cream canopy, de Morgan and his team had assembled for dinner, sitting at a table with real chairs and a linen cloth spread over its surface. They had their food carted in from a nearby barge.
Kenneth riveted his gaze on his Khamsin brethren. A copper pot over a cook fire bubbled, while Badra kneaded dough. Some distance from the others, the Khamsin sheikh and his guardian sat on carpeting, absorbed in a game of chess, watched over by Rashid. The scene emphasized the cultures’ stark contrast: the European overseers dining on white china, the simple Bedouin fare served on the ground.
Simple Bedouin fare sounded so appetizing. He ambled over and stood staring. "Have room for one more?" he asked.
Badra’s hands stilled in their work. Rashid glanced up, scowling. Kenneth felt a strange regret at the warrior’s animosity. In another world, he might have considered Rashid a friend. But he hated all Al-Hajid warriors for killing his parents and brother, and Rashid despised him for hurting Jabari. The circle of hatred never seemed to end. It would continue, Kenneth thought grimly, until they finally came to blows. But not here.
Rashid stood, muttered something about losing his appetite and stalked off. Kenneth guardedly watched him approach a worker and strike up a conversation.
The Khamsin sheikh, sitting with his long legs crossed, considered the chessboard. "There is always room for you, Khepri," he said.
"Monsieur de Morgan does not eat banana tonight," Kenneth noted.
Ramses gave a low chuckle and merrily took a pawn. Jabari scowled. "I doubt the f
ussy Frenchman will find the appetite to peel a banana ever again."
Kenneth grinned. "Well, he is learning. Some men are concerned only with the size of their banana, not if it is peeled or unpeeled."
Jabari scowled again as Ramses took a bishop. "You talk in riddles," he growled.
Kenneth exchanged an amused glance with Ramses. "Does Elizabeth eat bananas, Jabari?" he asked innocently.
The Khamsin sheikh grunted as he studied the chessboard. "Not since we are married."
"Pity," Kenneth said—then he and Ramses burst into laughter. Jabari looked up.
"What?"
"Never mind," Kenneth said, winking at Ramses. He walked over to watch Badra, and dropped to the sand. He propped a chin on one fist.
Khamsin women had an inbred grace about them. Even Badra possessed the sinuous elegance. She knelt, concentrating on her task, rolling out dough and pounding it. The rhythmic movements of her hands and the distant laughter and conversation from the others created twin sensations of peace and tension in Kenneth. Peace from routines so familiar. Tension from being so near her.
He sat cross-legged on the carpet and looked off at the silhouette of the immense pyramid. He closed his eyes, recalling the stories told around the crackling campfires at night during his youth, when Jabari’s father had regaled the starry-eyed children with tales of Egypt’s ancient pharaohs. The history lesson was burned into his brain.
He had so desperately wanted to please his foster father, to show him he could equal any warrior’s aptitude. Kenneth had thrived on the lessons as a newborn lamb thrives on its mother’s milk. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered.
"It must have been an impressive pyramid in its time," he mused, opening his eyes and regarding the purple shadows descending upon the stark structure. "I suppose he never was buried there because his family wanted to keep him safe. Good reason too—not just because of tomb robbers. Senusret III was a cruel conqueror. He burnt crops, killed the men of Nubia, and enslaved women and children. He was ruthless. Destroying his mummy would have given his enemies the final victory: denying him the riches of the afterlife."
"Anyone who enslaves women and children should be denied the riches of the afterlife," Badra said.
The hostility in her voice stirred him out of his pensiveness. Kenneth shot her a curious glance. "True. Slavery is wrong. But it was a fact of life in ancient Egypt."
"It’s a fact of life in modern Egypt." She took a wad of lumpy dough and slammed it onto the board with unusual violence.
Again, he wondered about her time with Fareeq. In all the years they spent together, Badra had never mentioned anything of her past. It remained a locked door.
One he suddenly desired more than anything to pry open.
"Fareeq was a cruel taskmaster, much as Senusret."
His casual statement, directed only to her, made her hands still. Badra remained bent over the dough, motionless. "Why do you say that?"
"He liked to flog his captives, and sometimes rape the women," Kenneth said, carefully watching her.
Her slender shoulders lifted under the indigo kuftan and she resumed her task.
He continued. "I know about Fareeq and his cruelties. You were his slave for four years. Did he ever ... treat you the same?" he persisted, desperately needing to know.
Only after Elizabeth, the sheikh’s wife, had been captured by Fareeq and flogged, and the tale seeped out, had Kenneth learned of Badra’s former captor’s abusive nature. He had asked Badra, very nonchalantly back then, if Fareeq treated all his women that way.
Now her answer came charging back to him with the force of thundering Arabians. She had not answered. Badra had distracted him with something else. He had forgotten to ask again. He studied her hands, which were trembling slightly as they slapped the dough.
"Look at me," he ordered softly. She dragged her large brown eyes to meet his.
"Badra?" he asked. "Did Fareeq ever beat you?"
The question burned into her soul.
Years ago, he had made the same inquiry. But Jabari had, thankfully, spotted them and approached, giving her welcome relief from the required answer.
If Kenneth knew the truth, his intense gaze would soften with pity. She could not bear his pity, or her own humiliation. She could not expose her shameful secret. Those times were gone. She dreaded the memories. Her life had flowered and she was proud of her achievements. If Kenneth showed her pity, all those wonderful achievements would crumble into dust, smashed by the hammers of her tortured past.
In all the years she had known him, Badra had never lied to Kenneth. Not even when she’d refused his hand in marriage. She had told him when he begged her to marry him, "I cannot feel the same as you feel for me, Khepri."
A stark truth. She could not demonstrate the same intense, heated passion flaring in his eyes. She could not let him hold her and equal his desire when he kissed her. Her love ran too deep to hurt him with a marriage without passion, with her heart as parched as desert sand. Where there would be no soft cries of pleasure tumbling from her lips when he took her into his black tent and made her his and claimed his prize at last. There would be only screams of fear, and struggles, as there had been in England when his big body had covered hers...
Badra raised her gaze and for the first time in her life, told him a direct lie.
"Did Fareeq ever beat me? No. He never did."
Kenneth leaned back, relaxed, satisfied with the directness of her look and her answer. He could not bear the idea of the bastard’s whip tearing into Badra’s soft skin. If he knew Fareeq had hurt her, his rage would have howled to the heavens.
But the sheikh had not, so Kenneth was satisfied. Badra spread out the dough and began carefully cutting shapes with her small knife, rolling them into triangles.
He watched with interest. "Those look like scones."
A becoming rose tinted her cheeks. "They are. I ... I grew accustomed to them in England. Lord Smithfield’s cook was kind enough to share her recipe. I made these yesterday." Fishing one from a tin, she handed it over.
He adored scones, the one English food he truly liked. Kenneth nibbled, hesitant to hurt her feelings. A delicious taste of honey, almonds and sugar flooded his mouth. He took a large bite, chewing with genuine hunger as he consumed the pastry.
Her anxious gaze sought his. He swallowed. "An English scone with Egyptian flavor. Fascinating. And delicious!"
A soft smile touched her heart-shaped lips. Enchanted, he forgot the scone. Brown granules dusted a corner of her lip.
"You have sugar on your mouth," he said.
With one thumb, he reached up to brush it away, resting it against the delicious curve of her mouth. He rubbed, remembering the taste of her upon his lips.
Sultry awareness dawned in her eyes, darkening them to black. Her lips parted and a soft breath eased out. Heated by the signs of her arousal, Kenneth caressed the upper curve of her mouth with his thumb.
Her tongue darted out, licked away the sugar.
Desire fired his blood, along with dawning awareness. Badra had lied to him. What she had felt in England was no act. God, he wanted her. And she wanted him. He slid a hand around her nape, drawing her forward, enchanted by the hypnotic pull of her sensuality.
She shoved at him, lightly, but hard enough. Kenneth narrowed his eyes. He unfolded his body then stalked off to watch Jabari and Ramses play a game much less complicated than the one Badra played.
Dinner proved delicious, despite Badra’s quietness. Kenneth concentrated on regaining old ground with Jabari and Ramses, who kept him entertained with stories of the ancient kings, and he regaled them with English history. Rashid said nothing throughout the meal but kept watch with a guarded look. Sparks from the campfire drifted upward, touching the velvet night, and Kenneth suddenly realized it had grown late.
He rose, thanking them politely for the meal, and indicated he would retire to his tent. As he strode off, his warrior instinct warned him to keep watch.
"Just keep watch and wake me if you see anything unusual," Kenneth advised, nodding as the worker strolled off toward the tomb.
Pretending to settle into his tent, he extinguished the lamp and waited. Tonight was the night. He was certain of it.
Badra slipped from her tent with the stealth of a Khamsin warrior raiding an enemy camp, a jewel-toned bag she had woven on her loom slung around one shoulder. Descending the steps to the tomb, Badra let her eyes adjust from blackness to the dull dimness of a few scattered torches.
Her soft-soled shoes whispered as she hurried down the stairs leading to the galley where the men had worked earlier. Inside, the worker who was her contact started, then smiled.
"I will await you above," he whispered, then slipped away, silent as sand.
Guilt surged through her. Those who stole from the graves of the honored dead stole not only from the old ones, but from Egypt. Her own heritage lay within these carefully carved walls of rock.
She mustn’t think of that. Even though her nature rebelled against the path she had chosen, Jasmine’s welfare came first. Doubts would not help her daughter. Nor would the guilt constantly attacking her.
Covered by her indigo kuftan and strapped to her thigh atop the underlying Turkish trousers was a jambiya, a small curved dagger. It was Kenneth’s dagger, the one he had cut his palm with the day she refused his marriage offer. She’d kept it, the only token of the man she secretly loved, who would have given his life to protect her.