by Bonnie Vanak
Kenneth emerged onto the famous terrace of the Shepherd’s where men sipped afternoon tea. He had asked Victor, de Morgan and Zaid to join him. Victor, who would have inherited all had Kenneth not been found. Had he not lived.
But did the man want him dead?
"Pull up a chair, Kenneth," Victor said, puffing away on a cigar.
De Morgan rubbed his waxed mustache. "About the excavation, Your Grace. The jewelry we found has been loaded onto a barge and is headed here now. Do you wish to store it in a museum until the contents can be fully catalogued and assessed?"
"No. I’m going to have it shipped to England for my personal collection. All of the jewelry. There will be no division of the treasure."
De Morgan’s face turned beet red.
"That was not our agreement. You planned to allot me a portion of the finds," the director sputtered.
‘True. However, it is my money that paid for the whole dig, so I have the right to change my mind." He added the final twist certain to puncture the archaeologist’s hopes. "Upon my return to England, I will dictate a paper detailing the find for the London Times. I will mention you, of course. And you will receive a small bonus for helping me. In English pounds."
Daggers shot from de Morgan’s eyes. Interesting. Kenneth quietly assessed the look, then turned to Victor. "I’ll need some things from your shop before I depart for England. I’ll be there in, say, half an hour?"
Victor gave an abrupt nod.
His cousin’s shop was in an isolated, deserted alleyway lined with alcoves and shadows—a perfect spot for an assassin. The bait was proffered, the destination selected, and the trap set. Now all he needed to do was walk into it and face his killer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
She’d lost her love, her warrior protector.
The large, expansive suite felt as welcoming as a tomb. Her tears burned as they dripped down her face. Badra sat on the soft bed, trying to understand. Kenneth had coaxed her into passion, claimed her body, loved her with the sweet intensity of a man who adored a woman, freed her from the demons of her past ... then left. Why? The words he’d said while he thought she slept indicated he might never see her again. Ever.
"How could he leave me?" she whispered.
Perhaps the clash of their cultures had proven too much. The wealthy duke who would be forced to socialize in strictly English circles had realized he could not marry an Egyptian girl who’d once been a concubine. But she did not understand. Were the sweet words of love he had whispered, the assurances and promises, all lies?
Badra hugged herself. Her emotions battled with her confusion. After making love, Kenneth had whispered about marriage and creating lots of bouncing, chubby-cheeked babies. What had changed his heart? Kenneth, the Cobra, had slithered free of his Khamsin warrior role into the skin of a wealthy English nobleman absorbed into a polished, sophisticated world. Had his declarations of love simply been a ploy to finally claim her body?
But he loved her for what she was, a Bedouin girl with sun-tinted skin, who drank camel’s milk and lived in a tent. She believed that.
"You are all the stars blazing in Egypt’s night to me, my love," his husky voice had whispered as they made passionate love, writhing and coiling together, tangling like snakes in a desperate attempt to become one.
I have lost him, she mourned. Then Badra sat up, fury and resolve replacing her despair.
No! I will not let him discard me! I deserve a better explanation. What about what I want?
Having discovered passion and fulfillment as a woman in his arms, Badra wanted more. No more meekly shrinking away from her needs. It was about time she finally seized all that life had to offer. All love had to offer. I deserve it.
If Kenneth, the arrogant duke, would not have her, she’d bargain. Khepri, the fierce warrior, she knew loved her. If the urbane duke doubted a simple Bedouin girl could fit into refined English society, she’d prove she could.
"I will not leave until he accepts me, on whatever terms," she whispered. "I love him too much to merely walk away."
She sprang off the bed and bolted to the mirror. She began brushing her hair to a glossy sheen. Her gaze fell on the jambiya on the dresser. Kenneth’s dagger. The dagger she’d retrieved after he left it in the sand and went to England.
Badra weighed it in her hands. She would return it to him as a symbol, cutting them free of past hurts and starting anew.
Lifting the hem of her indigo kuftan, she strapped the dagger to her thigh. Then, when her other preparations were finished, she slipped out of the hotel room.
Her step firm and assured, she went to Kenneth’s door and knocked firmly. No answer. Surely he had not left Cairo already.
"He’s not there." The voice made her jump. Badra whirled and saw Kenneth’s cousin standing behind her. "I’m going to meet him at my shop. Care to come along?"
She hesitated. But time was running short and she must face Kenneth before losing all heart. Badra nodded.
The shop was a walk from the hotel, he informed her. "I’m afraid it’s not in a very good section of the city, but I’m just starting out. I plan to move to a better location as soon as funds are available," he explained.
As they walked through the city, Victor asked about the sketches she had done, praising the quality of her work. They traversed thickets of people making their way to the marketplace. Cairo’s labyrinth of streets and alleys became more and more confusing, and Badra tried desperately to get her bearings.
Victor turned a corner and they pressed deeper into the Old City. A faint prickling rode her spine as the area became seedy. Stains covered the facades of several buildings. Piles of rotting refuse cluttered the gutters. On a badly tilting balcony, someone had attempted to cheer the surroundings by placing a wilted geranium on the cracked concrete. A white cat sat unblinking, in an open doorway.
Cats, guardians of the afterlife, Badra thought dimly.
They arrived at a shop, its single windowpane smeared with grease. The sign in Arabic over the doorway read "Antiquities." The shop had an air of forlorn neglect.
Victor politely held open the door, ushering her inside. The air smelt of dust, disuse and age. She squinted in the gloom, taking in the dusty statues cluttering the table. A tarnished silver mirror hung on one wall. The gold had chipped on a figurine of Osiris, god of the afterlife, showing wood underneath. Even her inexperienced eye knew these antiquities were fake.
Her breath hitched. Was Victor dealing in fraudulent artifacts? Like the statue of Osiris, she suspected a sparkling layer hid the real, more ominous facade of Kenneth’s cousin.
Noise sounded from the back of the shop. Kenneth emerged from the gloom, his white suit gleaming in the dimness like a sunrise. Color drained from his face as he spotted her.
"Badra, what are you doing here? Get out," he said brusquely.
Drawing herself up to her full height, she drew in a steady breath. "I came because you left me. You thought I slept, but I heard each word. What about your promises? You said you loved me." Her mouth worked violently. "I let you walk away once before because of my shame. I can’t do so again. I love you."
"Oh, dear God," he whispered, his broad shoulders sagging visibly. "Your tenacity ... You always did pursue something you wanted with all your heart—as fiercely as a Khamsin wind roars through the desert ..."
"You lucky bastard." Victor shook his head. "I wish I had a woman who loved me this much."
The small silver bell over the doorway tinkled again. Badra and Victor turned. All thoughts fled, replaced by numb horror. It could not be.
"Omar?" Her voice came as a raspy whisper.
"Hello, my dear," he said pleasantly, then swept a mocking bow to Kenneth. "Ah, the Duke of Caldwell, Kenneth Tristan. I do not think I shall address you as ‘Your Grace’ any longer."
"What the hell are you doing here?" Victor sputtered. "You agreed never to come here."
Badra’s former captor turned to Kenneth’s cousin. "I lied."
A sickening crack filled the air as he lifted the gold Osiris statue and slammed it into Victor’s temple. Then his hands—oh, dear God—wrapped about Badra’s neck, squeezing with enormous pressure. His thick thumb pressed just above the hollow of her throat, choking off breath.
"Don’t move," Omar warned when Kenneth moved forward. "One step closer and I’ll strangle her."
Chapter Twenty-Six
"Zaid?" Kenneth stared at his loyal secretary, whose large, beefy hands were wrapped about Badra’s throat. Mute terror shone in her dark eyes. She had called him Omar.
Omar, the slave master? The one who had sold her years before, threatening to own her again?
"Zaid Omar Fareeq Tristan," the man spat. "We are related, after all. Your grandfather was my father."
Kenneth fought for control, pressed back by the wild plea in Badra’s eyes as his secretary pressed a thick thumb farther into her neck. Color flooded her face. She looked numb from terror.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded.
"The last Duke of Caldwell. He refused to acknowledge the bastard son of his Egyptian mistress, whom he visited at the Pleasure Palace every time he wintered in Egypt. Your grandfather gave my mother money to keep quiet. She used it to purchase the brothel. All those years, living among whores, never able to face English society. All I wanted was for him to acknowledge me. And he kept me hidden away like a dirty little secret while publicly proclaiming morality."
A jolt of recognition slammed into Kenneth. He stared at Zaid, seeing for the first time the hard lines of his grandfather’s face. The faint resemblance.
"My father—" Kenneth began.
"Your father, the precious ‘only son.’ So noble, so damn English! But he played into my hands when he came to Egypt to search for Meret’s necklaces. I hired myself out to take you all on a tour of the Giza pyramids and suggested he and his family tour the Red Sea coast before arriving at Dashur. At the same time, I paid my uncle the sheikh to attack a certain caravan."
"You killed my family," Kenneth said hoarsely, sickened.
"I had no choice! As long as your father, his precious heir, lived, Father would ignore me. After your father died, I beseeched the duke to hire me. I worked like a dog to gain his trust. He was about to publicly admit our relationship when you returned. Damn you!" Fury flushed Zaid’s face.
Watching Badra, Kenneth did not move. He felt in his pocket for the jambiya he kept hidden there. Twisting his body slightly, he hid the movement from Zaid. "You poisoned Grandfather. And me," he guessed, wanting to keep the man talking. Almost there. Furtively he eased the blade from its sheath.
"I attacked you in your bedroom, in your home, after Victor told me you hated Rashid, who had become a Khamsin. But I failed. I knew you’d grow suspicious. I decided to kill you at the Pleasure Palace. I knew you would buy Badra if she were enslaved. I tricked her into stealing the necklace and arranged for her to fail, forcing her to take her daughter’s place."
New horror stole over him. The papers he’d signed in England...
"What papers did you have me sign?" Kenneth demanded.
Zaid laughed. "A new will, acknowledging me as your heir and giving me the estate. You never looked long enough at documents to truly read them. I also transferred the property deed of the Pleasure Palace from Omar Fareeq, the fake name I use in Egypt, to you. So when you die, I will inherit it—legally, under my real name and as the new Duke of Caldwell."
Zaid dragged Badra forward. Her skin was white where his thumb dug into her. Kenneth felt his chest sink.
Fear dawned in her dark eyes. Badra yelped as Zaid grunted and pressed deeper.
"Enough talk," he snapped. "Give me your dagger then sit."
Kenneth hesitated. "I don’t have one."
"You’re still Khamsin, and you’d never walk around without one."
His thumb pressed deeper into Badra’s neck. A choking gasp resulted as she struggled to breathe. Kenneth threw the dagger at the man’s feet and sat. Zaid snatched it. Badra wheezed for breath as he loosened his grip and held the knife to her throat.
Edging over to the table, he secured a length of rope and told Badra, ‘Tie him up, hands behind his back. Then his ankles, and tie him to the column."
Zaid pressed the knife into her back as she bound Kenneth’s hands behind him, then his ankles, and tied the rope to the pole. Zaid tightened the knots.
When Zaid turned away, Badra still in his grip, Kenneth tested the knots. And then he heard words that stilled his heart with fear.
"I still want you, Badra. And I will have you now."
Badra blanched as Zaid withdrew the necklace bearing Amenemhat II’s cartouche from his pocket. He draped it around her neck.
"Now you are my slave," he said, crushing her in a kiss.
Terror numbed Badra as the cursed necklace encircled her throat like a coiled snake. Zaid’s cold lips descended on hers, grinding and punishing. As she had been when Fareeq raped her, she became immobilized with fear. But something inside her cried out.
She had spent her whole life being afraid. Afraid of sex, afraid of being a slave. Powerless. Captive to men. Fearful of fighting back, fearful of the pain she’d suffer.
Kenneth loved her. He’d seen past the fear and the scars and taught her to escape her inhibitions. He’d taught her pleasure and passion. He believed in her. It was about time she started believing in herself—not in cursed necklaces or myths or magic.
Something rose up from deep inside, a dull roar. She felt it erupt like a well springing forth from dry sands. Badra writhed and struggled. She raked her nails over Zaid’s cheek. He gave a startled shriek and recoiled. Eyeing the vulnerable spot between his legs, she kneed him hard. Zaid howled. Bright scarlet infused his face. She struck him again and he fell to the floor.
"It truly works," she commented, astounded.
Laughter filled the air. She turned and saw Kenneth’s face contorted with amusement.
"I told you it would," he said.
She rushed over, grappling with the large knots binding him. But a warning from Kenneth told her Zaid had recovered.
A sharp point of cold steel pressed into her back. "Sit with your back to him," he ordered tersely.
She sat. Zaid coiled the rope about her waist and Kenneth’s, binding them together. He wrapped another length of rope around her wrists, binding her arms in front of her, winding the rope down to her ankles. She and Kenneth sat back to back, immobilized. Their foe stepped back, admiring his handiwork.
"You could have lived, Badra," Zaid grunted.
"Better to die free than live as your slave," she rejoined.
Vanishing into the murky interior of the shop, Zaid emerged several moments later with sticks of dynamite, caps, a long length of fuse and a candle. He swept an arm across the table, clearing it of dusty fake artifacts. Carefully he capped the dynamite, attached the fuse, and set the sticks down on the table.
"Victor never made any money," Zaid said, "except selling dynamite to archaeologists who still like to excavate by blowing up tombs."
Zaid wound the fuse around a stubby candle. He pushed the candle halfway to the table’s edge, then secured it with a few dusty books, draping the long fuse over them and back to the dynamite. Reaching into his vest pocket, he lit the candle.
"By the time this fuse is lit, I’ll be long gone. No one will suspect, since Victor’s shop is known to house explosives."
He gave them a twisted smile. "Enjoy your last moments together."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The shop door slammed behind Zaid. Kenneth felt his chest sink as he eyed the candle dripping wax onto the floor. Easing his arms to the side as much as possible, he tried picking at the knots binding his wrists together. Sweat dampening his palms aided in loosening the rope, but it hindered him in picking apart the knots. Kenneth gritted his teeth, feeling the knots, testing them with his fingertips.
"Would a dagger help?" Badra asked.
"You might conjure one off my leg."
His hands stilled. "You have a dagger on your leg?"
"Strapped to my thigh. The one you threw to the ground when I refused to marry you. I ... I was going to give it back to you as a symbol of severing our past and starting anew," she said softly.
Regret speared him. He pushed it aside. Regrets later. "Badra, you’re going to have to cut yourself loose."
"How? My arms are tied to my waist."
"You can do it," he encouraged her. "Lift your legs up."
He felt her shift behind him, struggling to reach the knife, and he crooned words of encouragement. His eyes fixed on the burning candle. The wax dripped onto the floor, and the flame flickered closer, so close now, to the fuse.
"I have it!"
"Good. Cut the rope tying us to the column."
He didn’t dare breathe or think. The dagger would not be well-honed. Sawing through the rope would be like using a butter knife. He closed his eyes, feeling sweat trickle down his face. Kenneth heard a small cry of distress when she obviously cut herself. But she continued on.
"It’s cut!" she cried out.
"There’s no time to free your ankles. Brace your feet and hands against the column, and press against my back and force your weight up. We’re going to stand together and hobble over to the candle to blow it out before it lights the fuse."
"I’m ready."
Setting his feet flat against the floor, Kenneth grunted and strained to stand, pressing against Badra as she braced herself against the column. Slowly they struggled to stand. Kenneth’s eyes never left the candle.
Less than an inch to spare now. An inch away from death.
"Badra, listen. I’m going to walk over there to blow out the candle. You’re going to have to walk backward as I do."
He began hobbling to reach the candle, pulling at Badra, feeling her try to assist by moving her feet backward. So close, he could nearly reach it, the bright orange flame flickering near the edge of the fuse ... burning closer and closer. He hobbled faster, life and love pressing him on.