Whichever chest it was, its contents had been despoiled by contact with the man’s skin. And that—Aya realised—was just the beginning of the desecration he planned.
‘Call to me,’ Intef said across the darkness. ‘So that I may find you.’ Aya shut her mouth. Suddenly she did not wish to be found.
‘You are tied, are you not?’ asked Intef. ‘The High Priest said something about rope.’
Aya heard his footfalls as he neared. ‘It would be helpful if you would indicate your location,’ he said and she felt the weight of his body collapse atop hers.
‘Get off of me!’ she shrieked.
‘I am trying.’ A groping hand grazed her thigh, then another pressed against her waist. ‘Where is the rope?’ he demanded.
‘Just here around my wrists. Please... I—’ She felt a hand graze her breast and gasped.
‘Further up,’ she managed to say. Her heart pounded as his hands finally found her bound wrists. She exhaled.
‘Do not celebrate yet.’ She sensed him moving away from her. He called across the chamber, ‘I think I have found what is anchoring the rope.’
‘What is it?’
‘A very large chair.’
The sacred Horus throne. ‘You must not touch it.’
He made a loud straining noise, as if he was trying to lift it. ‘What you are attempting is sacrilege,’ she warned.
‘I am not attempting, I am doing,’ he said with a heave.
‘It is a crime punishable by—’
‘Do you wish to discuss levels of impiety or do you wish to be freed?’
She drew a breath. ‘To lift the Horus throne requires the strength of four men.’
‘Or the strength of one soldier.’
She held her tongue. Between his next series of heaves, he began to whistle a cheery tune. Who was this arrogant demon and how dare he whistle in a place like this? ‘Seth’s bloody—’ he said at last, swallowing the last part of the curse.
Aya supposed she should have been grateful for his restraint, but she could only cringe as he returned to where Aya lay and she sensed him taking his seat beside her head. ‘It is only because I have not had any sustenance that I cannot lift the throne,’ he boasted. ‘I am merely weakened by my hunger and thirst.’
‘Of course,’ said Aya.
‘If only I had a dagger, I could easily sever your bonds.’
‘You did not bring a dagger?’
‘A dagger would have made me even heavier inside the chest. Besides, I knew I would have my pick of daggers once I gained entry to the tomb.’
‘Have your pick of them?’ Aya repeated, her anger surging. ‘The jewel-encrusted golden ones, you mean?’
‘Precisely.’
Aya’s heart roared. The audacity of this man! The ribald frankness with which he described his planned pillaging of this sacred house!
‘Do you happen to know where those daggers have been stored?’ he asked.
‘I am afraid I have no idea,’ she lied.
He sat puzzling for many long moments and she hoped he would not become frustrated. Surely a man such as him would have a short temper.
‘I am grateful for your efforts,’ she added out of fear.
‘Do you usually offer thanks before it has been earned?’ he replied.
Aya swallowed her anger. ‘What tools did you bring with you?’
‘A hammer and chisel.’
Aya paused. She had been expecting him to say a shovel, for she assumed that the only way out of this tomb was to dig through the mass of rocks and earth with which the long entry corridor was currently being filled. ‘Do you mean to chisel your way out, then? Is that your plan?’
No response.
‘What other tools did you bring?’ she asked.
‘Flint to light a torch.’
‘Well?’
Chapter Four
Flint. A flame. He could sever the rope by means of one. It was a good idea and he certainly would have thought of it himself momentarily. It irked him that she had done so first. She was one of those grandmotherly types who seemed to delight in her superior knowledge of things. He could almost sense her smirking beneath her wrinkles.
Yet she was right. By setting fire to the rope with which she had been tied he could not only free her, but fashion a torch with the scorched ends.
But should he free her? It was clear that he was going to have a problem with this woman, whatever he did. From the way she had corrected his use of language to the derision in her tone when she had asked about the daggers, she was going to make his job more difficult.
He should have had the foresight to lie to her. He should have told her that he was indeed sent to save her, that she had hidden allies in the Temple of Amun or some other nonsense.
Though once he chiselled his way out of this tomb, he and his fellow tomb raiders would be taking much more than just a few jewel-encrusted daggers. The sooner this woman—what had she called herself? Aya? As soon as Aya came to terms with this inevitability, the easier his job would be.
Still, he sensed he needed to be careful with her. If she was anything like her monarch, then she was dangerous and even ruthless. It was rumoured that Pharaoh Tausret had killed her late husband Seti’s heir, an innocent young man whom Seti had conceived with a harem wife.
If Aya really was the beloved counsellor she claimed to be, then surely she was implicated in that merciless deed. Intef feared that setting her free would be something like cutting the leash off a crocodile.
If only she were a common tomb robber, her treachery would be wholly manageable. The two could take turns chiselling through the limestone and come to some arrangement about the tomb’s...harvest.
According to Intef’s orders, it was going to take nine days to chisel his way out. With the aid of a partner they could work continuously and it would only take four or five.
But she was no partner. She was the kind of high-born woman who cringed when a lowly soldier set his hands on the golden throne. What would she do when he began to eat the holy breads? he wondered. How would she respond when he filled one of Pharaoh’s golden goblets with beer and took a long, gluttonous drink?
He returned to the middle of the chamber and gazed down at the rope. If he did not untie her, he would have to be responsible for caring for her himself. And what then?
He was here to complete a mission—the most important mission in Egypt. General Setnakht needed treasure to grow his ranks and seize the double crown once and for all. If Intef and his fellow tomb raiders could gather enough treasure here, it was possible that the General could buy himself an entire army. He could win the crown with a simple show of force. There might not have to be a fight and Intef was cursedly tired of fighting.
He retrieved his flint from the inside pocket of his kilt and launched his spark.
Flames erupted on the first try and he coaxed them through the fibres of the rope until it was severed in two.
‘You may untie yourself now,’ he called in the direction of the shrine. He blew on the burning fibres and severed another part of the rope, fashioning a makeshift torch. He rounded the corner of the shrine with his light. The old woman had more than untied herself. She had disappeared.
‘Aya?’
He felt a warm breath in his ear and a sharp prick against his back. ‘Drop the torch.’ He let the torch fall to the floor as a slender arm squeezed around his neck. ‘If you make any movement at all, I will kill you,’ she said. She moved the sharp object to the base of his throat.
Like a freed crocodile.
‘I am a soldier and protector of Egypt,’ he said. He was both stronger and smarter than this woman, or so he assured himself. ‘Do you really mean to kill me?’
‘Precisely.’
He did not believe her, despite her unexpectedly firm grip around h
is neck. ‘It is wrong to take a person’s life,’ he remarked.
‘It is worse to take a person’s afterlife.’
Thankfully the torch still smouldered on the floor and he caught a glimpse of the weapon she held—an arrowhead of the finest obsidian. It seemed she could deliver his death in an instant.
‘You would kill a man inside a house of eternity?’ he asked. He could sense a trembling in her hand.
‘I would kill a man who would despoil that house.’
‘And when that man’s corpse fills that house with the stink of death?’
‘The stink of triumph over evil.’
‘Only the god Osiris may judge what is evil.’ He reached for her arm, but she pressed the flat of the arrowhead harder against his neck.
‘I will not allow you to rob this sacred house,’ she said. There was fear inside her voice. He could feel the heavy thrum of her heart against his back. She seemed to be trying to gather the will to kill him.
He would have to seize both her arms at once, then quickly duck his head, but he needed to find the right moment.
‘You would kill a man before he has done anything wrong?’
‘I loathe men like you,’ she said. ‘You are a stain on the banner of Great Egypt.’
‘You cannot escape this tomb alone.’
‘I am certainly capable of wielding a hammer and chisel.’
‘Of course you are—perhaps for several hours,’ he mused, ‘but you would quickly tire. You would need to work for months. What you do not understand is that the god Shu does not enter here. After only eight or nine days, the air will grow sour.’
She paused, as if she had not considered that particular truth. ‘I will dig my way out, then.’ Another slight loosening of her grip.
‘Dirty, suffocating work,’ he commented blithely, ‘and I doubt you could break through the brick seals to the chambers.’
‘The mortar has yet to set. It will be easy enough to breach.’
‘Easy? The final seal will be as hard as rock by the time you reach it. And even if you could emerge from the entrance, what would you say to the guards of the Kings’ Valley? The Medjay are trained to kill intruders. How would you convince them not to kill you?’
‘I am confident,’ she said with no confidence at all, and that was his cue. In a single movement, he ducked under her grip. Then he seized her wrists.
‘Drop the arrowhead,’ he commanded, staring at her shadowy fist. ‘Now!’ She appeared to open her hand, but as he moved to catch what he expected to be the falling weapon she yanked her other wrist from his grasp and placed the arrowhead in her own mouth.
She lurched away from him, writhing and kicking in an attempt to free herself. But he lunged forward, pushing her off balance. Together they went tumbling to the floor.
He landed atop her, crushing her beneath his weight. ‘Are you harmed?’ he asked, though he could not think of why he was so worried about her well-being. She had just tried to kill him.
She whimpered a small assent. She was unharmed, thank the gods. The fallen torch burned just near her head and, as he lifted his own head, he beheld her shadowy face for the first time.
His breath caught in his throat.
She was no hardened old crone—that was startlingly clear. The flickering torchlight revealed a woman in her prime, with full cheeks, shapely red lips and strange, kohl-stained eyes the colour of the sea.
Seizing on his hesitation, she lurched her head forward and smashed it against his. A sharp pain split across his skull and tiny streaks of light obscured his vision.
He swung his legs astride her and sat up, keeping her wrists pinned to the floor with his hands.
‘Spit out the blade,’ he commanded, as she slowly came back into focus. Curse the gods, she was beautiful. ‘Do it now.’
When she refused, he considered his options. He could attempt to roll her over, though that would require him to briefly release her arms. Too risky.
He could pull her hands together and try to hold them with one of his, thus freeing his other hand to extract the arrowhead. But he doubted his fingers would have enough force to pry open her teeth. Besides, he did not wish to harm her.
He had never been so paralysed by inaction. As he gazed down at her strange blue eyes, he felt an odd kind of humming sensation deep in his stomach. If he were not defending himself against a violent enemy, he might have believed it a twinge of lust.
She exhaled and he felt an unwanted quickening of his blood to his extremities. His heart thumped out a strange rhythm.
Her expression was grim. Her lips were tight and colourless against her face and the flare of her nostrils suggested the depths of her anger.
She obviously hated him—so much so that she seemed unable to calm her breaths. He imagined the arrowhead she held in her mouth, with her just waiting for a chance to use it on him again. There was not a woman in the world he should have desired less and yet there it was—that deep hum slowly becoming a roar.
By all the wicked gods.
‘Well?’ she said.
Chapter Five
‘Well, what?’ he asked, though his eyes were not projecting the kind of curiosity she might have expected would accompany such a query. Instead, they seemed to be smouldering. At her.
Either he was experiencing some lusty memory, or he could barely contain his anger towards her. She was rather certain it was the latter.
‘Are you going to let me go?’ she asked.
‘Do you think me a fool? Spit out the blade.’
The blade was her only weapon—the only advantage she currently had against him. She could not give it up.
She assessed her situation. He had positioned himself too far down the length of her body for her to be able to use her legs against him. How could she get him to bend forward towards her and expose his holiest, most tender parts? An idea surfaced.
‘Are you going to kiss me or not?’ she asked.
It was the only thing she could think of to give herself the advantage. In order to kiss her lips, he would have to lean forward and lift his body off of her hips, exposing himself. A quick raise of her knee would be all it would take to send him reeling.
‘You wish for me to kiss you?’
She nodded vigorously.
So that I may deliver you the ultimate pain.
It was an admittedly unneighbourly plan, but he was an unneighbourly man. Did he expect her to simply welcome the plunder of her mistress’s tomb?
She had acted impulsively by threatening him with the arrowhead, but it was too late to turn back now. Besides, if he was capable of plundering a tomb, what other things might he feel entitled to take without asking?
She needed to speak to him in the only language men such as him knew—that of force. She only wished she were better trained to express herself in that particular tongue.
‘You have obviously bested me,’ she cooed. ‘Why not give me a kiss?’
The torchlight flared, illuminating his face, and she beheld him for the first time. His scathing dark eyes perched over a nose that thought itself clever. His brown skin glowed beneath a sheen of villainous sweat. His fiendish eyebrows were so long and sleek they looked like wings.
But of course he would be handsome. All wicked men were. There would have been too much justice in the world if his appearance had actually matched the state of his soul.
‘Forgive me for not trusting your intentions,’ he remarked. His eyes sparkled with something resembling humour. ‘It is difficult to believe you would wish to kiss me after you just tried to kill me.’
His casual tone stirred her wrath. Was her effort so very trifling that it struck him as funny? Very well, she would embrace the role.
‘Do you really think I could have harmed you with this little thing?’ Aya stuck out her tongue to demonstrate the arr
owhead and saw his expression change. He raised a winged brow and his dark eyes burrowed into her. She felt a pang of heat deep in her stomach.
She sensed that she had just waded into a pool without a bottom. She quickly returned the arrowhead to her mouth and gathered herself. She could not show fear or hesitation. Unscrupulous men feasted on such emotions.
A quick, sharp kick, then into the shadows.
She affected a playful pout. ‘If you want the blade, then come and get it.’
* * *
It was the most unusual invitation he had ever received from an enemy, though admittedly he had never faced an enemy such as she. Still, he knew he would be a fool to accept it.
She was clearly planning to bite off his tongue. Or worse, she was planning to slice it off with the very arrowhead she cradled gently inside her mouth.
Gods, that mouth. It was the most sensuous thing he had ever seen. When she pursed it in disapproval, it resembled nothing so much as a lotus in bloom. Her eyes, in contrast, gave nothing away. They were as blue as the sky and as distant as the clouds. Together, her lips and eyes seemed to be conspiring against his will. The hot and the cold. The carnal and the sublime.
Perhaps he was still experiencing the deleterious effects of his confinement. It was possible that he had merely conjured her: a vision to explain the weakness in his limbs and the spinning in his head.
Or perhaps she had been sent by Tausret herself—a beautiful, dangerous spirit created to distract Intef from his purpose here.
Yet she did not seem like an enchantress. On the contrary, she appeared to have no awareness of her own beauty and her attempt at seduction had all the marks of a novice. Did she really think him so dull-witted as to take such bait?
He bent forward tentatively and caught wind of her scent—a heady mix of lavender, myrrh and insincerity.
But there was something else in the air around her. Something delicious and womanly. He breathed in more deeply and it was as if the scent alone could quench his thirst. He bent closer. By the gods, she smelled like seduction itself.
Saved by Her Enemy Warrior Page 3