Reckless

by Shannon Drake

  “Hello!” she called to him.

  He nodded. She realized that he was there strictly to guard their livestock. She walked over to where he stood in the shade of a palm. “So far out here, are we really in danger from thieves?”

  “Lady MacDonald, the poor will always envy the rich. And likewise, there are those who long to cash in on the work that others do.” He hesitated. “Each season, you know, there are a number of digs. Small tombs found, many that were robbed centuries, even millennia, ago. But this has been a rough season thus far. Articles found by day disappear by night.”

  “Well,” she replied uncomfortably, “even we are robbing the tombs of the ancients, in a way.”

  He looked at her with his dark almond eyes, as if hesitating to speak. Then he did so, and a certain contempt was naked in his voice. “I have seen, Lady MacDonald, landed Englishmen send out invitations, that they have acquired a mummy, that there will be a party for the unwrapping! The bodies have been used for fuel for fires. That brand of robbery disturbs me. But we are a poor country. There are those who come here seeking our treasures, yes, but determined that the important ones stay here and that the people are compensated for anything taken from the country. Should the treasures all remain? Yes, they belong to my country, to my people. Can we afford for them all to stay? No. And therefore, I am happy to serve such men as your husband and Lord Carlyle, for they do not seek to rape a land and a people. Will I guard this place with all the power and strength in me? Yes, for the thieves—be they my own people or alien—do not just rob from the English, the French or the Germans, they take from my country.”

  He stopped speaking and flushed. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no! Please. I am so grateful that you speak to me!”

  “It’s not my place.”

  She shook her head. “Ali…I…I don’t really believe in separation by status or class or…” She stopped, flushing. “Let me just say that I think you are my friend, and I thank you for your friendship.”

  He bowed his head. “I work for your husband with the greatest pleasure.”

  “Thank you,” she told him, and with a wave, headed back for the camp.

  Camille was alone in the little area in the front of the building they had uncovered, reading, sipping tea. “You look all in!” she told Kat. “You’re down that hall—” She pointed. “Actually, this has been an amazing discovery already, though the walls offer little and there are certainly no treasures. I have sat here trying to imagine just what this place was used for…I mean, exactly. What equipment did they keep here? Did the architects work at a desk here, as we’ve done? Were the rooms lined with containers for the treasures, or the treasures themselves? Perhaps it was even used as housing for some of the more elite workers.”

  “I’m afraid you know volumes more than I on this subject,” Kat said.

  “Ah, but without you, Kat, we might have been stumbling around forever. You cannot imagine what an asset you have been. I remembered the map, of course—I was the one who discovered its meaning at the museum. And who could have imagined that it would disappear? But I haven’t your perfection of memory. And I do believe that the discovery will be incredibly important and that, indeed, it will be made. I’m sorry, I’m keeping you, and you look absolutely exhausted!”

  “Oh, I believe I will become accustomed to this soon enough,” Kat assured her. She smiled and started for the hall Camille had indicated, wondering now, as Camille had, just what the structure had once been used for. She hesitated in the darkness of the hallway and looked back. “Thank you, by the way. Thank you very much.”

  “For?”

  “You have made me feel not only welcome, but useful.”

  “Oh, my dear! Don’t you see, you’re perfect for our work. And for Hunter.”

  Kat’s smile faded slightly. She was glad of the darkness. “Thank you,” she murmured again, and went on.

  For a moment, the hallway was dark and she felt uneasy. She treaded where the ancients had, and it was a little unnerving. A lamp, however, was burning from a room ahead, and she hurried toward it.

  Nearing it, however, she stopped. She heard Hunter’s voice, but he wasn’t alone. She realized that he was speaking with Ali.

  “Sir, I do believe it is the exact piece,” Ali was saying.

  “The pawnbroker was found dead, so the paper says. You know, of course, that we are getting this news quite late?”

  “Yes. But it seems that they believe the pieces have been in a private collection, and that they recently came into the hands of the dead man. I believe that the scarab shown in the sketch was found earlier this year, near Dashoor.”

  “Well, as you have said, we must keep our guard up.”

  “My men are well trained,” Ali assured him.

  “I know. You and your father are some of the best men I know. We are very grateful to have you with us.”

  Ali said something, his voice very low. Kat realized that she had been eavesdropping. She hurried the rest of the way down the dark hall, anxious that she not be caught doing so.

  The light seeped through a piece of canvas that had been rigged as a doorway. Kat opened the canvas and saw the two men, and the arrangement of the bedding and belongings within the area. A crude mattress of blankets and pillows had been set against one wall, while the trunk with her clothing and that which contained Hunter’s were set against the opposite wall. There was a camp desk with an oil lamp where Hunter and Ali stood, and camp chairs had been set around it.

  “Hello,” she said to the men, smiling.

  Ali bowed his head to her. “Good evening, lady. Forgive the intrusion. I will leave you now.”

  “Good night, Ali,” she said.

  And he was gone. “What was that all about?” she asked Hunter.

  “The usual. One must always be careful. But then, we are aware of that already. Excuse me, I must see Brian.”

  He left. Kat hesitated, then tore off the heavy boots and the trousers and the shirt she’d been wearing, folding them neatly, since they would have to serve again. In her trunk, she found a simple cotton shift and slipped it on.

  Hunter did not return. At last, she crawled into the bed on the floor and closed her eyes. She opened them again. Last night, in the canvas cover beneath the stars, she had been exhausted, and she had slept easily. Tonight, she was chilled.

  What had the ancient Egyptians done within these walls?

  At last, Hunter returned. She kept her eyes closed, and yet, felt a deep chill when he doused the lamp. It was better when she felt the vital warmth of him beside her.

  Moments later, she felt the touch of his fingers, moving lightly down her back. She inched closer to him, grateful for the touch.

  Eager.

  He turned her toward him. She radiated in the feel of his kiss, and even in the slightly awkward motions taken to dissolve clothing. It was amazing, in the pitch darkness, that she felt so cherished. Not just desired, cherished. But then again, she knew that he was well practiced at this art. Still, in the night, she felt only the delicious rise of sensation, so sweet, then so desperate. She heard his breathing, the pounding of hearts. Felt the slick dampness of his flesh moving against hers. The force of him within her…the burst of sensation that climaxed between them, a wonder all its own.

  It was only as she drifted toward sleep that she realized that she’d been hearing bits of conversation from beyond the entry of their lair, where the desks were set, tea served and all gathered. Several of their party were still awake, talking about the day’s dig.

  Robert…and then she heard Ethan’s voice, asking if the young men needed anything before he retired for the night.

  David’s voice sounded, thanking the man, telling him no.

  She was startled when Hunter spoke. “Does that bother you?” he inquired. There seemed to be nothing more in his voice than polite curiosity.

  “No,” she said flatly, and turned from him, curling toward the wall.

  She didn
’t know how she could possibly know such a thing, but she was certain that he thought she was lying. She wished that she could tell him that she was not, that she hadn’t even known that people were beyond their little inner sanctum.

  But more words wouldn’t have changed anything. He still wouldn’t have believed her.

  Besides, she was certain that he didn’t really care.

  Chapter 16

  IT WAS NEARING DUSK on their third day when the riders appeared on the horizon.

  Camille and Kat had both just emerged from the “desert bath,” as they had come to call their little watering hole, and the horses were just visible on the horizon. It seemed to be a large party, at least ten riders.

  They came to stand on the little rise above their camp building where Brian and Hunter stood, both looking to the horizon, as well.

  “Who is it?” Camille asked.

  Brian turned to her. “I believe it is the Lady Margaret,” he said.

  “There are so many!” Kat gasped.

  Hunter said, “Lord Avery would never allow her out into the desert unescorted. Most of the riders will be guards.”

  His words proved to be true. Soon, the riders reached their location, and most were men, armed and wearing their flowing head scarves and desert caftans.

  Emma, distraught and uncomfortable, had accompanied Lady Margaret.

  As had Arthur Conan Doyle.

  There was a flurry of excitement over her arrival, all the young men trying to outdo themselves in an effort to see that she had everything she needed. Emma, of course, was moaning, and it was Ali who quietly went about seeing that she was given a chair and a strong shot of whiskey first thing.

  Kat, after hugging Margaret, was delighted to greet Arthur Conan Doyle. He was joyous to be out in the desert on the dig and seemed pleased, as well, to see her again.

  “Fascinating! Simply fascinating!” he told Hunter and Brian once they had walked him through the structure they had discovered.

  “I can see, my friend, that you are already writing a book in your mind!” Hunter told him with a laugh.

  “Well, the mind is like a storage facility itself, eh?” Arthur said.

  With the visitors came fresh supplies, though they were hardly down on their own. Lamb, which was cooked over the open fire, and several pies that still had a just-out-of-the-oven taste. It was a pleasant evening, almost a party.

  The workers, ever vigilant, arranged for Lady Margaret to have a section in the building with a cot and every nicety they could manage. Arthur would join the men, and Emma was given a little space just beyond the ancient doorway of Lady Margaret’s sector. That night, Kat fell asleep the minute she lay down on her bedding on the hard floor. When, or even if, Hunter came in, she didn’t know.

  The next morning, Lady Margaret was sitting on the sand in a camp chair with a canvas roof rigged over her head. A little table was set at her side, along with a pitcher of water. She watched the proceedings.

  Kat, nearby, sketched, discovering each day that she was more and more fascinated by the art of drawing people, just as her father was. The workers had such wonderful faces! Ali’s, so proud and beautiful, and others, work-worn and yet so noble!

  And then, of course, those with them.

  She drew a sketch of Camille, digging in the sand, looking up just as her husband came to her, smiling as he bent toward her. There was so much tenderness between the two! Kat looked critically at her work and was delighted to see that she had captured the mood with her pencil.

  “Kat, may I see?” Margaret begged.

  “Of course!”

  “Lovely, so lovely!” Margaret said. Then she sighed. “How do you do it?” she whispered.

  “Do what?”

  “Stay out here! It’s wretched.”

  Kat was startled. “Actually, it is not so bad.”

  “The cot is horrible.”

  “At least you’re on a cot,” Kat said with a laugh.

  Yards over, where the workers had been digging, there was suddenly a shout. Kat leapt to her feet. “They’ve found something!” she cried.

  With Margaret at her heels, she began to run.

  It was one of the workers who had hit something. He was shouting excitedly in Arabic, and both Hunter and Brian were at his side, then down on the ground, hands in the sand as they kept sweeping the desert away.

  “It is! It’s…well, it’s something!” Brian cried.

  “Perhaps only an empty shell, such as we have already discovered,” Hunter murmured, “but then again, perhaps more. Margaret, you have been good luck for us!”

  “How wonderful!” Margaret said. She looked at her shoes and the hem of her skirt. They were covered with sand. “I will get out of the way then, so that you may continue.”

  “We’ll take tea now, I think, and then continue,” Hunter suggested.

  “Break?” Robert Stewart cried. “Ah, Sir Hunter! We are on the brink of discovery!”

  “And there is a lot of desert on whatever we have found. It will not go away without us.”

  And so they took their break. Returning to the camp ahead of the workers, Kat found Arthur seated by the campfire, where a kettle heated continually. He was busy scribbling away in one of his notebooks.

  “They’ve found something,” Kat told him.

  He looked up cheerfully. “I heard the commotion.”

  “You didn’t come out!”

  “I daresay, they’ve a long way to go before they’ve anything to show for themselves.” He smiled, then a slight frown creased his brow. “Have you seen any of the newspapers lately?”

  “I heard that there has been a rare scarab found, and that a pawnbroker was killed,” Kat told him.

  “Oh?”

  “That’s not what you were referring to?”

  He shook his head and reached to his side, producing a paper that was in English, but printed, apparently, for the tourists in Egypt. “They have put a name to a local mystery,” he said.

  “And that is…?” She accepted the paper.

  As her eyes scanned the article, Arthur summed it up. “It all has to do with the very priest you’re seeking. The fellow who talked to the gods. Police in Cairo suspect that a cult has risen. They call themselves Hathshethians. They believe, supposedly, that his spirit lives in the desert sands and that he is calling them together to be the protectors of Egypt. A fellow was caught stealing from a crate at the museum—the Cairo museum. As he fought off the police, he yelled something about the revenge of the Hathshethians. Sadly, he was shot in the struggle, and so little is known about this society.”

  “How very strange,” Kat said. She shook her head. “As you said, why steal from the Cairo museum if you are trying to preserve Egypt for the Egyptians?”

  The others were coming close behind. Arthur lowered his head toward Kat. “Exactly. So if that isn’t the case…”

  “One can assume the cult isn’t really out to save Egypt?”

  “My thought exactly,” he said. He spoke more quickly. “Therefore, I would think that someone, at least, the organizer, high priest, whatever, is in it for gain.”

  “A group to steal treasures and sell them to the black market,” Kat said.

  “That would be a logical solution,” he told her.

  Then he fell silent. Allan Beckensdale, shaking the dust from his hair, was entering. “Ah, the thrill! It’s great, outstanding!” he said. “But, ah, for tea, yes, amazing. I realized, after Sir Hunter spoke, that one does need nourishment to endure the sun and sand and wind and keep digging!”

  The conversation during their meal was lighthearted, everyone guessing what they had come upon, exactly.

  “Remember, we thought that we had made a find immediately, when we came upon this place,” Hunter said.

  “But it was scarcely buried!” David said. “And absolutely empty.”

  “It must have been storage,” Camille insisted. “What else could it have been?”

  “A morgue?”
Arthur suggested.

  “Oh!” Lady Margaret cried.

  “No, no, Arthur, I don’t think so, truly,” Camille said.

  “Think, Lady Camille! All these little rooms, the hallway? Where better place to store bodies after the removal of brains and—” he caught Margaret’s shocked countenance and amended whatever he’d been about to add “—store them in the various salts they used. Sorry, my dear. They didn’t simply wrap the dead, you know. They dried them first, and it took about three months.”

  “So…you think that each of these little rooms was…was a place for a body to be preserved?” Margaret gasped.

  “Arthur,” Camille interjected softly, “if that were so, I believe that the walls would have been lined with prayers and depictions of Horus and others.”

  “I believe that Camille is right,” Hunter said. “Lady Margaret, we are surely living in old storage space, nothing else.”

  Margaret seemed somewhat appeased. David rose at some point and came around to her chair. He spoke to her softly, holding her hand, seeming to assure her of something. Kat was curious regarding his words, and nothing else.

  But when she turned her gaze from the pair, she saw Hunter regarding her, his expression unreadable, and her heart sank. She turned her gaze from him, as well.

  When tea was over, Kat took up a position again with Lady Margaret. Trying to cheer her, she did a drawing of her. Watching her own work, she thought of how lovely Margaret really was. Born to wealth and position, she had nonetheless always been kind. She was sincerely concerned for the welfare of others. Delicate, like a rose in the desert. That was Kat’s thought as she sketched, shading as Atworthy had taught her, for depth.

  She thought her finished project one of the best she had done. Margaret was delighted with it, smiling broadly.

  “Kat, how lovely, how kind! Why, you have made me quite beautiful!”

  “But you are beautiful. Surely, you know that.”

  Margaret smiled. “I am rich. And I would not be loved for my money.”

  “Margaret, I swear, you are beautiful!”

  “Thank you. But…see those fellows out there?”