The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind)

by Bonnie Vanak

  How could she confess to birthing Fareeq’s child? When Fareeq died childless, the Khamsin sheikh had rejoiced. "My enemy would have lived on through his children and I would be forced to destroy them as well," Jabari had insisted.

  Masud finally spoke, interrupting her ruminations. "She is a pretty child and will fetch a good price at auction."

  Badra’s voice wobbled. "I beg you, release her."

  "Never. She is far too valuable."

  Granted this miracle, Badra would do anything to rescue her child. "I have money. Surely, I may purchase her freedom."

  Masud’s gaze was frankly calculating. "No. The price of her freedom is not money. It’s you."

  Shocked, Badra reeled back on her sandaled heels. "Me?"

  ‘Take her place and she goes free. Omar desires you back."

  Badra began to see life fall into place like a pyramid’s building blocks. Unable to care for her, Badra’s parents sold her at age eleven. Omar, the owner, had desired her, but had sold her to Fareeq. Omar’s rough hands, fingers thick and calloused, had stroked her trembling cheek. "You are too young now, but I will get you back, Badra. When you are older, I will have you in my bed, my slave forever."

  Fareeq had taken the most precious thing in Badra’s life and sold her, giving Omar the tool he needed. She would not submit. There must be another way.

  "No. I cannot." Badra thrust out her chin.

  Masud’s gaze grew shrewd. "Why do you not spend some time with her and think it over? You hardly know her."

  She did not trust him, but she longed to embrace her little girl. When the woman finished painting Jasmine’s feet and left, Badra rushed to her child. She stroked the girl’s ebony hair as Masud watched.

  "I am Badra. Your ... sister, little one," she whispered.

  Jasmine smiled shyly and began asking questions. Badra hugged her and tried to provide answers.

  "My tribe, the Khamsin, is an ancient one, from the times of the Pharaoh Akhenaten. Our sheikh is courageous and noble. We raise Arabians, and our warriors ride like the wind."

  "Horses?" Jasmine’s face lit up. "Will you take me out of here to see them?"

  Oh, how I want to more than anything in the world. "I will try," Badra whispered.

  The little girl’s singularly sweet smile of gratitude broke Badra’s heart. Every instinct screamed to take her, to flee and never look back. Badra studied the door leading to freedom. It loomed before her, thick, impenetrable and guarded by two huge eunuchs, curved scimitars at their waists.

  As they talked, she realized Jasmine had an engaging manner. The child’s mind was sharp like her father’s, but she displayed none of Fareeq’s sadistic tendencies. When Jasmine begged for a story, Badra told one about a courageous warrior named Khepri who had once protected her with his very life.

  "Did you marry Khepri?" Jasmine blurted.

  "Khepri lives in England. He is a powerful English lord." She tried to change subjects. "England has many noblemen. Ramses, a warrior from our tribe, and his wife and twins will soon leave for England for a visit. They will bring her father valuable antiquities. Lord Smithfield is an English nobleman."

  "Will you go with them?"

  "No. Lord Smithfield gave them the fare for the voyage."

  "But you must. You have to go see Khepri and marry him and have babies. That’s how it has to end." Jasmine pouted.

  Sudden pain stabbed her heart. Badra chose her words carefully. "I don’t think he would wish to see me."

  "But it’s a love story. All love stories have happy endings. So he would want to see you because he loves you," Jasmine insisted.

  How could she ruin her innocent daughter’s shining belief in happy endings? This particular story had none. If only real life could be thus. Badra stroked her daughter’s silky hair. "Perhaps," she said lightly.

  Masud lumbered over, his gaze shrewd. "That is enough. Time for Jasmine to leave now for her lessons."

  Badra knew the lessons he meant. Revulsion swept through her as she thought of her little girl exposed to such knowledge. Badra asked again, in a small voice, to purchase her.

  "She is not for sale."

  Hope withered like dry stalks of grass in the burning sun. Not for sale. He talked of her precious daughter as the Khamsin bargained over horseflesh. Perhaps she could reason with Omar. "Please," Badra whispered. "Let me speak with Omar."

  Masud looked thoughtful. "Omar is not here. He lives abroad now. However, he needs a favor. Perform it and he may free the girl. Do you know of the dig at Dashur?"

  En route to Cairo, Elizabeth had insisted on stopping by the excavation. Khepri, now Kenneth, sponsored it. She wondered why, when he had left with such anger in his heart. "I was there when they discovered a priceless necklace."

  "Do you know the necklace’s legend?"

  Badra nodded with dawning dread. Two necklaces with ancient legends buried in the sands. Legend said whoever wore the necklace with Pharaoh Senusret III’s cartouche was bound as a slave, much as his daughter Meret had been bound to her father’s will. But the necklace with Amenemhat II’s cartouche granted the wearer the power to enslave men’s hearts, just as Meret had enslaved her husband’s heart.

  Masud produced a gleaming gold pectoral from a small velvet bag and slipped it into her hands.

  "This is it. You said Ramses is leaving for England. Go with him, smuggle this to the antiquities dealer in London who needs it to make copies. He will give you money in return."

  The stolen, heavy necklace seemed almost to pulse with wicked power. For a wild moment, Badra felt evil emanating from it, like unseen mist. It felt warm in her chilled palm.

  "Which necklace is this?"

  "The one to enslave others."

  "I cannot steal," she protested.

  If he discovered her crime, Khepri would not hesitate to claim revenge. For past hurts and this new one. The necklace burned her like a brand. Surely there was another way to free Jasmine. The Khamsin sheikh would storm his warriors past the army of armed guards to rescue Jasmine. But such an assault would be difficult, and she could not risk her daughter’s life in a raid.

  The gold winked in the sunlight streaming into the harem. An ominous foreboding seized her. If Khepri caught her with Meret’s ancient necklace, would he use its power to enslave her?

  "No. I cannot." She tossed the necklace onto the divan.

  Anger filled Masud’s corpulent face. He turned to Jasmine, who’d gone very still. "You were naughty, Jasmine. You were told to leave the guests’ horses alone, but you petted one last week. Come now, time to take your punishment."

  The girl shrank back on the silken cushions. Her large dark eyes widened. "I’m sorry," she cried. "I said I wouldn’t do it again. You promised not to hurt me. You promised!"

  Masud fetched the kurbash, the crocodile hide whip, from a nearby holder. An ugly crack split the air as he flicked it. Jasmine curled herself into a ball. Badra stuffed a fist into her mouth to stifle a shriek. No noise. Noise meant Masud would hit harder.

  "No! Please!" Jasmine begged.

  Her immobilizing terror broke; Badra grabbed Masud’s beefy arm. He flung her to the floor. Badra wrapped her arms around his leg, dragging on the carpet as he stalked toward her whimpering daughter. "I beg you, please, don’t hurt her," Badra sobbed.

  "Only one thing will keep my lash from her flesh."

  From her crumpled position on the floor, Badra stared up at his unyielding face. Her teary gaze went to Jasmine, shivering on the divan. The choice seemed clear.

  A few minutes later, she forced a smile for Rashid as she returned to the reception room. She had told him she wanted to purchase the freedom of a slave, so at least one girl would not suffer as Badra had in her childhood.

  Her friend studied her. "Badra? Did all go well?"

  "No, Rashid. It did not."

  She left the brothel, her steps dull, her mind glazed. She felt cursed.

  Chapter Two

  London, February 1895 />
  The new trousers were too tight in the crotch.

  Breath fled his lungs in a pained whoosh as his tailor yanked up the black broadcloth. Kenneth Tristan, Duke of Caldwell, wheezed as the trousers cut painfully into his nether region. He muttered an Arabic curse about the tailor being related to a female desert jackal.

  "Dear, dear, I was afraid of this, Your Grace. My new assistant did not have the correct size. You are simply much larger than he indicated," the gray-haired tailor fussed. He sank to his knees and studied Kenneth’s groin with the intensity of Kenneth’s French cook studying a cut of beef.

  "Bloody hell, get them off me before you make me a eunuch."

  The tailor glanced up with a confused look. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I do not understand."

  His English was nearly perfect, but Kenneth’s thick Egyptian accent caused confusion to wrinkle many brows.

  He gritted his teeth and enunciated as clearly as he could: ‘Take them off. The trousers do not fit."

  Standing, the tailor wrung his hands. "I apologize, Your Grace. I fear my new assistant needs to learn to measure properly."

  "Then send a woman to do the task. Women know how to measure properly. Trust me," he growled.

  Hovering nearby, Flanders looked aghast. Before he died, Kenneth’s grandfather had hired a protocol instructor to teach his grandson. He’d hoped Kenneth would quickly assimilate into English society. It hadn’t quite happened. "Never a woman, Your Grace. Your peers would be appalled," Flanders commented.

  Always the worry about his peers, the noblemen who looked down on him because he came from the heathen land of Arabia. Kenneth glanced down as the tailor slid the trousers off. "They also do not fit in the legs."

  "Remember, Your Grace. One does not say ‘leg’—nor any other body part," Flanders instructed. "Not among polite company, certainly. ‘Limb’ is the correct term."

  Always telling him how to speak, what to say. Kenneth frowned. "Speaking of legs, why is my dining room table covered? The legs are hand-carved mahogany and they should be displayed."

  Flanders dropped his voice. "Because the sight of a table ... leg ... is known to excite men. They simply are not shown."

  Good God. Englishmen became aroused by table legs? Truly this was an odd culture. Humiliated from months of being poked, prodded and instructed, Kenneth strode from his dressing room to the adjacent sitting room, with its silk-lined walls and gleaming furniture. He bent over, staring at his satinwood secretary desk.

  His entourage shuffled after him, like a cluster of very proper black-coated bugs. Flanders’s worried voice sounded behind him. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but what are you doing?"

  "Studying the desk legs." He straightened and glanced down at his groin. "No, doesn’t quite work for me. I’m not excited."

  Suppressing a grin, he returned to the dressing room, resigned to more torture. The cook’s assistant strode in, looking self-important. Kenneth bit back annoyance. His French cook created heavy cream sauces he found difficult to digest. One did not entertain without a highly regarded chef, and Pomeroy came highly recommended, hired personally by his cousin Victor.

  "Beg your pardon, Your Grace, Chef Pomeroy wishes to know if you desire the chicken or the beef for dinner tonight."

  Kenneth locked gazes with Flanders.

  "Tell him I desire the breast of the chicken."

  Flanders winced.

  "Yes, indeed. A nice, plump, white breast. I very much desire the breast. The bigger the better."

  Oblivious, the cook’s assistant nodded and left.

  Kenneth stood in his sumptuous dressing room, amazed at how his life was arranged into neat pieces: A butler to answer his door, an undermaid to light his fires, a chef to give him indigestion.

  The tailor took out a long string. "With your permission, I shall take your correct measurements, Your Grace."

  In total surrender, Kenneth removed his shirt and stood clad only in his white silk underdrawers. He stretched out his arms, feeling like a damn fool. The tailor ran the string from the curve of his throat to his wrist. No dignity. No privacy.

  "This should be a woman’s job. I know the perfect one," he grumbled to the tailor. He closed his eyes.

  He thought back to the black tents in the Egyptian desert where a man was allowed to indulge in the pleasure of a woman undressing him. Badra. Dark eyes sparkling like a black velvet night’s blazing stars. His heart thundered as he remembered the sun kissing her cheeks. The graceful sway to her hips that made men’s heads snap around in admiration as she passed. The kiss they’d shared in the cool desert moonlight ...

  Blood rushed to his lower region.

  Kenneth glanced down and bit back a groan. His swelling member bobbed and nodded in reaction to his thoughts. Badra, it said. Oh yes, yes, yes—we liked her very, very much. Like a disobedient child, it had a mind of its own.

  Flanders looked ready to drop into a horrified faint; the rosy-cheeked tailor looked impressed.

  "Oh my," the tailor said faintly, putting a hand to his face. "Er, now I know the trousers will never fit."

  Kenneth’s cool gaze snapped to his instructor. "And what exactly is the protocol for a moment like this?" Without waiting for an answer, he waved an imperious hand. "Out! All of you! Send in my valet with clothing that fits, damn it! Then get the man an old suit of mine and take your measurements from it!"

  Everyone fled with the speed of a pack of yipping dogs. Kenneth collapsed to the floor, sitting Bedouin-style. Closing his eyes, he began breathing deeply and let the tension ease from his shoulders. He was so tired since his grandfather died. And the rich, creamy foods the French chef served did not help. In the past two months, he had become very well acquainted with one particular item in the large mansion: his extremely modern, lavish "necessity."

  A few minutes later, a knock on the door sounded. He called out entry and opened one eye. His new valet timidly entered, bearing clothing.

  "Beg your pardon, Your Grace—are you feeling well?"

  "I like sitting on the floor," Kenneth said calmly.

  Blood flushed the valet’s face. Kenneth stood. "You’re the new valet. Hawkins, right?"

  "Yes, Your Grace."

  "Just don’t measure me and you’ll do fine," he muttered. The young man offered a hesitant smile.

  Curious about the servant’s background, Kenneth asked Hawkins about his roots, discovering the valet came from a large family in east London. The man chattered about them as he cleaned up the discarded clothing from the floor, then beckoned to Kenneth with a new shirt. The duke stood, turning again to the length of gilded mirror mounted to the dressing room wall. He held out his arms so Hawkins could slide on the shirt.

  "That certainly is an odd marking, Your Grace."

  Kenneth glanced at the muscles of his right arm. The small tattoo of an uncoiling cobra hissed in blue-inked fury. He touched it reverently, then drew his hand away as if burned.

  "I’ve never seen the like. What does it mean?"

  "It’s a symbol of my past," he said briefly.

  Avid curiosity shone in Hawkins’s eyes as he helped Kenneth shrug on the crisp white linen.

  "Your past in Egypt? I heard something of that. You lived with an Egyptian tribe of warriors?" Hawkins fastened on the strange, tight collar Kenneth still found restrictive after a year of wearing English clothing.

  Familiar pain tightened his heart like a squeezing fist. Flanders’s suddenly useful advice rang in his mind. Do not be familiar with servants.

  "Just help me dress, Hawkins. You’re not paid to ask questions," he said, his gaze meeting the valet’s in the mirror.

  Hawkins swallowed hard. "I ... I apologize," he stammered.

  Kenneth felt a wrench of guilt at the apprehension in the young man’s eyes. Hawkins probably feared dismissal for being familiar. It was his fault Hawkins had dared ask questions. Accustomed to the casual familiarity of the Khamsin, Kenneth still found it difficult adjusting to the strict En
glish social classes. But his natural friendliness must be curbed.

  You are Duke of Caldwell now. Khepri no longer.

  But he was lonely. In one year, he had gone from living casually among two thousand people to living alone, with only servants for company in a massive house. His life felt purposeless—until he’d received the cables from Egypt.

  Kenneth’s gaze roved to the highly polished furnishings of his enormous sitting room. On the satinwood desk, two cables lay beside a brass well of India ink and a gleaming gold pen. One revealed exciting news: One of the necklaces of Princess Meret had been found.

  His father’s greatest dream was coming true.

  For years, Kenneth’s father had sought the legendary jeweled necklaces of Princess Meret. When Kenneth was four, his father sponsored a dig at Dashur, certain he would find the entrance to the pyramid and the underlying tombs. Wanting his family to be present at his moment of glory, his father had taken them to Egypt. They’d first crossed the desert to the Red Sea on a tourist jaunt to explore the ancient land.

  That was when the Al-Hajid attacked. The excavation plans had died with him, along with the dream.

  But two months ago Kenneth had allocated an enormous amount of money to continue his father’s work. Jacques de Morgan, Egypt’s Supreme Director of Antiquities, had been excavating. He’d found the entrance to the hidden tombs, and one of the necklaces. Ecstatic, Kenneth had started planning to visit Egypt to witness the dig himself. Then he’d stopped.

  When he’d left last year, he’d vowed never to return. Too many bitter memories lay in sandy Egypt. Resolved to receiving news from afar, he’d ordered his trunks unpacked.

  But now he’d received the other cable. It informed him someone had stolen the necklace. The news released the warrior inside him. Ancient cries handed down through two thousand years resonated through him. The Khamsin war call. His blood rode that fever, clamored for retribution.