by Bonnie Vanak
Hawkins finished brushing down his charcoal gray coat and striped trousers. Kenneth reached down to his waist and recoiled. Habits die hard. No scimitar.
No, he was no longer Khamsin. He felt naked without weapons.
But at least his goal of finding the thief charged him with fresh purpose. England had the world’s best black market for stolen antiquities. He’d quietly search the shops and look for the missing piece. He relished the challenge. Hell, he needed one.
Kenneth gave his anxious valet a smile of approval and quietly thanked him. Relief shone visibly in the man’s face.
"Summon Zaid to me," Kenneth ordered, speaking slowly.
"Yes, Your Grace." The valet gave a respectful nod.
Touching the stiff cloth covering him, Kenneth stared at the stranger in the polished mirror. He had everything: wealth, title, respect.
Yet he had nothing. Emptiness pulled at him. He stiffened his spine, ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest.
"You asked for me, Your Grace?"
His secretary appeared in the mirror. Kenneth whirled, confused. He hadn’t heard Zaid approach. Had he lost his legendary ability to hear a grain of sand spill to the ground? His priorities had shifted like sand on Egypt’s dunes. Attuned now to English lifestyles, his warrior alertness had faded.
He studied the middle-aged man standing before him. His grandfather had met this man during a jaunt to Egypt and had rescued him from poverty. Zaid’s skin was the color of rich Arabic coffee lightened with cream. Literate in English and Arabic, he possessed a controlled, intelligent manner. Zaid ran the duchy’s business affairs with quiet efficiency; his grandfather had trusted him absolutely.
"I told you, Zaid—when we’re alone, I’m Kenneth."
"Yes, Your Grace." A smile touched the secretary’s mouth.
Kenneth brushed at his jacket lapels. "Any more wires from Egypt?"
"One arrived this morning." Zaid offered the cable.
Kenneth’s chest sunk. He busied himself with adjusting his tie. "What’s the latest news?"
His secretary read aloud de Morgan’s report from the Dashur excavation. Kenneth’s hands stilled on his cravat as he digested the information, a scrap of fabric found in the sand where the necklace had been stolen. Indigo fabric from a desert tribe called the Khamsin. De Morgan said four Khamsin had visited just before the necklace vanished. Jabari, Rashid, Elizabeth and Badra.
He held his voice steady as he dismissed Zaid. Then, lost in thought, Kenneth paced restlessly.
Could Jabari have stolen the necklace?
Perfect revenge for how he’d insulted the sheikh upon leaving Egypt. But Jabari honored ancient Egyptian ruins. This made no sense. Deeply disturbed, he reached for a china bowl filled with lemon drops. He popped one into his mouth. It was quickly gone, and hunger still pulled at him. He descended the polished staircase and headed for the kitchen. At the door he paused, remembering Flanders’s instructions. Ring for anything he wanted.
To hell with the damn bell. Why couldn’t he simply get a piece of fruit instead of all this pomp and ceremony? He wanted to peel an orange with his own fingers, inhale the citrusy tang, feel the juice spurt into his mouth as he bit down, not be handed it quartered into delicate pieces.
Kenneth pushed open the kitchen door and stopped cold.
His French chef stood at the trestle table, glowering at a sobbing kitchen maid. A large section of raw red beef lay on the cutting board like a sacrifice. He wanted to heave. Instead, he stared at the cook, who suddenly noticed his presence. The man snapped an order and everyone else in the room bobbed their heads.
"Why are you screaming at her?" Kenneth inquired evenly.
A nervous tic showed in the cook’s plump cheek. ‘Truly, Your Grace, it is nothing for you to be concerned over a mere matter of personnel. I was dismissing the girl."
Instinctively, Kenneth assessed the matter as he spotted the girl’s rounded belly. He studied the maid. Her red-rimmed gaze held his, pleadingly.
Kenneth thought of the legions of servants standing ready to do his bidding, tailors measuring his private parts, and a social secretary fussing over proper protocol for a duke. His thoughts turned to London, the frozen mist and this girl wandering those dank streets, begging for work, her feet shuffling slowly, her cheeks growing gaunt, despair in her eyes.
Anger simmered inside him. How could this society so easily dismiss a woman carrying an illegitimate child when far greater sins existed on their very front doorsteps?
"You will not dismiss her," he said with quiet authority.
Pomeroy’s beady eyes bugged out. The little hairs of his thin mustache quivered. He sputtered like butter on a hot skillet. Kenneth watched with interest; the effect was quite comical.
"But Your G-Grace," the cook stammered.
"Simply because the poor girl is in an unfortunate circumstance, you would toss her out on the street?"
Pomeroy stuttered some more. His face grew more crimson than the beef sitting on the carving board.
Kenneth went to the maid, who scrubbed her face with her stained apron. "You’re not leaving. I won’t lose good help."
"Thankee, Yer Grace," she whispered, twisting her chapped hands. "’E said ’e would marry me—and then ’e run off."
"Everyone makes mistakes." Kenneth thought of Badra, his own bitterest mistake, and of her refusal of marriage.
Hot blood infused Pomeroy’s face. He looked ready to explode. "Your Grace, I must insist ... you must not allow her to remain here. It sets a poor example for the staff."
Kenneth turned to the kitchen maid. "Can you cook?"
She bobbed her head. "I cooked for me family, Yer Grace. Simple fare, but—"
"Good. Simple sounds delightful. You can start with dinner tonight. You’re now the new cook." Kenneth shot the French chef a cool, calm look. "Pack up your things. You’re dismissed."
Pomeroy’s jaw dropped. "But, but ..." he spluttered.
"Today," Kenneth said in a quiet tone.
Then, feeling much more cheerful, he left a blustering Pomeroy screaming in French and escaped to the quietness of his library. There he sank into an over-stuffed wing chair and propped his chin on his fist, staring at the flames crackling in the white marble fireplace. Every room had a roaring fire. He was wealthy and could afford the coal. And yet he was so damn cold.
A small noise drew his attention to the doorway. Zaid stood there, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Kenneth’s heart sank.
"Those need my signature?"
Zaid nodded. Kenneth motioned to the satinwood desk. He settled onto its sturdy chair and stared at the thick documents Zaid handed over. They looked official and important.
Slowly he dipped the thick gold pen into the inkwell. His hand hovered above the vellum. Kenneth steeled his spine and drew the intricate swirls and curlicues that made no sense to him. They looked very official. Zaid dusted sand over his signature to dry it.
Kenneth pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket. His friend, Landon Burton, the Earl of Smithfield, had asked to meet him at his cousin Victor’s antiquities shop. He’d promised a small surprise.
"Order the carriage, Zaid. I’m late for my meeting with Lord Smithfield."
When the secretary left, Kenneth stared at the particles clinging to the black ink on the paper. Sand. Egypt. His feet longed to walk the land he once called home. But it was home no more.
Such irony. The English duke who’d sworn never to return to Egypt pining for that land more than anything else. He felt adrift, without country or culture. From the moment he’d left Egypt, he vowed to forget the woman who’d crushed his heart. Badra was in his past, when he’d ridden like the wind across dusky sands and swung a scimitar with a mighty arm. When he’d been called Khepri. The memory of her beauty beckoned like a siren’s song. He had to stuff rags into his ears to shut out the melody.
God help him if he ever saw her again. God help them both.
Chapter Three
Th
is assignment was far more dangerous than she’d ever anticipated. Badra’s heart skipped a beat as she stared out the carriage window. She blew a breath on the glass, frosting it, and drew her name in English. The letters made her smile. Once she’d been illiterate. Now she could read and write in both English and Arabic. It was her greatest achievement.
Anxiety gripped her. Did she now face her worst failure?
Smuggling stolen artifacts belonging to a stranger was one thing. But a necklace belonging to Khepri? Sweat slicked her tightly clasped hands inside her fur muff.
The cold, gray land Khepri now called home chilled her blood. Badra ached for Egypt’s warm sands, soft desert breezes and burning yellow sun. She shuddered at London’s smells and crowds, the thick pall of black coal smoke in the air, the pitiful pleas of ragged beggar children huddled in doorways, the continual clip-clop of carriages rushing indifferently past ordure and filth in the gutters.
She glanced at Rashid, talking to Lord Smithfield, Katherine’s father. The earl had helped them secure a trustworthy source to sell Khamsin gold artifacts. With that money, they could educate the tribe’s children in England. Rashid still wore his trousers and indigo binish, the turban wrapped about his long, dark locks. His only concession to English style was a thick wool cloak to fend off the icy chill.
At their destination, Badra clutched her wool cloak as the wind whistled beneath it. Her clothing felt odd. She had some trouble maneuvering in the laced boots. A wood sign swung in the winter wind above the shop window. It read "ANTIQUITIES."
She followed Rashid and the earl inside. A little silver bell tinkled gaily when the door opened. She hung back, pretending to admire the glistening artifacts in their glass display cases. When the proprietor invited the men to a back room to make their transaction, she held her breath.
The clerk’s eyes met hers. He was the one who sold artifacts on the black market behind his employer’s back.
Badra furtively withdrew the Egyptian necklace from the satchel—called a reticule, she’d learned—and laid it on the counter. Guilt assaulted her. If Jabari knew what she was doing, dishonoring their heritage to become a lowly tomb raider ...
Brushing aside guilt, she spoke rapidly in perfect English. The clerk studied the Egyptian pectoral, which featured a design of two griffins and the vulture goddess. Lapis and carnelian winked in the light.
"Lovely," he marveled in his thick accent. "Be hard to duplicate, but it’ll fetch a pretty pence when it’s done."
Duplicate? So that’s why Masud wanted the necklace smuggled here. The clerk was making replicas. No matter. Her task was finished, and guaranteed Jasmine’s safety. The clerk handed over a wad of pound notes to return to Masud. As she took them, Badra’s hand shook. She was a transporter of stolen goods and tainted money.
Barely had she stuffed the notes into her muff when the little silver bell tinkled again. Badra turned to see the visitor. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she stared into a pair of blazing blue eyes she thought she’d never see again.
Khepri.
Badra.
Time took a step back, just as he did.
Reeling with shock, Kenneth stared at the woman he had once loved. He could not think or breathe. Her exotic beauty enchanted him, wove him back into the familiar spell of hot Arabian nights and the secrets inside the black tents under endless starry skies. Those luminous brown eyes, delicate cheekbones and her soft, pliant mouth still made his heart pound a frantic beat. Her eyes widened as if in fear. Badra’s mouth worked violently. She took a step forward, wobbled like a newborn colt, and threatened to fall.
Habit, borne from five years of protecting her from even her foot scraping a rock, caused him to rush to assist. Grabbing her elbow, he steadied her. Their gazes caught and met, dark brown to deep blue. Her heart-shaped mouth parted in a soft, "Oh!"
Kenneth realized the arm he grasped was covered in soft, gray English fabric. Convulsive shock raced through him.
Badra clad in English dress was like seeing the limestone statue of Ramses II wearing a suit and cravat.
Sublimely ridiculous.
Yet nothing could dim her beauty. Not even sackcloth.
Roping in his emotions, Kenneth straightened and laced both hands behind his back. "Hello, Badra," he said in formal English.
"Khepri," she answered, her sultry voice winding around him like a silk scarf, teasing his senses to madness.
"Kenneth," he corrected.
He picked up the muff she’d dropped and a pound note fluttered out. Kenneth offered both back, deeply curious. He raised inquiring brows.
"I ... I don’t know where to put English currency," she stammered.
His nod toward the reticule swinging from her arm indicated the correct storage place.
"It is good to see you again, Khep—I mean, Kenneth." Badra took the note and the muff. Bright rosy color stained her cheeks. Flustered as he was, she was showing it more.
"I see you are doing quite well," she added.
He stared. Quite well? When all he wanted was to gather her in his arms and kiss her senseless? When she’d cut him to the bone with her rejection? A short laugh escaped him. Viciously, he bit it back.
"What are you doing here, Badra?"
"Rashid and I are visiting Lord Smithfield."
Silently he cursed. The earl had probably thought he’d enjoy seeing people from the tribe that raised him. Not bloody likely.
"Why?" he asked bluntly.
"Ramses was to come, but Katherine is pregnant and he was worried the long journey would tax her. We came in their stead. Do you remember the artifacts stored in the tomb of Ramses’s ancestor?"
At his abrupt nod, she continued. "Lord Smithfield is helping us sell some pieces. With the money, Jabari will send a few children to school in England. They need further education." She smiled. "How is your grandfather faring?"
His throat went tight. "My grandfather ... died two months ago. A sudden illness. I am Duke of Caldwell now." He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. "But I am fortunate we were able to have some time together before he passed on."
Sympathy filled her lovely face. "Oh, Kenneth, I am so sorry. Why did you not write and tell us?"
Tell them? He had left the tribe behind. They knew nothing of his personal life. He had longed to share with them the deep sorrow he felt after regaining old ground with his grandfather, then losing him. He had felt so damnably alone.
But he could not tell them.
Abruptly, he changed topics. "I understand you visited my excavation at Dashur. Did you see anything you liked?"
Two bright spots of scarlet colored her cheeks. "It—it was very educational. How did you know we were there?"
"I know everything about that dig." He studied her face, her beautiful large eyes. Lost in staring, Kenneth felt the familiar desire rise. He fought it. "How is Elizabeth? Did she enjoy seeing the pyramid?"
"Very much so. She and Jabari both. It was a welcome break for them. Tarik is approaching two and is very"—a sparkle lit her eyes—"very much a boy."
A rush of homesickness for the desert sands he’d once called home engulfed him. Kenneth studied Badra. She wore a soft gray gown with sleeves edged with ecru lace. A warm felt hat covered her silken midnight hair bundled into a tight chignon. Of all the English women he’d met, and those he’d bedded in frantic attempts to forget Badra, none could match this exotic beauty.
He willed his emotions away. Never show them to the enemy, Jabari had advised. You will be slaughtered without mercy. God, the sheikh was right—only he’d never warned that the enemy could be a beautiful woman.
"Give her my regards," he told Badra crisply.
Then, with those dismissive words, he crossed to the shop’s assistant. The clerk gave him a friendly smile. Kenneth braced his hands on the counter and offered a penetrating look. "Any new pieces come in? I’m particularly interested in gold Egyptian pectorals. A design with two griffins and the vulture goddess."
&nbs
p; Chapter Four
Oh help me, God, Badra thought frantically. Her heart thudded against her chest. Her eyes sought the clerk’s, who swung his even gaze back to Kenneth.
"No, Your Grace. I don’t have such an item."
Relief made her shoulders slump as he discreetly closed the drawer containing the stolen necklace.
Kenneth drummed his fingers on the counter, peering down at the display case. Badra studied him, this man who once swore an oath to protect her with his life. Now he was a stranger. She might never have recognized him but for those intense blue eyes. A sweep of thick, dark brown hair brushed against the collar of his coat. Cheeks that had been covered in a close-trimmed beard were now clean-shaven. He had a square chin. The beard had hidden this feature. The smooth-shaven look accented full, sensual lips and a thin nose. If Khepri had been merely handsome, this stranger was striking in both his arresting appearance and crisply polished manner. His wool greatcoat hung in clean lines to his thighs. She glanced at his feet—no soft leather boots of blue, but highly polished black shoes.
Once, those blue eyes had held only friendliness. Now they appeared colder than the air outside. Looking a true English duke, Kenneth’s broad shoulders bore a regal posture as he laced gloved hands behind his back.
He had always been alert and sharp, watchful of her every move, and she feared one look at her ragged breathing and he’d ask questions, demand answers. But he merely studied the artifacts, asking about their origins. Voices sounded as the back room door creaked open. Badra’s heart skipped another beat as Rashid stepped out.
At the sound, Kenneth turned. Rashid halted. Badra’s heartbeat trebled.
The two men regarded each other with a level look. Badra shuddered at the antipathy burning in Rashid’s brown eyes. Loyally, he considered Kenneth a traitor to his sheikh.
Their eyes locked.
"Hello, Khepri," Rashid said in Arabic, his jaw tensing beneath his heavy black beard. "I see you are still alive and well. A shame."
Badra’s chest felt hollow with panic as Kenneth narrowed his eyes and replied in the same language, "I did not think I would ever see you again, Rashid." He paused and gave a chilling smile. "A shame."
