by Bonnie Vanak
"No particular reason," Smithfield said. "Go search Rashid’s room. Afraid I must leave you. I’ve an appointment with my solicitor. Let yourself out when you’re finished. But hurry. Most likely, he’ll return soon."
Rashid’s room’s contents did not surprise Kenneth. An ornate, hand-carved oak canopied bed with a forest green silk coverlet dominated. On the jewel-toned carpet lay a small bedroll with a pillow. Rashid always slept on the ground.
With careful stealth, Kenneth opened the drawers in the polished tallboy, systematically combing through the contents. He searched the room with efficient thoroughness until at last he spied his quarry stuffed deep inside Rashid’s bedroll: a colorful cloth bag. Personal items.
Kenneth tugged on the drawstring and dumped the contents onto the rug: a small bag containing English money, a pair of scissors, and a gleam of gold flashing in the light that filtered through the polished window.
Kenneth picked up the gold pendant. It was the missing necklace. Raw anger tunneled through him.
He fingered the pendant, examining the shiny perfection of ancient Egyptian craftsmanship. His father had died trying to obtain this, or treasure like it. Yet why would Rashid steal it? As revenge for Kenneth insulting Jabari? Was that why Rashid had attempted to kill him as well?
Rashid was a powerful warrior. He could have fought Kenneth last night, made him fight for his life. But instead, he’d nicked him and run. It made no sense.
No matter. He’d stolen; therefore Kenneth would order his arrest.
His conscience pricked. Rashid’s arrest would dishonor Jabari and the tribe.
He owed them nothing.
He owed them everything.
Torn, he replaced the pendant. The Duke of Caldwell thirsted to watch authorities drag Rashid to prison. The Khamsin warrior he had been resisted ordering such a public disgrace.
Bloody hell, he couldn’t order Rashid arrested. I owe it to Jabari, for how I treated him when I left. Face it, he told himself with grim humor. I’ve spent a year trying to forget I am Khamsin. But deep down, I still long to ride the sands and restore friendship with them. I loathe shaming the tribe who was my family. And it would upset Badra deeply. He winced, imagining her shock at seeing her falcon guard hauled off to prison.
But failing to arrest Rashid meant quiet Khamsin justice must prevail. Jabari must be told. Kenneth touched his cobra tattoo, guilt coursing through him. Confronting the man he once called brother would not be easy. But did he have any alternative?
Only the prisons here in England. He jammed a frustrated hand through his thick hair. There was no choice left, only to return to Egypt, to tell the sheikh what happened. To see Khamsin justice done.
But perhaps Rashid worked with others, a ring of smugglers still present at the dig. He needed more information. Kenneth decided to immediately send Zaid, his loyal secretary, to Egypt to investigate. Then he’d make plans for himself and Victor to follow. His cousin, experienced in antiquities, would prove an enormous help.
On silent feet, he left and prowled down the hallway.
Music accosted his ears. He froze. A sweet melody filled the air, so haunting it stilled his breath. Strings plucked on an exotic instrument he had not heard in more than a year. In a different time and place.
Badra’s voice followed, accompanying her strumming of the rebaba’s horsehair strings, and it filled him with aching want. Oh, how he remembered her dulcet tones. Enraptured, he had stood mesmerized outside her tent. Caught in her voice’s silken strands, he had become ensnared in a web of torment, his maddening hunger for her forever unsated.
Never again had he imagined hearing her sing.
But the same voice now wrapped its exotic tones about him. Aching melancholy for his past wrestled with Kenneth’s need. Her voice razed all English trappings. The palatial drawing rooms, stiff and resplendent in their brocaded fabrics, the polished smell of beeswax and glycerin—all shifted into the past.
The memories burned: the soft shuffle of leather boots through sand, children’s ringing laughter, women chattering as they sloshed goat’s milk in leather bags, the sharp rasp of warriors’ blades as they honed them against a rock.
Kenneth breathed deeply, his mind recalling various sensations. Roasting lamb, the sharp hiss of fat dripping into the fire. The smell of horses. Fresh jasmine scenting a woman’s soft skin, and the desert heat contained in those hidden places a warrior dared dream about, that velvet warmth clutching and surrounding him with pleasure so intense he’d burned hot as the yellow sun ...
He touched his hidden cobra tattoo. For a full year, the simple truth had simmered below the surface. He had rejected his tribe, and himself as well, but he still longed to be called brother of Jabari. He could not shed his upbringing as easily as he shaved his beard or cut his hair.
His eyes snapped open. Badra’s song became mournful, a dirge. What coaxed such embittered words from her sweet lips? The Arabic words pulled at him.
When did you become nothing but a shadow on my heart?
My leb is aching from the weight you placed on it, for you died and left me
Alone in my grief, tears of sorrow creating a river
Deep as the Nile
So I may drown and feel no more pain, my soul that aches for
The tender smiles you once gave
You left forever, yet you still remain
Flesh and blood and bone, standing before me and yet
A ghost still.
Kenneth pressed his fingers against the wooden door. Motionless, he stood lost in past regrets. What ghosts hammered at her deep inside?
Did she ever love me at all? He did not want to know. Kenneth quietly slipped down the sweeping staircase, eager to return to his very English home. No memories lurked there. But in the hallway, as he reached the door, it swung open.
Rashid stepped inside. His startled gaze met Kenneth’s. For a minute something deep and inscrutable flickered in his dark eyes. Then it vanished, replaced with his usual hostility.
"Rashid. Good day," Kenneth said quietly.
"It was, until I saw you. Get out of my way."
Fists clenching with white-knuckled anger, Kenneth cursed. Arrest him, screamed Kenneth, the outraged English duke. No, protested Khepri, the Khamsin warrior he’d been.
A small noise sounded from the staircase. He whirled. It was Badra, standing there, regally. Distress etched her face.
Kenneth glared at Rashid a moment longer, then pushed past and went down and out into the biting cold.
Chapter Six
"That was unforgivably rude. Where are your manners?" Standing on the staircase, Badra coldly regarded her friend. Her protector. Her companion in pain.
Rashid’s handsome face pinched with sudden regret. "I am sorry, Badra. I did not mean to upset you."
She descended and paced the gleaming hardwood floor. "Why do you hate him so? Because of what he did to Jabari?"
Deep sorrow reflected in his dark eyes. Then it faded. He grunted. "It is more jealousy than hate. Khepri always led a charmed life. He always had ... advantages most others never did."
Her friend’s blunt honesty startled her. "Rashid, do not torment yourself. There are always others who have advantages we are denied. Life sometimes strips us of choices and we must make the best of what we are given."
Dark torment flashed on Rashid’s face. Badra recognized the look—terror, mixed with deep shame.
"You must be cordial to Khepri, especially at Lord Smithfield’s dinner party tonight."
"It is not necessary. I am not attending."
"But Rashid, you promised."
"I cannot stand the English staring as if I am an artifact on display. I hate them," he said tightly. But she sensed a more compelling reason behind his refusal.
"Rashid, what happened? I know something did. I can tell."
He remained silent. A maid carrying flowers passed. Badra sensed Rashid’s unease. "Let us talk in private. In my room."
Ups
tairs, she closed the door and watched him sink to the floor, sitting cross-legged. She waited patiently. The warrior took a deep breath, his face pale and glistening with sweat.
"While I walked in the park, I saw someone. He looked exactly ..." Rashid took a long gulp of air.
"Like the Englishman who hurt you," she finished.
Head bent, he traced a line on the elegant carpet. "Badra, there is something you should know. He did not ... force me."
Badra stared, feeling slightly sick.
"He was a visiting English nobleman, purchasing one of our Arabians. A person of great power and respect. I begged him to help me escape the man hurting me each night. He told me such a great favor came with a great price. He, he ... wanted me. If I did not struggle ... he would help me. When I refused, the Englishman asked what was one time with him compared to a lifetime with my tormentor? I was so desperate I agreed. When it ... when it was over, he warned if I told anyone, he would blame me. Then he laughed and rode off. He left me there, Badra. Trapped. There was no escape."
Rashid’s voice scraped across her shivering body. "This is the real reason I loathed coming to England. He is here, in London. I know it. I cannot bear seeing him again. That face, his red hair, it haunts my deepest dreams."
"How old were you?" she asked quietly.
His long black hair curtained his expression. "Old enough to know what he did. What I allowed him to do. I was eight."
Badra forced down the rising nausea, thinking of the little boy subjected to such horrors. For all she had suffered, Rashid had suffered double.
"Do not blame yourself. I wasted years doing so. You must learn to live with the memories. With time, they will fade." Though she tried to assure him, a hollow note rang in her voice.
He caught it. "Do they?" he asked. Doubt riddled his tone. "For years I have lived with this torment. I cannot look upon any Englishman without breaking into a cold sweat. I feel so ... ashamed."
His haunted eyes met hers. ‘Tell me, Badra. Please. Tell me that it will fade, that I will be a man once more."
Her heart ripped in half. She imagined a young boy’s terrified screams as Fareeq’s second-in-command indulged in his evil pleasure ... and then the boy’s shame as he allowed an Englishman to do the same.
"You are a man, Rashid. A brave, honorable warrior. And no one ever doubts it. Your secret will remain safe with me."
He touched her hand, nodded. Some degree of control had returned and his old, familiar look of command returned. "As will yours," he stated formally.
She squeezed his hand. For a minute they sat, lost in memory. And regret.
It was a horrible mistake, appearing at Lord Smithfield’s party. Badra realized that now. She had wanted to shut herself away and mourn her cowardice in refusing Kenneth’s marriage offer last year, but conflicting emotions tore at her. Her curiosity had won. She’d wanted to experience the English society that would have become her world had she married Khepri. So Badra had summoned a maid to help her dress and then went downstairs to the dinner party.
Beneath her elegant emerald silk gown, Badra broke into a cold sweat as she glimpsed the crowd. Choking panic welled in her throat.
The swirl of elegant women in ruffled silk gowns and the gentlemen in elegant black suits was flustering as Lord Smithfield introduced her. Men gave her speculative glances and smiles. The women were cool and assessing. Badra felt like a display piece, gazed upon and examined by curious spectators.
And then a familiar face towered over the crowd. The Duke of Caldwell. Her mouth went dry.
One woman in a lemon-yellow gown leaned close to Kenneth, clearly enthralled. Badra noticed several other ladies rivet their attention to him, too. His prodigious height, dark good looks and piercing blue eyes attracted females like sand to wet skin. With seeming ease, he conversed with his admirer.
Then Kenneth lifted his head. His gaze caught Badra’s and held it across the room. For a single moment his eyes burned into her, scorching her with a heat more intense than her beloved Egyptian sun. Then he fastened his attention back on his companion. His deep, rich laughter sounded as he responded to something she’d said.
Anxiety clenched Badra’s stomach. She was here in his foreign, imposing world. On her own. If she committed some grave social error, he would not rescue her. Sweat dampened her palms.
As the footman announced dinner and they were ushered toward the dining room, full-fledged panic arose. She wanted to turn and run.
But her feet, and pride, would not permit flight.
An enormous table with a handwoven lace cloth featured shiny dishes, sparkling crystal and gleaming silver. The sour-faced footman stood nearby, his manner as stiff as the dark blue velvet and gold-braided uniform he wore. The relative casualness of Lord Smithfield’s usual dinners did not match this cold formality. No wonder Rashid remained upstairs.
Her heart galloped as her dinner companion, Viscount Oates, gallantly held out her chair. For a long moment Badra’s legs froze. How could she do this? She was a simple Bedouin woman who sat on thick carpets on the sand, ate with flat bread as utensils and drank cups of thick, rich camel’s milk. A footman moved methodically down the table, pouring ruby-colored wine into glasses. She did not drink alcohol, either.
She glanced across the table at the duke, who was conversing with his pretty dinner partner. Badra swept the table with her gaze. Which fork to use? What if she spilled something? So many crystal glasses as well.
Women glanced at her with avid interest, bright eyes eager to see her fail. How could she manage this? I cannot.
Badra stared at Kenneth, willing him to look at her, to offer some reassurance. Studiously, it seemed, he ignored her.
Please look at me, Kenneth. Please. I’m frightened.
Finally, he did. Badra’s desperate gaze held his steady one. Helplessly, she touched the gleaming utensils near her plate. She raised her gaze to Kenneth in a wordless request.
"Watch me," he mouthed.
Servants began serving the first course. Badra studied the white liquid sitting before her in a delicate china bowl, and then at the assortment of spoons. The duke lifted the largest spoon and dipped it into the soup, slowly bringing it to his mouth. Badra attempted the same, tasting the concoction, surprised at the creamy taste. She ate more, smiling politely as Lord Oates chatted about his family’s fine collection of horses.
I will not appear a savage. I can use the correct utensil.
Badra watched Kenneth carefully as footmen cleared the soup bowls and brought the next course. He picked up the heavy silver utensil, speared a white oval dotted with green shavings and brought it to his mouth. She followed suit, resisting the strong impulse to break off some thick white bread to scoop up the meal, just as she longed to push back the heavy mahogany chair and sit on the floor.
A florid-faced nobleman sitting nearby addressed Kenneth from across the table. "So, Caldwell," he boomed. "Shall we go shooting again this year at my estate? Bag a pheasant or two?"
"As long as it is pheasant and not peasant I down, Huntly. I’m afraid the last time I nearly clipped one of your tenants instead of the bird," Kenneth joked smoothly, to the amused laughter of those listening.
A pang of jealousy twisted Badra’s insides at the women’s adoring glances. Khepri was gone forever, Kenneth the duke neatly sliding into his place, a polished, sophisticated nobleman who assimilated smoothly into this strange, gleaming world. She felt like a dull pebble surrounded by sparkling rubies and diamonds.
Surprising her, Lord Oates sneered. "Bagging peasants sounds well and good, but you rarely attended any of last season’s balls. Are you shunning the Marriage Mart? Or is it waltzing you fear? Did they not teach you any social graces in Egypt?"
Kenneth narrowed his eyes.
"Oh, right, I forgot. That lazy heathen tribe who raised you doesn’t dance. Except when poked with a British saber."
Oates’s laughter rang out. Badra flinched at the insult.
A sound escaped Kenneth’s lips: a whisper, a familiar undulating purr from the past, a war cry Badra knew he made when confronted with male posturing. It was the call to arms his father had taught him. Not his real father, but the sheikh who’d raised him.
"What was that?!" one woman exclaimed.
Silence fell around the table like a heavy curtain. Badra bored her dark gaze into Kenneth’s, thoroughly shocked but secretly gleeful. Khepri may have been swallowed by the urbane duke, but he could surface still, the Khamsin war cry undulating from his lips. The duke turned his attention toward the woman.
"That, my dear Lady Huntly, was a demonstration of the call to dance by the tribe who raised me. You are correct, Oates. The Khamsin do not dance in the traditional English sense. Their dances are fierce displays of strength before battle. The warriors strip to the waist, anoint themselves with ceremonial decorations and gather before a mighty bonfire, preparing themselves for the bloodletting to come. They dance to show to the sheikh their willingness to die."
"Are women permitted in these ceremonies?" asked one woman faintly, fanning herself. A tiny bead of perspiration rolled down her temple.
Kenneth gave Badra a meaningful glance. "No, for it is feared a lady would faint from witnessing such a spectacle." He added softly, "For women, such displays of male potency are reserved to the privacy of the black tents."
Badra felt her cheeks flame at his remark. His sapphire eyes burned into her. Heat from her cheeks spread through her body, fanning it like a stoked fire—as if they were alone, and he’d dared to relay something forbidden, exotic and mysterious.
Oh, yes. He was still vaguely threatening and yet exciting. Badra’s lips parted as she watched his long, elegant fingers stroke his wineglass’s stem as if it were live, warm flesh. Her imagination flamed as she pictured his hands caressing a woman’s soft thigh, teasing and arousing ...
Her mental picture shifted. It was her thigh, the duke’s hooded gaze lazy and meaningful as it captured hers and his fingers slid slowly upward, heat flaring in their wake. Badra hitched in a trembling breath, disturbed and aroused.
