by Bonnie Vanak
Ramses offered a cheerful grin, breaking the solemnity of the moment. "Ah, a first. My sheikh hands me a dagger and instructs me to shed his blood. Perhaps a tattoo is not enough. A decorative symbol? Perhaps your wife’s favorite flower?"
"We could create a map of Egypt so if you become lost, you will always find your way," Kenneth offered cheerfully.
Jabari grunted. "Ramses, get on with it before I carve a permanent smile on your face." The Khamsin sheikh stared grimly into the fire as his guardian created the cut. When finished, Ramses wiped his arm and handed over the bloodied dagger.
The sheikh looked at his guardian pensively. Kenneth saw his predicament and he began to laugh. Ramses heaved a heavy sigh. "Must I receive another?" He held out his arms, each thick as tree trunks, one bearing a tattoo of a falcon, one bearing the intricate symbols signifying his marriage status. "I am running out of space," he complained.
His sheikh arched a black brow. "I can always find room on another body part," he offered helpfully.
Ramses cheerfully cursed him. Kenneth laughed, glad for the companionship and restored friendship. He felt at home at last.
Jabari settled for the space below the falcon tattoo. He finished and held up the dagger to the sky.
"May this dagger, which has shed our blood, serve as the instrument that binds us together as blood brothers, as the sacred ankh on our arms serves as the eternal reminder we are brothers for life."
"Brothers for life," Kenneth echoed solemnly.
"Brothers for life," Ramses repeated.
The sheikh cleaned the dagger and reverently replaced it in its cedar box. Kenneth arched his neck and stared at the sky. His heart felt lighter, and he felt a wholeness that he had missed since leaving.
Ramses nudged him and gestured at the circle on Jabari’s smooth, muscled chest. The almha: It had been tattooed on the sheikh the night before they rode against the Al-Hajid to reclaim that sacred disk.
"Do you remember when he received that?" Ramses asked.
Kenneth gave a solemn nod. Lost in recollection of long-ago, he mused over that night the warriors sang and danced around the fire and the sheikh received the tattoo. He propped his chin upon a fist, staring off into the sand. Finally the sheikh stood. They walked back to the camp, Kenneth wondering where his quarters would be for the night.
To his shock, Jabari halted before Badra’s tent, giving Kenneth an apologetic look. "She is not returning until late tomorrow. Rashid’s quarters are much less comfortable. Since it is late, I thought it would be acceptable. If it makes you uncomfortable ..."
"You can stay with us," Ramses put in.
"No, it’s fine." He gave a small shrug. "Only for tonight. I’ll be on my way at first light."
He bid them good-night, removed his boots and stepped inside the black tent. An oil lamp flickered on a sandalwood table. Kenneth made his way toward a bedroom curtained off from the main section and halted.
Badra’s bedroom. He smelled her scent, the fresh jasmine. A silver hairbrush sat on a wood table before an oval mirror. The large, comfortable bed, neatly made with clean sheets, was piled high with silk pillows.
She always had enjoyed sleeping with many pillows.
Spellbound by memories, he closed his eyes, remembering the first time he had saved Badra from the Al-Hajid, when he’d lost his heart to her. When he had shed his blood for her.
He lifted the tent flaps to allow a soft breeze through; then he washed, dumped the dirty water into the container used for irrigating the herb garden, and tumbled into Badra’s soft bed, falling into a sleep deeper than he ever had in England. The Duke of Caldwell, former Khamsin warrior, began to dream of jasmine and a shy, alluring smile.
Home at last.
Badra had pushed them at a breakneck pace back to camp, for she needed to return to Dashur as quickly as possible. Moonlight pooled silver upon the pebbled sand as she and Rashid made their way quietly through the tents.
She went into her own, heading for the bedroom, smiling at someone’s thoughtfulness. They had partly rolled up the flaps, allowing moonlight and a fresh desert breeze to spill inside. Undressing in the moonlight, she did a quick wash, donned a soft cotton nightdress she’d bought in England. Badra stroked the material wistfully, feeling a small connection to Kenneth and his native land—her one concession to relishing the tiny dream that she could have been his wife. She would have worn this to her marital bed, watched Kenneth’s face glow with pleasure as he gently tugged it off her and let it pool around her feet as he advanced on her, hunger flaring in his eyes. He’d trap her beneath his heavy weight, the gleam of desire turning to the madness of lust as he pinched her, pushing himself crudely inside her—
Badra shivered. She went to her bed, lifted the sheet and slid onto the mattress. A tiny sigh of regret fled her lips. Would it truly have been that revolting to share her body with Kenneth? What if she had allowed him to continue to make love to her? If only she wasn’t so afraid.
The odd scent of sandalwood and soap teased her nostrils. Kenneth’s scent. She was so enamored of him that her mind played tricks! But suddenly she became aware of steady, even breathing. A hard male body pressed against hers. Muscles and sinew molded themselves to her soft curves. She froze in panic, her mouth opening to cry out and summon Rashid and a horde of warriors, when a sleepy male voice spoke:
"Mmmmm. Badra."
Kenneth?
She lay perfectly still, shock replacing her fear as he snuggled against her. A warm hand skimmed her rib cage and slid upward to cup one breast. His forefinger and thumb took her nipple and gently kneaded it. An odd tingling pooled in her loins. He buried his face in her hair, his warm breath feathering her nape.
She whimpered with pleasure. He uttered a soft groan. She realized he was sleeping, dreaming of her.
She did not move one rigid muscle as he molded his body firmly against her, the hard ridge of his arousal nestling against her bottom. Memories of Fareeq surfaced. She fought them.
The feather-light caresses continued, sending fire through her veins. Caught in a quandary, Badra lay still. If she startled him into waking, he might awaken others. She did not want a scene.
And delicious sensations pooled through her as he gently caressed her breast, filling her with pulsing yearning. She waited, arching against his touch as he murmured sleepily.
Suddenly he rolled away. Badra slid quietly from the sheets and stood, gazing at him. Moonlight exposed the sharp edges of his profile, his sensual mouth parted slightly as he breathed. The sheet was pulled only waist high, revealing a naked chest covered with a wealth of dark hair. The cobra tattoo showed in stark blue on the sculpted bicep of his right arm.
He dreamt of holding her in his arms. She could only imagine the courage it would take to fall into his welcoming embrace. A piercing regret stabbed her as she padded out of the bedroom to sleep in the corner of the tent’s main room.
Before the first gray streaks of dawn stole into the tent, Kenneth awoke, the fragrance of jasmine lingering in the air. He inhaled the scent seeming to dust his hands. Was it a dream? Had he held Badra in his arms? Had his tender caresses caused sighs of pleasure to ripple from her sweet lips?
After dressing, he looked around the bedroom in speculation. He lit a lamp and silently padded over to the curtain separating the room from the main chamber. Lifting the fabric, he knew already what he would find.
Badra lay on the floor, curled into a tight ball, fast asleep. It had been no dream, then.
He looked at her a long minute, studying the delicate curves of her cheeks, her lush lips, her long, slender neck and rounded hips. So beautiful. Then he turned and headed back to her bedroom to gather his things. Dawn crept over the horizon, promising another cloudless, brilliant blue Egyptian sky.
Kenneth saddled his camel and slipped away from the Khamsin camp as silently as his cobra totem.
Chapter Thirteen
With its nearly level surface halved by a small crater, the pyra
mid of Senusret III at Dashur resembled a volcano more than an Egyptian monument. Reddish brown sand stretched as far as the eye could see, marching up to the etched lines of the twelfth-dynasty structure. The pyramid’s ebony bricks, fashioned from sun-dried Nile mud, rose toward the sky. Kenneth studied the pyramid’s cleft, formed by previous excavations in 1839 by archaeologists attempting to discover the entrance.
Sunshine warmed his chilled blood. Glancing up at the cloudless blue day, he gauged the time as he had been taught by his Khamsin brethren. Afternoon. Kenneth squatted down, sifting the sand through his fingers. Like flour, it spilled down, blown away by the wind. Sturdy cream-colored tents dotted the area in small outcroppings—although the dig’s director, Jacques de Morgan, stayed in a nearby village, some of his team elected to camp near the pyramid. Kenneth stood, dusting off his hands. Sand kicked up by his leather boots whorled at his feet as he strode down to the camp.
The gold pectoral stolen from the dig site had been found in the northern section of the pyramid, in a series of galleries containing the tombs of Senusret and the royal family. Those sarcophagi had proven empty, the royal mummies long gone; Kenneth suspected they had been buried in another tomb for safekeeping, something not uncommon among the descendents of Egyptian royals, who feared having their remains disturbed by tomb robbers. However, the magnificent pectoral had been found layered in ancient dust at the foot of the granite casket, and so there de Morgan suspected a secret chamber lay below the galleries, a chamber used for storing precious artifacts buried with the dead for comfort in their afterlife.
Kenneth had given strict instructions not to explore that theory until his arrival. He needed to be present when the underground chamber was found. If more jewelry existed, Rashid would seize the chance to steal it. Then Kenneth would catch him and bring him back to the Khamsin for justice.
Steeling his spine, he strode toward the encampment, ruminating over the trap he’d prepared.
He washed at the basin propped on an empty crate in his tent and left for luncheon. Beneath a white canopy at a portable table, Victor and Jacques de Morgan dined off china plates and sipped fruit juice from crystal goblets. Kenneth’s austere soul winced at the opulence in the desert’s rugged simplicity.
On the distant horizon, a small cloud kicked up and horses’ hoofbeats thundered on the sand. Dust thickened and swirled. Shading his eyes, Kenneth stared at the sight.
Two Khamsin warriors came riding into the encampment on beautiful, sleek Arabians, guiding the horses expertly with their knees instead of bridles. Seeing them sent a ripple of unease through him, though he’d expected it.
Kenneth watched Jabari and Ramses dismount.
He knew the Khamsin leader would not simply let such a grave matter as tomb raiding rest in his hands. Tribe honor was at stake, and Jabari had a fierce sense of that. Likewise with Ramses. The Khamsin guardian despised tomb robbers even more than his sheikh did.
With a heavy sigh, Kenneth went to greet his friends.
Jabari’s keen gaze met his. "It is as you predicted, Khepri. Badra informed us de Morgan hired her to sketch the excavation. Rashid will be here with her soon."
Unease rippled through him. Jacques de Morgan had hired her? He wondered about the French archaeologist’s motivation. He nodded to de Morgan’s table. "I’ll introduce you."
As they approached the canopy, Kenneth caught the words, "If the necklace is stolen ..." His cousin glanced up, looking startled. He fell silent.
After introductions were made, Victor looked at de Morgan. He said, "I need to check on a few things. I’ll meet you at the dig."
Kenneth gazed after his departing cousin. What had he been discussing with de Morgan that he was so eager to hide?
The French archaeologist swept Jabari and Ramses with a curious gaze. "Mon Dieu, those weapons you carry!"
An air of quiet pride settled on Jabari’s broad shoulders as he gripped his scimitar’s ivory hilt, the symbol of his clan’s leadership passed down from generation to generation.
"But pistols and rifles are so much more sophisticated," de Morgan went on, fussily patting his mustache with a linen napkin. "I suppose it is the culture. Egyptians are so simple compared to civilized societies such as the French."
Kenneth’s gut twisted. Jabari’s mouth tightened in anger beneath his black beard. The sheikh gave de Morgan a look of contempt and stalked off, shoulders stiff with pride.
Left alone with de Morgan and a seething Ramses, Kenneth felt the awkwardness of his two worlds colliding.
Ramses’s silent gaze held his, questioning. Which are you, it asked. Duke of Caldwell? Or Khepri? Are you our brother still?
A brother would not allow such a deep insult to pass.
Oblivious of the tension in the air, de Morgan stood, went outside the little canopy and brushed crumbs off his fine linen suit. Kenneth glanced at the bowl of gleaming, imported fruit on the table. Oranges and bananas. An idea surfaced. He took a banana, tossed it to Ramses, and said softly in Arabic, "Sit. Wait until my cue and then peel this with your dagger."
Interest shone in the guardian’s amber eyes. De Morgan returned and sat again as Kenneth leaned an elbow on the table.
"You say Egyptians are simple, Monsieur de Morgan. I have found living with the Khamsin that the warriors are fierce fighters, very courageous and oblivious to pain. And their weapons serve a useful purpose." He gave a dramatic pause.
Ramses took out his sharp dagger and held it aloft, admiring the blade. Mirth flashed in his eyes.
"As I was saying, the warriors are fearless, ruthless fighters, trained upon reaching manhood. When the training is complete, we undergo a ritual to signify our status as men." Hiding a smile, Kenneth continued. "Circumcision," he gleefully told the Frenchman. "A painful process, but one which guarantees, ah, a certain stoicism among the warriors."
Ramses began peeling the banana very slowly and very carefully with his dagger.
"A sharp blade must be used for the process, and the warrior must stay absolutely still. One slip and ..."
A curse in English flitted from Ramses’s lips as the dagger jerked, scoring a deep notch in the banana. De Morgan blanched. Kenneth swore even the tips of his mustache paled.
"Khamsin warriors learn to endure," Kenneth added. "Women also claim it makes certain acts of love more pleasurable. Much more."
With a sly wink, Ramses chomped down on the peeled banana, chewing with relish. The Frenchman looked physically ill.
Ramses took another banana and offered it to de Morgan. The archaeologist mopped his brow with a handkerchief and shook his head, muttering excuses about overseeing the workers. When he bolted from his chair, Kenneth caved in and howled with laughter. Ramses joined him, holding out the extra fruit.
"Banana? Women love them." He winked.
"Only if it is peeled," he shot back, and they howled with laughter again.
Draped in her customary indigo kuftan, blousy trousers and blue head scarf, Badra surveyed the encampment for her contact, the digger whom Masud had told her stole the first necklace. Rashid, Jabari and Ramses busied themselves with setting up tents.
The sheikh and his guardian made her vastly uneasy. Jabari had told her Kenneth had made peace with him, and he’d decided to visit the dig site and observe the work. But the sheikh’s gaze was frank and steady as he explained this to her, and that made her nervous.
Committing theft in front of them would require all her wits.
A tall, thin Egyptian in an ankle-length thobe with distinct blue stripes, and a white turban sitting askew on his head, spotted her and gave a small nod. Badra tensed, nodding back. This was the digger who was her contact. She must take care, or all her carefully laid plans would collapse.
Or worse, she would weave a noose out of an Egyptian necklace for Kenneth to hang her.
Badra wiped clammy hands on her kuftan, trying to calm her heartbeat. Gulping in a breath, she turned rapidly—and nearly collided with the one man she knew sh
e could never really deceive. Kenneth.
His two hands shot out, steadying her. His shadow fell over her as he gazed down at her. She stared at his chest and the white shirt he wore, then craned her head up to regard him.
"Hello, Badra," he said quietly.
She gazed up at his somber face, his piercing blue gaze holding hers, thick locks of dark brown hair hanging over his forehead. He wore a crisp shirt that showed little sign of sweat, despite the day’s relative warmth. Open at the throat, the deep V showed a triangle of dark hair. She stared at his chest, spellbound, remembering how he had curled up next to her. How he had cupped her breast, making her ache and pulse with a strange yearning she lacked the courage to explore. His library in England: how his powerful body had covered hers as she shoved at him, screaming for him to stop...
"Why are you here?" he asked.
She gave a tremulous smile. "Jacques de Morgan invited me to sketch the excavation. What of you? Are you readying everything?"
"He’s in charge. I’m not an archeologist."
Tension rose between them, thick as the shimmering heat from the dusky sand. Badra swallowed hard. "Kenneth, about what happened in England ..." Heat flushed her face. She did not know how to speak of the matter. Deep shame and guilt filled her. His steady, intense blue eyes held hers, frankly assessing, devoid of emotion. Her voice dropped to a choked rasp. "I hope we can both forget it and move on."
"I can’t. What happened, Badra? Why did you pull away?"
His expression remained impartial, as if he were still a Khamsin warrior. Or an English duke with the cool reserve of his breeding and culture. She couldn’t confess her brutal past, the fears and shame she felt each time he touched her.
"What do you mean?" Her voice sounded too loud, too protesting. Badra affected surprise, though she felt certain he could hear the thunderous drum of her heart. He towered over her like a tall limestone column in one of the ancient temples, equally solid, massive and imposing.
