“Then he will be ‘Thief.’”
“Good choice,” Cheftu said, and took a long drink.
Chloe got up and gave the rest of the birds to the cat. Cheftu watched her. “Are you going to sit here by the fire?” she asked him.
He stood, facing her, his body limned in red. “Should I?”
Chloe's breath caught in her throat, and heat rushed through her body. “Nay, Cheftu. Take me to bed … please.”
He stood silently for a moment. “We are still angry with each other.”
“I do not care. I want you.” She reached out, touching his warm skin. “Please.” She grabbed his belt and pulled him closer. He smelled like earth, and Chloe realized that he was covered in dried mud. She kissed a patch of clean skin just above his collarbone.
“To want me is not enough,” he said, grabbing her shoulders and holding her back. “I have given everything for and to you, Chloe. Still you want. Always it is what you want.”
“Cheftu?” Chloe was appalled. Was that the way he saw her? Grasping and greedy?
“Tonight I am not bending. I love you. I would die for you. However, I will not suffer to be your convenience.” He stepped away. “I realize you do not want to be with me forever.” His glare impaled her. “Although it is what I want. Tonight, whether it is petty or not, I cannot bear to be close to you.”
Chloe stood still as a cenotaph, then sank slowly to the ground.
“I will find a way home for you,” he said, and walked away.
Tears burned furrows through the dust and sand that covered her face like a mask. Home for her had never been a place; it was people. Now home was Cheftu. Too bad she hadn't realized it in time.
CHAPTER 16
Morning dawned and Chloe stretched luxuriously in the blanketing. Cheftu lay on his stomach beneath her, his upper back her pillow. A soft kiss was rewarded with a sleepy grunt. Out of the doorway, she saw the beach. The tide was going out, the sky barely tinged with violet pink, and orange in the early morning clouds. Birdsong drifted in the wind and Chloe smiled. Thief was curled up on them both, his head resting on Chloe's leg, his body curled into the space supported by Cheftu's calves. Chloe ran her hand down the sloping planes of Cheftu's body, relaxed in sleep.
He murmured, but he didn't move when she kissed his back and neck, so she turned onto her stomach and looked out at the rosy morning. The sky was silver lined the air dense with the call of birds.
Cheftu's hot hand traveled across her back to her shoulder. Chloe turned to face him, her body welcoming his sleepy passion. Silently they moved together, Cheftu awakening more with every movement his stamina wearing Chloe down. He drew back, pressing one of her feet to his chest, kissing it, intensifying his movements.
“Look at me!” he commanded hoarsely. Chloe opened her eyes, dazed. “I want to see you… I want you to know it is me. I am making you burn; my body moves inside you—and for all the years you live I will have been the first. I have marked your soul. Give me you, Chloe.”
His words were guttural and hardly discernible, but Chloe saw the ferocious intensity of his dark features. She felt a breaking inside, a melting of all that was her, a loosening of herself—her identity, her goals, her life. With it came a laser-bright awareness of this man, of who he was. Of what he meant to her.
Cheftu gasped as he tried to maintain control, piercing her innermost being with his anger, his love, and his frustration. “When you leave you will remember me… settlement!”
She clung to him, panting and sweating, the climax twisting like wire inside her, emotion and sensation binding her to him. Cheftu took all she offered and gave himself—his hopes, dreams, and disappointments—his soul. As the wires finally tore loose and Chloe was released, she stared into his eyes, and felt his brokenness meet hers, felt their melting, their completion. Just as she thought it was over, Cheftu drove her to delirium. “Join me!”
Waves of pleasure engulfed her, jolting her body as she clung to Cheftu. With a final groan he sagged, his crouched legs shaking. He fell beside her, brushing her sticky hair from her face as their breathing returned to normal.
The awkwardness returned.
Cheftu pulled away first. “I must get to the mud pit,” he said, reaching for his kilt. “In a few more days we will have a mud-brick house.”
Chloe wanted to reach to him, tease and laugh, but he was withdrawn, uncomfortable. She scrambled after him, tying on the ragged remains of her dress. He grabbed his pouch, then halted and drew out a handful of seeds.
“What are these?” Chloe asked.
His skin colored as he looked beyond her. “Giant fennel. A preventative; so I do not get you with child.” His expression was solemn. “I would not have you return to your time with the disgrace of a baby in your belly. Swallow one… after… after…” He inhaled and focused beyond her shoulder for a long, silent moment. “It should keep you safe. Make sure they are taken with plenty of liquid and after you have eaten something.”
Now was the time to tell him she didn't want to return. Instead she stood silently, watching as he walked away, back up the cliff, leaving her alone under the blue bowl of sky.
She took the seed as she contemplated what to do. How could they have come through so much and now, when it was all over, fall apart?
Her grandmother Mimi had always been her anchor… the string to her kite, allowing her to safely fly and explore and be free, with no fears of getting lost. When Mimi died Chloe felt the string had been cut. No one else had been closer, known her more intimately, accepted her as totally.
When she traveled back to Egypt, it suddenly made sense, Mimi's death. It had been the final bond holding her to that time. She loved Cammy, but the loss wasn't nearly so great. She knew Cammy was consumed with guilt, and she wanted to ease that but couldn't. Her parents, as long as they had each other, would survive. They would understand. Here she had discovered love. It was messy and painful, but with the grit and tears and sex and blood was the realization that this was real life. Not observing others and sketching down what they did or wore or where they lived but living and doing and wearing and loving herself.
She was alive, gloriously alive. Why did she want to return to an existence of malls, McDonald's, and machine guns, if only to stand on the side? Cheftu was here; he loved her, she loved him. All her life, all her experiences, it all had prepared her for this.
She got to her feet. He wanted a helpmate who would stay for always.
She would.
THE SUN SCORCHED HIS BODY as Cheftu shifted another mud brick. His inventory now stretched from the east side of the mud pit all the way to the windbreak before the desert began in earnest—probably a hundred bricks in all. His skin prickled and he spun around, scanning the trees close by. He could barely hear the sounds of someone moving at the mud hole.
Carefully he laid down his brick, grabbed his dagger, and crept stealthily through the trees. Thief lay undisturbed, so Cheftu relaxed and looked around, pausing to wipe the sweat that dripped down his brow. Apparently nothing was amiss. He walked back to his bricks, gathering brush along the way.
Minutes later, while shaping another brick, he heard Chloe's voice. A shiver went through his body … even her voice intoxicated him. She was speaking loudly and in English. “Oh, don't you give me flack!” she shouted. “I'll be out in a second….”
Curious, Cheftu walked back. The mud hole was somewhat shaded, and he saw the white remnants of her dress hanging from one of the trees. Then he saw her in the bog, mired up to her waist. Thief, his paws muddy, was sitting on the side, a speculative expression on his face. Her black hair just touched her shoulders, which were dark brown from the sun. She bit into her lower Up as the muscles of her arms flexed and struggled against the sucking mud. As Cheftu watched silently, he felt himself hardening. She looked like a woodland nymph, earthy, sensual, yet innocent. What flavor would this be?
As she wriggled in the mud, it gradually sucked her lower. She was struggling with all
of her might, stubbornly refusing to admit defeat to the patient, passive bog; but obviously the mud was winning. Cheftu continued to watch as she worked her way up slightly, only to sink back in a bit farther with each additional movement. This continued until the mud had engulfed her to her chest and she stopped sinking, the smooth, shiny muck supporting her weight and cushioning her breasts. Desire flared through him at her little cries and squeals. So this was the woman who did not want to be rescued? The way she looked, trapped, defenseless, and unspeakably erotic, he thought she just might not be rescued, at least for a while.
“I lost my probing stick there,” he shouted out. “Are you fetching it for me? You did probe the depth before stepping out, didn't you?”
She spun her head around. “It seemed solid and then … whoosh!”
“I did not know you liked mud,” he teased. “In some cultures it is considered quite sensual. Were you going to seduce me?”
“Nay, I was trying to get the cursed cat unstuck,” she fumed. He looked at her hanging clothes. “I was not about to ruin the only linen I had.” She wiped her brow with a mud-caked forearm and, realizing the mistake, shook her head, sending brown speckles flying. “Assst!”
Cheftu glanced back toward Thief, noting his hindquarters were encrusted with mud. He looked back at the helpless woman before him. She was a beautiful, brown, living statue.
“Just sit still and I will pull you out,” he called, picking up his muddy staff.
“I… ugh … don't need … errr … your help!” Chloe said, resuming her struggles, now determined to free herself. As Thief made his way to Cheftu's side, the two of them sat on the packed earth to watch her demonstration. Her sleek, slippery body repeatedly emerged about a cubit, then sank in the relentless bog. Cheftu felt his heart pound as she writhed against the mud, twisting and turning, each graceful muscle and sinew active.
“Are you sure that you don't want me to rescue you?” he called.
Chloe was exhausted but making slow progress—one leg was halfway to the surface. Cautiously she spread her weight evenly across the surface. Her other leg was still firmly in the wet vacuum of the bog. After a few moments of trying to free it, she was back to the beginning. In frustration she slapped her hands into the mud, spattering it everywhere.
“Haii-aii, beloved,” Cheftu said consolingly, almost concealing the amusement in his voice. “Wait for me, and I will help you out.”
Realizing that she was firmly stuck, Chloe didn't refuse his offer this time as he stripped off his kilt and stepped into the mud. The sight of him fully aroused sent an answering heat through her. He walked toward her carefully, his staff in his hand, plumbing the depths for solid footing. His skin, tanned mercilessly by the sun, merged into the mud, so that he looked like an otherworldly creature rising from the depths. Cautiously he made his way closer to her suspended body. Finally he extended the stick to her. Exhausted and beaten, she slowly and laboriously extracted her arms from the goo and grabbed the sturdy branch. She watched the muscles in Cheftu's arms ripple with the effort of pulling her slowly through the reluctant clay. When she was a few cubits away, he stopped.
“Chloe …” His voice was low, husky, and Chloe felt her own moisture melt into the mud. “Do you really want me to help you free?”
She nodded, panting from exertion.
“Do you like the way it feels?” His voice was like melted butter… decadent and delicious. “Tell me.” His eyes were dark, almost opaque, passion etching lines of tension around his mouth.
She gasped. “Mud… what did you think?”
He arched an eyebrow. “I know you are more descriptive than that. If it were a glace, ” he said with a wicked, muddy smile, “which flavor would it be?” He pulled her again. The, texture was smooth as lotion, caressing every inch of her body, sucking softly at her thighs, massaging and stroking her. “Ch-chocolate cappuccino gelato,” she stammered.
“What is gelato?”
“A creamier, thicker, more sinful ice cream,” she murmured, watching his eyes flame. “It is so rich, you think you're going to die if you eat more, but you cannot resist it. It is slick on your tongue until it melts, spreading the taste throughout your mouth—” Her words ended with a soft gasp as she felt; his grip on her wrists.
His eyes were slitted as he pulled her to him. Clinging to him as he stepped backward, she was amazed at how soft yet solid he felt. She felt his every straining muscle coated with mud, and she stared into his eyes, directing him as they walked backward. He pulled her to her feet once they were both only knee deep.
“Are you safe now?”
“Am I?” She felt his hands clench against her back. “I came here for a reason, Cheftu.”
He withdrew without moving a muscle. A shutter fell behind his eyes, and she suddenly was scared. Too late? Change of heart? “I want to stay.”
He blinked.
She ran a mud-covered hand up his slick torso. “With you. Wherever. Whenever. I am yours.” She began to wonder if he'd had a stroke, as he just stood there, blinking. “Are you breathing?” she finally asked.
He kissed her, hard. All the energy, anger, and passion that had been leashed was free. He was rough and clumsy as they toppled backward onto the muddy shore. Holding her close, he kissed her forehead and crooned to her. It was minutes before she realized he too was crying.
The mud was drying in the heat and becoming as thick and sticky as paste. They struggled laughing and crying, out and away from the bog. Cheftu's strong arms held Chloe close to his side. Hand in hand they climbed down the cliff and ran to the ocean, laughing like children as they bobbed in the shallows, had water fights, and tried to catch minnows with their hands. The sun was low when they stepped out and lay on the beach, letting the last of the day's heat dry them.
Cheftu boiled the eggs, and they ate them with leftover bread in the early darkness. He drew Chloe to him, and they stayed in the receding waves, connected until the quiet intensity grew too much and they finished in fury what had begun in calm.
The days blended together, like beads on a necklace. Each different, each precious, and together they made a whole. For the first days they worked in the mud pit, shaping the bricks that would make their home and cooling themselves in the afternoon by soaking in the mud. At atmu they carried down the day's worth of bricks and laid them on the scratched-out plan for a two-room house with solid roof (for storage and hot nights) and alcove for cooking. One side was planned so the door looked toward the palm trees. One day, Chloe said she would make a hammock, and they could swing and talk and make love in it.
They'd awoken one morning to a family of scorpions sleeping on their mat, inches from Cheftu's leg. Bleary with sleep and her heart pounding in her throat, Chloe had smashed the closest one with a dagger and they'd both run, naked into the cool morning.
Five days after the scorpions, the house was standing. It had taken some real work to create the large window, bracing it with more branches, but with the addition of palm fronds and rigged with torn linen to form a movable window shade, it was quite habitable—if you didn't mind not having a front door.
Cuisine improved. Cheftu explained that the brown furry thing she'd found before was a type of rabbit. He showed her how to split it, clean it, add fresh herbs that grew close by, and then roast it, skin and all. Amazingly enough, the skin peeled off when it was done, providing enough fat so that the meat was not dry and stringy.
They dined on oysters and caught more fish. They had run out of flour, so there was neither bread nor the beer that was made from it.
“You have never told me about your family. I know you are the oldest,” she said one night. They'd spent the day farming the one arable strip of land, carefully tending the small shoots that had grown up in the past weeks. Sex, their main recreation, was out for the moment. The good news was that the giant fennel seeds were working. Cheftu was relieved.
“They are from the Oryx—”
“No, no,” she interrupted i
n English. “Your French family.”
Cheftu grew ominously silent. “It matters not,” he said stiffly.
“Sure it does. You said you have a brother, but he is older, right? What does he, did he, do?”
Cheftu got up. “I am going to hunt with Thief tonight, I think.”
“You can't just walk away! I did not ask about former lovers, just your family! What is wrong?”
He gripped her forearms. “It does not matter. Do not ask. I was betrayed, and I have no desire to recall it.”
“Betrayed? By whom?”
“My brother. Good night.”
Chloe stared, openmouthed, as he and Thief hiked up the trail and disappeared over the ridge. Would she ever know this man? “So much for no secrets and no boundaries,” she whispered.
With no warning their just blossoming life came to an end.
The day repeated the pattern of the previous ones. Cheftu was hacking away at the earth with a makeshift hoe of shell and branch, and Chloe had just caught fish for lunch and cleaned it before setting it on their rocky grill. Suddenly Thief, who had been focused solely on the fish, flattened his ears and began alternately creeping and running toward the cliff face. Away from the pounding surf, Chloe could hear the sounds of struggle. She wasted precious seconds debating, then scrambled up the cliff side. Peering over the edge, she saw Cheftu pulled flat between two soldiers. They were speaking, but she couldn't hear them. The smell of roasting fish was carrying on the wind to them, and she ran back down, racing into the cave for the bow and quiver. She tore through the basket, panic rising as she heard Thief's growling and saw his tawny fur ruff rise.
Then she heard Cheftu calling out in English, “Hide yourself! They do not know you are here!” He masked his words with other screams and curses, and Chloe cowered in the back of the cave. The soldiers might not know she was around this very second, but it wouldn't take a temple education to figure out that cooking food and one working man didn't add up. She nocked the arrow carefully. Three men were visible, though there were possibly more, but they were out of range. The soldiers had bundled Cheftu into the house and were now grouped by the fire to the rear of the mud-brick building. She poked her head out; one man had his back to her, urinating into the sea. Chloe released the arrow and ran to the house when she saw him fall to his knees, his dying groan drowned out by the roar of waves, his hands reaching frantically around to his back.
Reflections in the Nile Page 39
