Shades of the Wind (13 page)

bare feet.

“Greetings, Majestic One,” the warrior said so softly no one else but Khenty could

have heard.

“Something is troubling you, Rajab?”

The captain of the Medjai stepped forward. “The one called Bahru has cast his eyes

upon the younger of my sons,” Rajab said. “I fear for the young one’s honor.”

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Khenty’s eyes narrowed. “Where did the taricheutes see your boy?”

“Ahmes was among those who helped to clean your abode this past day,” Rajab

replied. “He accompanied his mother.”

Anger passed over Khenty’s face. “How old is this boy?”

“He will be ten in three months, Majestic One,” the warrior answered.

Clenching his hands into fists, Khenty swore beneath his breath. “Did the

taricheutes lay hands to Ahmes?”

“He tried, but my son is brave and he pushed the taricheutes’ hand away. He

stayed close to his mother’s side thereafter.” Rajab lowered his eyes. “My son will be

accompanying his mother tomorrow and I fear—”

“You have nothing to fear, Rajab,” Khenty told him. “I will see to the matter.”

“You have my eternal gratitude, Majestic One.” Without another word, the warrior

stepped back into the darker shadows and was gone.

Furious the high priest had sent him such a perverted man, Khenty was filled with

wrath by the time he climbed the stone steps from the caverns to the room beneath his

mansion. Pushing open the door, he took the stairs to the upper floor two at a time, his

anger a goad that spurred him with a razor-sharp blade. Not even bothering to use the

key to unlock Bahru’s room, he kicked it open, mindless of the pain along the sole of his

foot.

Bahru squealed like a young girl when the master of Anubeion grabbed him by his

sleep shirt and dragged him up. He had awakened from a sound sleep, the crashing

open of the door bringing him to a sitting position but the situation having no meaning

for him in his befuddled state. He slapped at the hands that had jerked him up.

“Put your hands down!” Khenty shouted. “Put them down or by the gods I will

break them off at the wrist!”

Recognizing the prince’s voice, Bahru stilled, whimpering as he was shaken like a

rag doll in the strong hands of Khenty Ben-Alkazar.

“There is nothing I detest more than a half man who preys on children,” Khenty

snarled, tightening his grip on Bahru’s shirt. He was almost nose to nose with the

taricheutes, his fierce stare boring into Bahru’s chalky face. “Let me hear one more

complaint that you have dared put your filthy hands to one of my people and I swear I

will bury you up to your neck in the sand and leave you for the scorpions to feast upon.

Do you understand me, you sick bastard?”

“Yes, Your Grace!” Bahru sobbed, tears coursing down his face.

Hissing like an angry viper, Khenty shoved the taricheutes away from him and

stalked out of the room. He came up short when he saw Catherine standing in the hall.

“What’s happened?” Catherine asked.

Forgetting he had ordered Nyria not to lock Catherine in her room at night, Khenty

stood there raking his hands through his hair, wondering how she had managed to get

out of her quarters. “Why are you up, milady?” he demanded.

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“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, taking a step toward him. She glanced at Bahru’s door.

“What did he do?”

Khenty walked to her and took her arm. “You should be abed,” he said, pulling her

along with him into her room.

Catherine allowed him to lead her to the bed. Obediently, she climbed up on the

soft mattress, sensing he was a man not to be argued with at that moment. She lay

down and said nothing as he flung the covers over her and tucked her in. She looked up

at him as he stood there, his brow furrowed.

“Can you tell me what has made you so angry?” she asked.

Khenty looked down at his bare feet and winced. His feet were dirty. “I need a

bath,” he said, but instead sat down on the bed beside her and bent forward, propping

his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees. “I wanted to kill that son of a bitch and I

should have.”

Catherine sat up and put her hand on his bare back. “Tell me.” She soothed her

hand up and down his spine.

“He is a half man,” he told her.

“I don’t understand.”

He turned his head to look at her. “He prefers boys to girls,” he stated bluntly.

“Little boys.”

Catherine’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, her hand stilling on his flesh.

“And he tried to touch one of the boys who came here with his mother to help

clean. The boy is the son of a Medjai.”

“Which boy was this?” she asked.

“Ahmes.”

Nodding slowly, Catherine told him the boy was very good-looking.

“I warned him if he tried to corrupt one of my people again, I’d bury him alive and

I will!” Khenty stated. He got up from the bed and began pacing, threading his fingers

through his hair over and over again in his agitation. “I may kill him anyway just for

the hell of it!”

She watched him pace back and forth several times before she tossed the covers

aside and went to him, stopping him by putting her hands to his cheeks. “You look

tired and should get some sleep. I doubt Bahru will make another attempt to touch

what he shouldn’t.”

He covered her hands with his and stared down into her beautiful green eyes. “Let

me sleep with you,” he asked.

Catherine stiffened. “What?”

“I just want to be with you, Catherine.”

“That wouldn’t be right, milord. I—”

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“I would not dishonor you,” he pledged. “All I want is to lie beside you, to hold

you. Nothing more.”

“Khenty—”

“I give you my word that I will not dishonor you. I will wait until the Joining words

are spoken before I lay claim to you as my woman and then not even the gods

themselves could keep me from taking you.”

His low words drove straight into her womb and made it leap. She felt heat

gathering between her legs and knew she would be treading on dangerous ground if

she welcomed him into her bed. But the thought of lying in his arms was an enticement

she found hard to resist.

“Please?” he whispered. “I need to be with you this night. I need to hold you.”

“I am still betrothed to Bahru,” she reminded him.

“I told you I have annulled that travesty!” he growled through clenched teeth. “I

will go back to his room and tell him—”

“My father would disown me if he knew I was even contemplating breaking my

vows,” she cut in. “It is not only a matter of honor but a legal matter as well.”

“But was it a vow you made or one your father made for you?” he countered. “Did

you swear to wed the taricheutes?”

“I was not asked to make such a vow,” she said.

“Did you consent to the Joining?”

“I did not speak out against it,” she admitted.

“Did you give your consent?” he pressed.

“By saying nothing, my consent was implied,” she reminded him.

“Without you actually voicing your agreement to the betrothal, a vow made on

your behalf, without your consent, is not binding in Diabolusia. You are now a citizen

of this country and as such you are bound by its laws—as is the taricheutes. I have

already sent word to Kaelin for him to draw up the papers for our betrothal. He will

have those ready come morning.”

Catherine arched a brow. “You are sure of yourself, aren’t you, milord?”

“I know what I want and I let no man stand in the way of my having it,” he stated

boldly.

“And what exactly is it you want?” she asked.

“You.”

They stared at one another for a long moment. Catherine chewed on her lower lip,

her gaze locked with his, the uncertainty spreading over her lovely features.

“I am going to make you want me, Kate,” he said in a husky voice. “It is but a

matter of time.”

“You are making this difficult for me,” she protested. “You’re not giving me time to

think.”

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“I rather thought I was making it easy for you,” he countered. “I want you, Kate. I

intend that you be mine. Do you really want to be shackled to a half man like Bahru?”

His eyes were steady on hers and she felt the strength of him, the deliberate power

he wielded so easily and knew she was fighting a losing battle. Her body wanted this

man, her soul called to his, had from the moment she saw his portrait.

“No,” she said honestly. “I have no desire to spend my life with Bahru.”

“Then accept me, Kate,” he whispered. “I will lay the world at your feet.”

Catherine sighed, giving in, no longer able to fight the attraction she felt for him,

and then she glanced down at his feet. “Prince or not, you’ll not climb into my bed with

mud on your toes,” she declared.

A slow grin tugged at Khenty’s lips. He held up a hand, fingers spread. “Five

minutes,” he said, walking backward. “Just give me five minutes!” With that he rushed

from the room.

Catherine stood where he’d left her in the center of the room, chewing on her lip.

She knew what she was about to do was wrong, would be construed by her parents as

grounds to disown her but she really didn’t care. From the very second she was

introduced to Bahru, her soul had cringed at the thought of being his wife. Although

until that night she had not known about his perversion, she had suspected something

was not normal about the man for his presence often made her flesh crawl. Looking

back now at the way he had stared at young boys on the wharves, the many times he

had called for the cabin boy onboard the ship, all of his strange behavior made sense.

She shuddered, relieved she would not have to live with such a—what had Khenty

called him?—half man.

She turned as Khenty entered her room and drew in a quick breath. His shoulderlength hair was wet—curling on his broad shoulders, his bare chest glistened with

drops of water and the play of light across those drops accentuated the hardness of his

pectoral muscles. His lower body was clad in soft white cotton trousers that fit him like

a second skin and on his feet were black leather sandals. Around his neck hung a towel,

which he used to wipe at the moisture on his face.

“That was quick,” she said, her lips twitching. She twisted her fingers together at

her waist. “Very quick.”

“I dove into the pool,” he said with a shrug, “and swam like a fiend.”

“You have a pool in the mansion?” she asked.

“There is a bathing pool in my room,” he said. “The water is like ice.” He came

toward her. “I’m freezing, milady. Will you warm me?”

Her heart thudded hard in her chest. “You could not have your pool heated,

milord?” she asked. He was standing before her and she reached up to smooth the wet

hair back from his forehead.

“It’s fed from an artesian well,” he mumbled, and took her hand to press its palm to

his lips.

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“Even so,” she said, letting the words hang in the air.

“Even so,” he whispered, and drew her into his arms.

She was so warm against him—her soft body fitting against his harder one as

though the gods had designed it to be that way. Her hair smelled of lemons and the

faint scent of gardenia tickled his nose.

“I like that perfume,” he said, rubbing his chin along the side of her head.

“Gardenia?”

“Yes,” she said. Her hands slid from his waist up his back and she held him to her.

It was a giving in, an offering and a silent response to the male in him.

Dipping his knees, he swung her into his arms, her one hand coming around to

press lightly upon his chest. He carried her to the bed and placed her there, coming

over her, rolling to his side so he was in the center of the wide bed and she was tucked

safely in his arms, her head on his shoulder, their fingers laced together.

“This,” he said with a sigh. “This I have waited for all the day. It makes my job

tolerable.”

She placed a soft kiss upon his shoulder. “What exactly is it you do, milord?”

His fingers tightened on hers. “You weren’t told?”

“No and Lord Kaelin seemed adamant that you and I talk. Why was that?”

He was silent for a moment then let out a long breath. “Someone should have told

you before now.”

“Then you tell me.”

He raked a hand through his wet hair. “Do you know what the word psychopomp

means?”

“No.”

“Do you know who Morrigunia is?”

She lifted her head to look at him. “The Triple goddess from my land? She who

sends souls on their final journey to the Otherworld?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am one like her. I guide our dead through the Underworld and to

their judgment.”

“Surely that is a myth!” she said.

“I am flesh and blood, Kate. I am not a myth.”

A chill went down Catherine’s spine. “You have that much power, milord?”

“I do,” he replied quietly.

“You are a god?” she asked the question in a near whisper.

He shook his head. “No, only an emissary of the Great One Anubis, although I have

a few powers granted to me.”

She laid her head back on his shoulder. “That must be a lonely job,” she said.

Khenty smiled. “It does not frighten you? That which I do?”

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