The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (23 page)

BOOK: The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind)
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Years ago, he had made the same inquiry. But Jabari had, thankfully, spotted them and approached, giving her welcome relief from the required answer.

If Kenneth knew the truth, his intense gaze would soften with pity. She could not bear his pity, or her own humiliation. She could not expose her shameful secret. Those times were gone. She dreaded the memories. Her life had flowered and she was proud of her achievements. If Kenneth showed her pity, all those wonderful achievements would crumble into dust, smashed by the hammers of her tortured past.

In all the years she had known him, Badra had never lied to Kenneth. Not even when she’d refused his hand in marriage. She had told him when he begged her to marry him, "I cannot feel the same as you feel for me, Khepri."

A stark truth. She could not demonstrate the same intense, heated passion flaring in his eyes. She could not let him hold her and equal his desire when he kissed her. Her love ran too deep to hurt him with a marriage without passion, with her heart as parched as desert sand. Where there would be no soft cries of pleasure tumbling from her lips when he took her into his black tent and made her his and claimed his prize at last. There would be only screams of fear, and struggles, as there had been in England when his big body had covered hers...

Badra raised her gaze and for the first time in her life, told him a direct lie.

"Did Fareeq ever beat me? No. He never did."

 

 

Kenneth leaned back, relaxed, satisfied with the directness of her look and her answer. He could not bear the idea of the bastard’s whip tearing into Badra’s soft skin. If he knew Fareeq had hurt her, his rage would have howled to the heavens.

But the sheikh had not, so Kenneth was satisfied. Badra spread out the dough and began carefully cutting shapes with her small knife, rolling them into triangles.

He watched with interest. "Those look like scones."

A becoming rose tinted her cheeks. "They are. I ... I grew accustomed to them in England. Lord Smithfield’s cook was kind enough to share her recipe. I made these yesterday." Fishing one from a tin, she handed it over.

He adored scones, the one English food he truly liked. Kenneth nibbled, hesitant to hurt her feelings. A delicious taste of honey, almonds and sugar flooded his mouth. He took a large bite, chewing with genuine hunger as he consumed the pastry.

Her anxious gaze sought his. He swallowed. "An English scone with Egyptian flavor. Fascinating. And delicious!"

A soft smile touched her heart-shaped lips. Enchanted, he forgot the scone. Brown granules dusted a corner of her lip.

"You have sugar on your mouth," he said.

With one thumb, he reached up to brush it away, resting it against the delicious curve of her mouth. He rubbed, remembering the taste of her upon his lips.

Sultry awareness dawned in her eyes, darkening them to black. Her lips parted and a soft breath eased out. Heated by the signs of her arousal, Kenneth caressed the upper curve of her mouth with his thumb.

Her tongue darted out, licked away the sugar.

Desire fired his blood, along with dawning awareness. Badra had lied to him. What she had felt in England was no act. God, he wanted her. And she wanted him. He slid a hand around her nape, drawing her forward, enchanted by the hypnotic pull of her sensuality.

She shoved at him, lightly, but hard enough. Kenneth narrowed his eyes. He unfolded his body then stalked off to watch Jabari and Ramses play a game much less complicated than the one Badra played.

 

 

Dinner proved delicious, despite Badra’s quietness. Kenneth concentrated on regaining old ground with Jabari and Ramses, who kept him entertained with stories of the ancient kings, and he regaled them with English history. Rashid said nothing throughout the meal but kept watch with a guarded look. Sparks from the campfire drifted upward, touching the velvet night, and Kenneth suddenly realized it had grown late.

He rose, thanking them politely for the meal, and indicated he would retire to his tent. As he strode off, his warrior instinct warned him to keep watch.

A worker strolled up to him, salaamed and requested a word. "I am keeping watch tonight. Should I be on guard for anything?" he asked, fingering his rifle with a self-important gesture. A white turban sat slightly askew on his head. His ankle-length
thobe
bore distinct light blue stripes.

"Just keep watch and wake me if you see anything unusual," Kenneth advised, nodding as the worker strolled off toward the tomb.

Pretending to settle into his tent, he extinguished the lamp and waited. Tonight was the night. He was certain of it.

 

 

Badra slipped from her tent with the stealth of a Khamsin warrior raiding an enemy camp, a jewel-toned bag she had woven on her loom slung around one shoulder. Descending the steps to the tomb, Badra let her eyes adjust from blackness to the dull dimness of a few scattered torches.

Her soft-soled shoes whispered as she hurried down the stairs leading to the galley where the men had worked earlier. Inside, the worker who was her contact started, then smiled.

"I will await you above," he whispered, then slipped away, silent as sand.

Guilt surged through her. Those who stole from the graves of the honored dead stole not only from the old ones, but from Egypt. Her own heritage lay within these carefully carved walls of rock.

She mustn’t think of that. Even though her nature rebelled against the path she had chosen, Jasmine’s welfare came first. Doubts would not help her daughter. Nor would the guilt constantly attacking her.

Covered by her indigo
kuftan
and strapped to her thigh atop the underlying Turkish trousers was a
jambiya
, a small curved dagger. It was Kenneth’s dagger, the one he had cut his palm with the day she refused his marriage offer. She’d kept it, the only token of the man she secretly loved, who would have given his life to protect her.

Lifting her hem, she quickly retrieved the knife and knelt down, dagger in hand, and began digging in the sand.

The loosened mound of earth she had stepped into earlier surely hid the casket containing the jewels. A grim smile touched her mouth as she appreciated the irony—using Kenneth’s dagger to find Kenneth’s treasure so she could steal it.

Dirt yielded to the dagger’s ruthless prying. She cupped earth and flung it aside. The inefficient means of excavation would take a while, but she didn’t dare cart tools below, didn’t dare draw any suspicion to her quest.

Barely a few minutes later the
jambiya
made the hollow thud of striking a hidden chamber. Badra cleared the earth and peered into inky depths. The soft glow of her lamp picked up a glint.

Gold!

She felt blood drain from her face as she stared into the contents of a crumbled coffer, long eroded into fragments and dust. But the contents remained intact. Jewelry. Pieces and pieces of exquisite jewelry, precious gems, gold and silver leaf, lapis. With a trembling hand, she reached down and picked up a pectoral with a cartouche: the other necklace of Princess Meret. The necklace condemning the wearer to slavery. She dropped it in her bag like a hot coal.

 

 

Night settled over the encampment. Lying in his narrow bed, Kenneth forced patience. A soft voice called to him from the night, low and filled with urgency.

"
Sahib
, you must awaken."

Kenneth dressed quickly and emerged from his tent. It was the guard on duty, who salaamed, gripping his rifle.

‘There is someone in the tomb."

Kenneth nodded, dismissing the man. Stars glittered like fistfuls of diamonds scattered against the dark velvet sky. A waxing moon shed a soft, silvery glow upon the sand.

Answers lay below, in the tomb itself. He lit a torch and prepared to descend.

 

 

An eerie silence draped over the tomb’s interior. Sweat dripped off Badra’s nose. The stench of bat droppings filled the air. Being underground, below her beloved desert, brought out all her superstitions. She made the sign against the evil eye as she had been taught in childhood. The stolen necklace made her feel slightly queasy.

She gazed around the deserted resting place of the pharaoh, whose tomb had been designed from the moment he ascended the throne. Her heart lurched again. Ancient Egyptians spent their entire lives preparing for the afterlife. By removing these items, which assured the royals would still have luxuries, she would be stripping the royals of all that ensured their happy afterlife. Such an act constituted an unpardonable sin.

Summoning her inner strength, she turned away from such thoughts of betrayal and dishonesty. Badra went to retrieve her dagger—and heard the distinct, soft footfalls of someone in the descending corridor that connected the gallery.

Badra looked around, frantic. The open chamber lacked any hiding place. Scrambling around the coffin, she crouched down and waited. The footsteps were made with stealth. Yet the bearer had unmistakable weight. A man. A man doing his best to enter the tomb unnoticed.

If she stayed hidden long enough, perhaps the intruder would find what he sought and leave. Her damp palms clutched at the folds of her indigo
kuftan
. Another tomb robber?

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