The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (7 page)

Cairo, January 1895

My daughter lives ... as a slave in a brothel!

Badra stared in anguish at the lovely child she thought had died. Sunlight streamed through latticework windows, playing on the girl’s rosy-cheeked face. Jasmine reclined against silk cushions on a narrow divan, watching a woman paint her feet with red henna.

A decoration for a man’s future pleasure. Only seven, Jasmine’s training at the Pleasure Palace had begun. The brothel specialized in training girls as concubines. Most were sold and never seen again. The most beautiful girls remained prisoners at the Palace, auctioned off for a month at a time. Men purchased their contracts at exorbitant prices for the privilege of briefly owning a slave to fulfill their sexual fantasies.

As soon as she experienced her first bleeding, Jasmine would be sold. Just as Badra had been, long ago.

A calculating look came over the brothel’s chief eunuch as he watched Badra stare at Jasmine. His pockmarked face and pudgy, dark brown eyes sharp and assessing, Masud ruled the Pleasure Palace. Two turbaned guards, honed scimitars strapped to their waists, stood at his side. More armed men fortified the heavily guarded building. Sour sweat of their unwashed male bodies overlaid the sweet fragrances perfuming the harem.

Thoughts collided in Badra’s frantic mind.
Which is better for Jasmine? A future as a slave, beaten and raped as I was? Or to have died at birth?

The anonymous message sent to her at the Khamsin camp had been blunt.
The daughter you bore to Sheikh Fareeq lives as a slave at the Pleasure Palace. Come to Cairo to barter for her release
. This trip to Cairo for supplies, with Rashid, Jabari, and Elizabeth, provided a perfect opportunity to investigate.

Fareeq had sold Jasmine at birth. Badra had a daughter with bright brown eyes and a shy smile. She wanted to trace Jasmine’s oval face, count all her fingers and toes. I can’t bring back the past, but I can be here for you now, she silently promised.
But I can’t admit you are mine, little one.

How could she confess to birthing Fareeq’s child? When Fareeq died childless, the Khamsin sheikh had rejoiced. "My enemy would have lived on through his children and I would be forced to destroy them as well," Jabari had insisted.

Masud finally spoke, interrupting her ruminations. "She is a pretty child and will fetch a good price at auction."

Badra’s voice wobbled. "I beg you, release her."

"Never. She is far too valuable."

Granted this miracle, Badra would do anything to rescue her child. "I have money. Surely, I may purchase her freedom."

Masud’s gaze was frankly calculating. "No. The price of her freedom is not money. It’s you."

Shocked, Badra reeled back on her sandaled heels. "Me?"

‘Take her place and she goes free. Omar desires you back."

Badra began to see life fall into place like a pyramid’s building blocks. Unable to care for her, Badra’s parents sold her at age eleven. Omar, the owner, had desired her, but had sold her to Fareeq. Omar’s rough hands, fingers thick and calloused, had stroked her trembling cheek. "You are too young now, but I will get you back, Badra. When you are older, I will have you in my bed, my slave forever."

Fareeq had taken the most precious thing in Badra’s life and sold her, giving Omar the tool he needed. She would not submit. There must be another way.

"No. I cannot." Badra thrust out her chin.

Masud’s gaze grew shrewd. "Why do you not spend some time with her and think it over? You hardly know her."

She did not trust him, but she longed to embrace her little girl. When the woman finished painting Jasmine’s feet and left, Badra rushed to her child. She stroked the girl’s ebony hair as Masud watched.

"I am Badra. Your ... sister, little one," she whispered.

Jasmine smiled shyly and began asking questions. Badra hugged her and tried to provide answers.

"My tribe, the Khamsin, is an ancient one, from the times of the Pharaoh Akhenaten. Our sheikh is courageous and noble. We raise Arabians, and our warriors ride like the wind."

"Horses?" Jasmine’s face lit up. "Will you take me out of here to see them?"

Oh, how I want to more than anything in the world. "I will try," Badra whispered.

The little girl’s singularly sweet smile of gratitude broke Badra’s heart. Every instinct screamed to take her, to flee and never look back. Badra studied the door leading to freedom. It loomed before her, thick, impenetrable and guarded by two huge eunuchs, curved scimitars at their waists.

As they talked, she realized Jasmine had an engaging manner. The child’s mind was sharp like her father’s, but she displayed none of Fareeq’s sadistic tendencies. When Jasmine begged for a story, Badra told one about a courageous warrior named Khepri who had once protected her with his very life.

"Did you marry Khepri?" Jasmine blurted.

"Khepri lives in England. He is a powerful English lord." She tried to change subjects. "England has many noblemen. Ramses, a warrior from our tribe, and his wife and twins will soon leave for England for a visit. They will bring her father valuable antiquities. Lord Smithfield is an English nobleman."

"Will you go with them?"

"No. Lord Smithfield gave them the fare for the voyage."

"But you must. You have to go see Khepri and marry him and have babies. That’s how it has to end." Jasmine pouted.

Sudden pain stabbed her heart. Badra chose her words carefully. "I don’t think he would wish to see me."

"But it’s a love story. All love stories have happy endings. So he would want to see you because he loves you," Jasmine insisted.

How could she ruin her innocent daughter’s shining belief in happy endings? This particular story had none. If only real life could be thus. Badra stroked her daughter’s silky hair. "Perhaps," she said lightly.

Masud lumbered over, his gaze shrewd. "That is enough. Time for Jasmine to leave now for her lessons."

Badra knew the lessons he meant. Revulsion swept through her as she thought of her little girl exposed to such knowledge. Badra asked again, in a small voice, to purchase her.

"She is not for sale."

Hope withered like dry stalks of grass in the burning sun. Not for sale. He talked of her precious daughter as the Khamsin bargained over horseflesh. Perhaps she could reason with Omar. "Please," Badra whispered. "Let me speak with Omar."

Masud looked thoughtful. "Omar is not here. He lives abroad now. However, he needs a favor. Perform it and he may free the girl. Do you know of the dig at Dashur?"

En route to Cairo, Elizabeth had insisted on stopping by the excavation. Khepri, now Kenneth, sponsored it. She wondered why, when he had left with such anger in his heart. "I was there when they discovered a priceless necklace."

"Do you know the necklace’s legend?"

Badra nodded with dawning dread. Two necklaces with ancient legends buried in the sands. Legend said whoever wore the necklace with Pharaoh Senusret III’s cartouche was bound as a slave, much as his daughter Meret had been bound to her father’s will. But the necklace with Amenemhat II’s cartouche granted the wearer the power to enslave men’s hearts, just as Meret had enslaved her husband’s heart.

Masud produced a gleaming gold pectoral from a small velvet bag and slipped it into her hands.

"This is it. You said Ramses is leaving for England. Go with him, smuggle this to the antiquities dealer in London who needs it to make copies. He will give you money in return."

The stolen, heavy necklace seemed almost to pulse with wicked power. For a wild moment, Badra felt evil emanating from it, like unseen mist. It felt warm in her chilled palm.

"Which necklace is this?"

"The one to enslave others."

"I cannot steal," she protested.

If he discovered her crime, Khepri would not hesitate to claim revenge. For past hurts and this new one. The necklace burned her like a brand. Surely there was another way to free Jasmine. The Khamsin sheikh would storm his warriors past the army of armed guards to rescue Jasmine. But such an assault would be difficult, and she could not risk her daughter’s life in a raid.

The gold winked in the sunlight streaming into the harem. An ominous foreboding seized her. If Khepri caught her with Meret’s ancient necklace, would he use its power to enslave her?

"No. I cannot." She tossed the necklace onto the divan.

Anger filled Masud’s corpulent face. He turned to Jasmine, who’d gone very still. "You were naughty, Jasmine. You were told to leave the guests’ horses alone, but you petted one last week. Come now, time to take your punishment."

The girl shrank back on the silken cushions. Her large dark eyes widened. "I’m sorry," she cried. "I said I wouldn’t do it again. You promised not to hurt me. You promised!"

Masud fetched the
kurbash
, the crocodile hide whip, from a nearby holder. An ugly crack split the air as he flicked it. Jasmine curled herself into a ball. Badra stuffed a fist into her mouth to stifle a shriek. No noise. Noise meant Masud would hit harder.

"No! Please!" Jasmine begged.

Her immobilizing terror broke; Badra grabbed Masud’s beefy arm. He flung her to the floor. Badra wrapped her arms around his leg, dragging on the carpet as he stalked toward her whimpering daughter. "I beg you, please, don’t hurt her," Badra sobbed.

"Only one thing will keep my lash from her flesh."

From her crumpled position on the floor, Badra stared up at his unyielding face. Her teary gaze went to Jasmine, shivering on the divan. The choice seemed clear.

A few minutes later, she forced a smile for Rashid as she returned to the reception room. She had told him she wanted to purchase the freedom of a slave, so at least one girl would not suffer as Badra had in her childhood.

Her friend studied her. "Badra? Did all go well?"

"No, Rashid. It did not."

She left the brothel, her steps dull, her mind glazed. She felt cursed.

London, February 1895

The new trousers were too tight in the crotch.

Breath fled his lungs in a pained whoosh as his tailor yanked up the black broadcloth. Kenneth Tristan, Duke of Caldwell, wheezed as the trousers cut painfully into his nether region. He muttered an Arabic curse about the tailor being related to a female desert jackal.

"Dear, dear, I was afraid of this, Your Grace. My new assistant did not have the correct size. You are simply much larger than he indicated," the gray-haired tailor fussed. He sank to his knees and studied Kenneth’s groin with the intensity of Kenneth’s French cook studying a cut of beef.

"Bloody hell, get them off me before you make me a eunuch."

The tailor glanced up with a confused look. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I do not understand."

His English was nearly perfect, but Kenneth’s thick Egyptian accent caused confusion to wrinkle many brows.

He gritted his teeth and enunciated as clearly as he could: ‘Take them off. The trousers do not fit."

Standing, the tailor wrung his hands. "I apologize, Your Grace. I fear my new assistant needs to learn to measure properly."

"Then send a woman to do the task. Women know how to measure properly. Trust me," he growled.

Hovering nearby, Flanders looked aghast. Before he died, Kenneth’s grandfather had hired a protocol instructor to teach his grandson. He’d hoped Kenneth would quickly assimilate into English society. It hadn’t quite happened. "Never a woman, Your Grace. Your peers would be appalled," Flanders commented.

Always the worry about his peers, the noblemen who looked down on him because he came from the heathen land of Arabia. Kenneth glanced down as the tailor slid the trousers off. "They also do not fit in the legs."

"Remember, Your Grace. One does not say ‘leg’—nor any other body part," Flanders instructed. "Not among polite company, certainly. ‘Limb’ is the correct term."

Always telling him how to speak, what to say. Kenneth frowned. "Speaking of legs, why is my dining room table covered? The legs are hand-carved mahogany and they should be displayed."