Reflections in the Nile (29 page)

Aching, he got to his feet when he saw RaEm's garden door open and a white-clad figure slip out. It was RaEm, her drifting walk now filled with purpose. She headed straight for the river, and he followed close behind. Periodically she stopped and listened, then continued on her way. Upon reaching the deserted bank, she sat on a mud-brick wall. From inside her cloak she brought out three sticks tied to form a triangle, with a stick behind it, on which the whole thing rested. She laid a piece of papyrus across it and began to mix ink.

She's drawing again, he thought. He had become familiar with her nocturnal habit while they were on the Nile. He'd thought it strange, but then again, she'd been so sick during the day that it was her only form of entertainment. He'd certainly been an ass. Yet here, in the middle of a plague, in the middle of the night, after holding a knife to the throat of the murderer of her baby, she was drawing again. He watched as her few quick strokes re-created the present scene, almost as if this moment had been frozen in time. Obviously this was more than a casual hobby. Would she ever make sense to him?

He was confused by the contradictions that constituted RaEmhetepet, and his confusion increased exponentially as he watched her. He would have thought her heartless had he not been the one to cradle her when she'd realized her child was gone. Had he not heard the anguish in her voice, he would have classed her as a heartless snake tonight. However, since he did know those things, the effort, energy, and resilience she was exhibiting left him in awe.

Moonlight caressed her short black hair, gave her large green eyes a catlike glow, and kissed her full lips. He felt a tightening in his body, a blinding rush. He was used to his physical reaction to RaEm, but he also felt his heart tighten as he thought about the tenacity of this woman. Had he ever really known her? She had been a child, really, that night he'd crept out of Pharaoh's harem and met her in the garden. She had been beautiful and fragile, but so fearful of everything. Now the memory of her kiss on the Pyramid obliterated those faded moments and added to the already uncomfortable pressure beneath his kilt.

What had happened to that young girl? What had caused the corruption? It was too easy to blame Nesbek or Pakab. There had to be an internal reason that made her seek the forbidden. How could he know what it was? He hadn't seen her for years, until they were formally introduced at Hat's festival and RaEm had invited him to her estate in Goshen. Would he ever know? He leaned against one of the many trees lining the bank and, keeping RaEm in full view, nodded off.

C
HLOE LOOKED AT THE DRAWING.
It was difficult without a finer tip, but she had captured the moon's path across the Nile, rising above the clusters of trees. Sighing contentedly, she packed up her ink brushes and folded up her makeshift easel. Holding her still-drying work in one hand and her full linen pouch in the other, she began to walk back to the palace. The eastern horizon was already fading to gray.

The sight of a hand lying in the grass was almost her undoing. The early dawn highlighted it, etching the square-cut fingers in ivory, firing the tiger's-eye scarab ring with a demonic glow. Chloe stifled a scream and dropped her things. Cautiously she walked around the back of the tree.

Cheftu.

Blood drained from her face and she fell on her knees, covering his face with kisses, her throat half-choked with sobs before she realized he was warm and breathing.

And now awake. Very awake.

His strong arms encircled her, pulling her onto him, to his hungry lips and night-blackened eyes. She felt blood pounding in her temples and nervously licked her bottom lip, staring at Cheftu. It was the wrong thing to do. His gaze flickered to her lips. She hung there in the air above him, caught like a hare in a snare, frozen.

He reached up with a finger and traced her lips oh so slowly. Taking her lips’ moisture onto his slightly trembling finger, he licked it slowly, his heavy-lidded gaze searing hers. Chloe gasped. His bare chest and legs scorched her, and she moved toward him, crazed thoughts careening through her mind. Damn, she thought dazedly. For the first time the fact that he had been dead and buried for thousands of years before she was even conceived didn't matter a jot. What mattered was the heat coursing through her, the heaviness in her breasts, the pulsing in her body.

She lowered her face as Cheftu glanced up. Abruptly he sat up, his head colliding with hers. Painfully.

“RaEm,” he said hurriedly, confusedly, “it is almost first light. I must be on my way… I… have an appointment.”

Chloe, hand still rubbing her jarred jaw, noticed that he refused to meet her gaze and leapt to his feet with more speed than grace.

“Where are your materials?” he asked as he brushed dead flies from his kilt and cloak. Amazingly, there seemed to be no flies in the air.

Chloe picked up her bag and carefully rolled up her drying papyrus, reluctant to have Cheftu learn more than he already had. She said nothing, ignoring the protests of her still-intrigued body and swearing at the comments from her bewildered brain. They started off at a brisk walk, avoiding all contact. A brush of arms and the air charged between them. Cheftu motioned for her to precede him, and they walked single file. Soon they were back at the garden gate. Cheftu opened it for her and she walked by, her head raised proudly, trying not to feel his rejection of her attempted kiss—or his lack of interest.

“RaEm,” he said, his voice hoarse, “although other business takes precedence at this time, I hope we can continue our”—he stumbled for a moment—
“conversation
at a later point. This evening, perhaps?”

Chloe, thoroughly stung by his explanation, kept her face averted. Conversation was the pseudonym he was using for their moonstruck behavior? She answered crisply, “I think not, my lord. What I was about to
say
has no bearing or significance.” Take that, she thought. “It would have been regretted instantly.”

His granite grip on her arm forced her to look at him. “If you must again disembowel me before my death,” he growled, “have the decency to speak to my face, RaEm.”

Chloe stared at his chest, feeling his anger. His long-fingered hands burned through the linen on her arms, and suddenly the tension, the timing, the excuses, did not matter. She didn't care about what he said or did… she wanted him. She wanted that tracing finger to touch her in magical ways and those sensual and well-cut lips to curl back in ultimate pleasure. Not to mention his body … well…

Cheftu felt the change in her body. What had been resistant stone became molten metal, and RaEm surged into his hands. She raised blazing green eyes to him, and Cheftu's breath lodged in his throat. Purposefully and slowly she licked her full lower lip, and his stomach twisted as blood rushed away from his brain. He stood immobile. The invitation in her look was engraved with gold, but still he stood, hesitant to move forward yet wary of stepping back and seeing the door between them close.

Involuntarily his hands clenched her arms tighter, and she moved closer within their embrace. He watched helplessly as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the pounding pulse in his throat. He heard a sharp intake of breath when she licked the spot, then opened her mouth wider to suck on it.

Dazedly he realized the gasping breaths he heard were his. Of their own accord his hands roamed up and down her back, cupping her and pressing her to him. She was like lightning, leaving every inch of his flesh alive and smoking.

Shafts of morning sun were ignored as they sank to the ground, hands frantically caressing, lips frenetically exploring. Cheftu was still more observer than participator when a loud exclamation interrupted them.

He crouched in front of RaEm, grasping both of her wrists in one of his hands, ready to protect her. Commander Ameni stood before them, his blue eyes quickly taking in RaEm's rosy-tipped breast and Cheftu's jutting kilt. Ameni looked embarrassed under his tan and fixed his eyes slightly to the side of Cheftu. He ignored RaEm completely.

Cheftu looked around himself in disgust, seeing through the eyes of the soldiers. Every surface was covered with dead flies. They were both dirty, RaEm's gown was ripped almost to the waist, and the bags of her equipment were strewn across the fly-covered grass.

He colored as he thought about the lack of restraint demonstrated, compared with the ideal for which all Egyptian men strove. To be in control, respectful, courteous, and above all never overcome by emotions and passions. He was appalled at himself. This was what he was going to do with the woman he loved? To take her like a rutting animal in the public park of a palace? Automatically he backed away from his thoughts, inquiring of the guards what they wanted.

He accepted the cartouche-embellished note and waved away the soldiers with as much arrogance as he could afford. He watched them walk out of sight and turned to RaEm. The heat of passion was gone. She had covered herself and was looking at the flies with the same disgust he had.

He got to his feet, arranging his kilt as best he could, and handed RaEm the missive. He plucked his crumpled cloak from the ground and brushed off the dead flies. Frowning, she gazed at the page and then dropped it as if it were a serpent.

Cheftu picked it up. It was a letter from Hatshepsut, living forever! to Thutmosis: Cheftu's stomach burned as he read it.

“My dearest and most noble nephew. Life! Health! Prosperity! How generous is your offer for the priestess RaEmhetepet's hand. My Majesty is sure the most congenial Lord Nesbek will not hesitate to give RaEm to you, as it is My Majesty's wish. Please be married forthwith. My Majesty awaits the news of her increasing. May Isis and Nephthys bless your union.”

Cheftu read the scrawled note in the margin. “My Lady RaEm. The happy occasion is tonight Join me at
atmu.
” It was signed with the cartouche of Thutmosis III. RaEm stood beside him, her face as pale as her cloak.

His own face as stiff as a funeral mask, Cheftu handed her the note and bowed. He could not,
would
not think. “It seems congratulations are in order, my lady.”

RaEm said nothing, absently fingering the slit in her dress that revealed the whole length of her brown leg, allowing her a stride that matched his. “Does this mean I will be the royal consort when he becomes pharaoh?” she asked as they walked to her apartments.

Disdain rose in Cheftu's throat a burning bile.
It was the same old RaEm.
How could he have thought differently! Aye, she was kinder in some ways and had picked up some new habits in the years since they had seen each other, but she was undoubtedly the same conniving, manipulative, grasping, social-climbing
kheft
-maiden of his dreams and nightmares.

Desire drained as he turned to face her. “My lady, you know as well as I do that unless Thut sees fit to elevate you to royal consort, you will only join his harem and the few wives he already has. Someday Thutmosis will marry his cousin Neferurra to legitimize his ascent to the throne. She will be divine consort.”

Surely that couldn't be surprise in her eyes from his words? Then again, she could be so single-minded in her greed as to forget Ma'at and the whole balance of creation, too! He sighed. “If …” he paused, remembering her miscarriage. Would she be able to have children now? Only the gods knew. “If,” he repeated, “you begin increasing soon, and give birth to a boy, then perhaps you will become a royal wife and be the mother of the next pharaoh after Prince Turankh.”

They reached the door of her apartments. Cheftu was not surprised that all her belongings were gone, except for one small trunk. RaEm was horrified. She stalked through the room. “How dare he take my things before I have even agreed to this marriage! That swine! That insufferable male pig!”

“Lower your voice, my lady. Epithets are not the way to endear yourself to your husband. Surely he was just acting to make things easier for you today.”

Even as he spoke, Cheftu knew he was lying. Thut had taken her belongings to show her the inevitability of the situation. She had no choices. Pharaoh had decreed, and everyone from the lowest slave maiden to Cheftu himself belonged to her and would do her bidding. His gaze flickered to RaEm, who sat in front of the bronze mirror, staring fixedly at her reflection.

He closed the door and went to her side. “My lady, it has been a shock—”

RaEm interrupted, her voice listless. “Why do you call me ‘my lady’? This night you have called me RaEm … or was that only because I threw myself at you?” She hesitated, and Cheftu opened his mouth to speak but closed it when she continued. “What a horrid fate, to be married to a long-dead stranger who cares nothing for me beyond the black hair and golden skin he sees.”

Cheftu stared at her, saw her clenched fists on the table, her legs crossed and woven together as she leaned forward on her forearms. She seemed to have forgotten he was here. But only for a moment.

She turned to him, panic in her green eyes. “I must get away! I cannot marry this man! I cannot be a part of this history!” She leapt up and grabbed his hands in hers, pleading with him. “I beg of you, please help me escape this! I must get away before tonight!” Her impassioned cries surprised him.

“My Lady RaEm, you do not know what you ask.” He wriggled his fingers out of her grasp. “You are overwrought. You had no rest last night, and you are still recovering from your, uh, ordeal.” He looked away, hating to see the openness in her gaze fade. “I shall send Meneptah with a draft for you. It will ease your concerns for tonight.” He pulled away and backed to the door. “You should bathe and prepare yourself, my lady. Where is D'vorah?”

RaEm turned back to the mirror, hiding her face in her hands, her voice muffled. “Perhaps you are right, my lord. I shall take the draft and rest. Please go.”

Cheftu felt uneasy about her acquiescence, but maybe that was just his suspicious nature. With a slight bow, he left her and closed the door. He tied his kilt between his legs and raced for his apartments, hoping Nesbek was still there, his bags packed.