The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (11 page)

Later that night Kenneth lay in his stiff, heavy, canopied bed where generations of Tristan nobility had been conceived. The opulent bed was as sweeping as Egypt’s dunes, with intricate flowers carved on wood posts thick as tree trunks. He missed his simple Khamsin bed; lightweight, portable, comfortable.

Memories haunted him—cool desert nights and Badra’s sultry singing. He rolled over and punched the feather pillow. He tried for sleep, for blessed forgetfulness. It did not come.

What if she had agreed to marry him and he had remained behind as a Khamsin warrior? Or what if she’d dared to leave behind her life in the desert to be his duchess? A faint dream teased him: Badra at his side as they strolled along Bond Street. Badra presiding over his dinner table with charm and ease. Badra’s nude body pressed beneath him as she gave soft cries of pleasure as they conceived the next Duke of Caldwell. Badra handing him their firstborn child, her glow of pride equaling his own.

Pain gripped him, as intense as a scimitar spearing his heart. Kenneth buried his face in his pillow, stifling a deep groan. He must forget her.

But how could he?

He’d shadowed her every move for five years. Now fate had dealt him a cruel blow; she was shadowing him with equal zeal.

Bloody hell—he liked that English phrase—his body still pulsed with wanting her, desiring her as madly as a man crawling in the desert craved water. He’d thought he was able to banish memories of her sweet laughter, her shy smile. He could no more erase her from his mind than he could scrub away the cobra tattoo on his right arm. Both were carved into him permanently.

Cold sweat trickled down his spine. He wanted to find the thief himself, not rely upon others. Kenneth contented himself with images of capturing the thief, watching a cell door clank closed before him.

Eventually a languid drowsiness came. He dozed off until something nudged him awake. His warrior sense of awareness, honed by years of battle, sprang to life. His gaze jerked to the open French windows leading to the terrace, overlooking the garden. A shadow fell just inside the room.

Kenneth lay perfectly still as the intruder slipped inside. The glow of the full moon shimmered on an upraised gleam of silver.

The knife descended with lightning speed, but he reacted and rolled, seizing his attacker’s wrist. Pain flared briefly as the blade scraped his arm. Kenneth threw a punch directly to his assailant’s middle. A low wheeze of pain was his reward, and his attacker doubled over and wrenched away. Then he fled.

Kenneth sprang off the bed and dashed after the fleeing figure, who turned and delivered a gut-grinding kick to his midsection. Kenneth wheezed, the breath knocked out of him. His attacker vaulted over the railing. By the time Kenneth made it to the terrace, the only evidence left was a dangling rope.

His breathing finally quieted as he cradled his injured arm. Incredulity raged through him, along with a deep-seated fury and growing horror.

The person fleeing into the ghostly London night remained elusive, but the clothing he wore was no mystery. A distinctive outfit, worn by desert warriors who prided themselves on their honor, duty and fierce fighting abilities. A costume he had worn with pride, now tucked away in a chest with memories best forgotten. The indigo clothing of a warrior of the wind.

One of his former brethren had just tried to murder him.

Shortly after breakfast, not caring that proper visiting hours were in the afternoon, Kenneth banged a familiar knocker. The butler opened the door, surprise showing on his dour face. Without words, Kenneth removed his greatcoat, tossed it at him and strode angrily into the drawing room. The Earl of Smithfield read before a crackling fire. He glanced up.

"Where’s Rashid?" Kenneth demanded.

Smithfield’s blue eyes widened as he set his book down. "Walking in the park. Poor fellow keeps shutting himself inside his room. I ordered him to get some fresh air. Why?"

"I’m going to wring his bloody neck."

"Calm down," Smithfield ordered. He rang for a footman and issued a crisp order for brandy. Kenneth accepted the cut-glass snifter and sipped, relishing the burn in his throat.

"Now, please explain what has you so upset, Caldwell."

When Kenneth finished recounting the attack, and his suspicions, the earl frowned. "Are you certain it’s Rashid?"

"Positive," Kenneth said roughly. "He hates me."

The earl drummed long fingers on the chair’s armrest. "You suspect he came here to sell your necklace as well as the tribe’s gold?"

"Positive. He may not even have sold it yet." His gaze bored into his friend’s. "I want your permission to search his room."

"And if you find your necklace? What then? Will you have him arrested?" The earl’s voice remained oddly neutral.

"I’ll decide later. Right now I need to get into his room."

"Very well. It’s the third door on the left."

Kenneth stood, nodding at his empty glass. "Thanks for the refreshment. Goes better on a full stomach—the fullest it’s been since I fired my cook."

"You fired Pomeroy—the finest French chef in London?"

"Had to. His dishes were upsetting my stomach."

The earl drew his black brows together as if something greatly disturbed him. "Caldwell, about your grandfather. Had he been ill before he died?"

Kenneth racked his memory. "I recall a time or two he complained about stomach ailments. Why?"

"No particular reason," Smithfield said. "Go search Rashid’s room. Afraid I must leave you. I’ve an appointment with my solicitor. Let yourself out when you’re finished. But hurry. Most likely, he’ll return soon."

Rashid’s room’s contents did not surprise Kenneth. An ornate, hand-carved oak canopied bed with a forest green silk coverlet dominated. On the jewel-toned carpet lay a small bedroll with a pillow. Rashid always slept on the ground.

With careful stealth, Kenneth opened the drawers in the polished tallboy, systematically combing through the contents. He searched the room with efficient thoroughness until at last he spied his quarry stuffed deep inside Rashid’s bedroll: a colorful cloth bag. Personal items.

Kenneth tugged on the drawstring and dumped the contents onto the rug: a small bag containing English money, a pair of scissors, and a gleam of gold flashing in the light that filtered through the polished window.

Kenneth picked up the gold pendant. It was the missing necklace. Raw anger tunneled through him.

He fingered the pendant, examining the shiny perfection of ancient Egyptian craftsmanship. His father had died trying to obtain this, or treasure like it. Yet why would Rashid steal it? As revenge for Kenneth insulting Jabari? Was that why Rashid had attempted to kill him as well?

Rashid was a powerful warrior. He could have fought Kenneth last night, made him fight for his life. But instead, he’d nicked him and run. It made no sense.

No matter. He’d stolen; therefore Kenneth would order his arrest.

His conscience pricked. Rashid’s arrest would dishonor Jabari and the tribe.

He owed them nothing.

He owed them everything.

Torn, he replaced the pendant. The Duke of Caldwell thirsted to watch authorities drag Rashid to prison. The Khamsin warrior he had been resisted ordering such a public disgrace.

Bloody hell, he couldn’t order Rashid arrested.
I owe it to Jabari, for how I treated him when I left. Face it
, he told himself with grim humor
. I’ve spent a year trying to forget I am Khamsin. But deep down, I still long to ride the sands and restore friendship with them. I loathe shaming the tribe who was my family. And it would upset Badra deeply.
He winced, imagining her shock at seeing her falcon guard hauled off to prison.

But failing to arrest Rashid meant quiet Khamsin justice must prevail. Jabari must be told. Kenneth touched his cobra tattoo, guilt coursing through him. Confronting the man he once called brother would not be easy. But did he have any alternative?

Only the prisons here in England. He jammed a frustrated hand through his thick hair. There was no choice left, only to return to Egypt, to tell the sheikh what happened. To see Khamsin justice done.

But perhaps Rashid worked with others, a ring of smugglers still present at the dig. He needed more information. Kenneth decided to immediately send Zaid, his loyal secretary, to Egypt to investigate. Then he’d make plans for himself and Victor to follow. His cousin, experienced in antiquities, would prove an enormous help.

On silent feet, he left and prowled down the hallway.

Music accosted his ears. He froze. A sweet melody filled the air, so haunting it stilled his breath. Strings plucked on an exotic instrument he had not heard in more than a year. In a different time and place.

Badra’s voice followed, accompanying her strumming of the
rebaba’s
horsehair strings, and it filled him with aching want. Oh, how he remembered her dulcet tones. Enraptured, he had stood mesmerized outside her tent. Caught in her voice’s silken strands, he had become ensnared in a web of torment, his maddening hunger for her forever unsated.

Never again had he imagined hearing her sing.

But the same voice now wrapped its exotic tones about him. Aching melancholy for his past wrestled with Kenneth’s need. Her voice razed all English trappings. The palatial drawing rooms, stiff and resplendent in their brocaded fabrics, the polished smell of beeswax and glycerin—all shifted into the past.

The memories burned: the soft shuffle of leather boots through sand, children’s ringing laughter, women chattering as they sloshed goat’s milk in leather bags, the sharp rasp of warriors’ blades as they honed them against a rock.

Kenneth breathed deeply, his mind recalling various sensations. Roasting lamb, the sharp hiss of fat dripping into the fire. The smell of horses. Fresh jasmine scenting a woman’s soft skin, and the desert heat contained in those hidden places a warrior dared dream about, that velvet warmth clutching and surrounding him with pleasure so intense he’d burned hot as the yellow sun ...

He touched his hidden cobra tattoo. For a full year, the simple truth had simmered below the surface. He had rejected his tribe, and himself as well, but he still longed to be called brother of Jabari. He could not shed his upbringing as easily as he shaved his beard or cut his hair.

His eyes snapped open. Badra’s song became mournful, a dirge. What coaxed such embittered words from her sweet lips? The Arabic words pulled at him.

When did you become nothing but a shadow on my heart?

My leb is aching from the weight you placed on it, for you died and left me

Alone in my grief, tears of sorrow creating a river

Deep as the Nile

So I may drown and feel no more pain, my soul that aches for

The tender smiles you once gave

You left forever, yet you still remain

Flesh and blood and bone, standing before me and yet

A ghost still.

Kenneth pressed his fingers against the wooden door. Motionless, he stood lost in past regrets. What ghosts hammered at her deep inside?

Did she ever love me at all?
He did not want to know. Kenneth quietly slipped down the sweeping staircase, eager to return to his very English home. No memories lurked there. But in the hallway, as he reached the door, it swung open.

Rashid stepped inside. His startled gaze met Kenneth’s. For a minute something deep and inscrutable flickered in his dark eyes. Then it vanished, replaced with his usual hostility.

"Rashid. Good day," Kenneth said quietly.

"It was, until I saw you. Get out of my way."

Fists clenching with white-knuckled anger, Kenneth cursed.
Arrest him
, screamed Kenneth, the outraged English duke.
No
, protested Khepri, the Khamsin warrior he’d been.

A small noise sounded from the staircase. He whirled. It was Badra, standing there, regally. Distress etched her face.

Kenneth glared at Rashid a moment longer, then pushed past and went down and out into the biting cold.