The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (38 page)

"Omar?" Her voice came as a raspy whisper.

"Hello, my dear," he said pleasantly, then swept a mocking bow to Kenneth. "Ah, the Duke of Caldwell, Kenneth Tristan. I do not think I shall address you as ‘Your Grace’ any longer."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Victor sputtered. "You agreed never to come here."

Badra’s former captor turned to Kenneth’s cousin. "I lied."

A sickening crack filled the air as he lifted the gold Osiris statue and slammed it into Victor’s temple. Then his hands—oh, dear God—wrapped about Badra’s neck, squeezing with enormous pressure. His thick thumb pressed just above the hollow of her throat, choking off breath.

"Don’t move," Omar warned when Kenneth moved forward. "One step closer and I’ll strangle her."

"Zaid?" Kenneth stared at his loyal secretary, whose large, beefy hands were wrapped about Badra’s throat. Mute terror shone in her dark eyes. She had called him Omar.

Omar, the slave master? The one who had sold her years before, threatening to own her again?

"Zaid Omar Fareeq Tristan," the man spat. "We are related, after all. Your grandfather was my father."

Kenneth fought for control, pressed back by the wild plea in Badra’s eyes as his secretary pressed a thick thumb farther into her neck. Color flooded her face. She looked numb from terror.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

"The last Duke of Caldwell. He refused to acknowledge the bastard son of his Egyptian mistress, whom he visited at the Pleasure Palace every time he wintered in Egypt. Your grandfather gave my mother money to keep quiet. She used it to purchase the brothel. All those years, living among whores, never able to face English society. All I wanted was for him to acknowledge me. And he kept me hidden away like a dirty little secret while publicly proclaiming morality."

A jolt of recognition slammed into Kenneth. He stared at Zaid, seeing for the first time the hard lines of his grandfather’s face. The faint resemblance.

"My father—" Kenneth began.

"Your father, the precious ‘only son.’ So noble, so damn English! But he played into my hands when he came to Egypt to search for Meret’s necklaces. I hired myself out to take you all on a tour of the Giza pyramids and suggested he and his family tour the Red Sea coast before arriving at Dashur. At the same time, I paid my uncle the sheikh to attack a certain caravan."

"You killed my family," Kenneth said hoarsely, sickened.

"I had no choice! As long as your father, his precious heir, lived, Father would ignore me. After your father died, I beseeched the duke to hire me. I worked like a dog to gain his trust. He was about to publicly admit our relationship when you returned. Damn you!" Fury flushed Zaid’s face.

Watching Badra, Kenneth did not move. He felt in his pocket for the
jambiya
he kept hidden there. Twisting his body slightly, he hid the movement from Zaid. "You poisoned Grandfather. And me," he guessed, wanting to keep the man talking. Almost there. Furtively he eased the blade from its sheath.

"I attacked you in your bedroom, in your home, after Victor told me you hated Rashid, who had become a Khamsin. But I failed. I knew you’d grow suspicious. I decided to kill you at the Pleasure Palace. I knew you would buy Badra if she were enslaved. I tricked her into stealing the necklace and arranged for her to fail, forcing her to take her daughter’s place."

New horror stole over him. The papers he’d signed in England...

"What papers did you have me sign?" Kenneth demanded.

Zaid laughed. "A new will, acknowledging me as your heir and giving me the estate. You never looked long enough at documents to truly read them. I also transferred the property deed of the Pleasure Palace from Omar Fareeq, the fake name I use in Egypt, to you. So when you die, I will inherit it—legally, under my real name and as the new Duke of Caldwell."

Zaid dragged Badra forward. Her skin was white where his thumb dug into her. Kenneth felt his chest sink.

Fear dawned in her dark eyes. Badra yelped as Zaid grunted and pressed deeper.

"Enough talk," he snapped. "Give me your dagger then sit."

Kenneth hesitated. "I don’t have one."

"You’re still Khamsin, and you’d never walk around without one."

His thumb pressed deeper into Badra’s neck. A choking gasp resulted as she struggled to breathe. Kenneth threw the dagger at the man’s feet and sat. Zaid snatched it. Badra wheezed for breath as he loosened his grip and held the knife to her throat.

Edging over to the table, he secured a length of rope and told Badra, ‘Tie him up, hands behind his back. Then his ankles, and tie him to the column."

Zaid pressed the knife into her back as she bound Kenneth’s hands behind him, then his ankles, and tied the rope to the pole. Zaid tightened the knots.

When Zaid turned away, Badra still in his grip, Kenneth tested the knots. And then he heard words that stilled his heart with fear.

"I still want you, Badra. And I will have you now."

Badra blanched as Zaid withdrew the necklace bearing Amenemhat II’s cartouche from his pocket. He draped it around her neck.

"Now you are my slave," he said, crushing her in a kiss.

Terror numbed Badra as the cursed necklace encircled her throat like a coiled snake. Zaid’s cold lips descended on hers, grinding and punishing. As she had been when Fareeq raped her, she became immobilized with fear. But something inside her cried out.

She had spent her whole life being afraid. Afraid of sex, afraid of being a slave. Powerless. Captive to men. Fearful of fighting back, fearful of the pain she’d suffer.

Kenneth loved her. He’d seen past the fear and the scars and taught her to escape her inhibitions. He’d taught her pleasure and passion. He believed in her. It was about time she started believing in herself—not in cursed necklaces or myths or magic.

Something rose up from deep inside, a dull roar. She felt it erupt like a well springing forth from dry sands. Badra writhed and struggled. She raked her nails over Zaid’s cheek. He gave a startled shriek and recoiled. Eyeing the vulnerable spot between his legs, she kneed him hard. Zaid howled. Bright scarlet infused his face. She struck him again and he fell to the floor.

"It truly works," she commented, astounded.

Laughter filled the air. She turned and saw Kenneth’s face contorted with amusement.

"I told you it would," he said.

She rushed over, grappling with the large knots binding him. But a warning from Kenneth told her Zaid had recovered.

A sharp point of cold steel pressed into her back. "Sit with your back to him," he ordered tersely.

She sat. Zaid coiled the rope about her waist and Kenneth’s, binding them together. He wrapped another length of rope around her wrists, binding her arms in front of her, winding the rope down to her ankles. She and Kenneth sat back to back, immobilized. Their foe stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

"You could have lived, Badra," Zaid grunted.

"Better to die free than live as your slave," she rejoined.

Vanishing into the murky interior of the shop, Zaid emerged several moments later with sticks of dynamite, caps, a long length of fuse and a candle. He swept an arm across the table, clearing it of dusty fake artifacts. Carefully he capped the dynamite, attached the fuse, and set the sticks down on the table.

"Victor never made any money," Zaid said, "except selling dynamite to archaeologists who still like to excavate by blowing up tombs."

Zaid wound the fuse around a stubby candle. He pushed the candle halfway to the table’s edge, then secured it with a few dusty books, draping the long fuse over them and back to the dynamite. Reaching into his vest pocket, he lit the candle.

"By the time this fuse is lit, I’ll be long gone. No one will suspect, since Victor’s shop is known to house explosives."

He gave them a twisted smile. "Enjoy your last moments together."

The shop door slammed behind Zaid. Kenneth felt his chest sink as he eyed the candle dripping wax onto the floor. Easing his arms to the side as much as possible, he tried picking at the knots binding his wrists together. Sweat dampening his palms aided in loosening the rope, but it hindered him in picking apart the knots. Kenneth gritted his teeth, feeling the knots, testing them with his fingertips.

"Would a dagger help?" Badra asked.

"It might, if I could conjure one out of thin air."

"You might conjure one off my leg."

His hands stilled. "You have a dagger on your leg?"

"Strapped to my thigh. The one you threw to the ground when I refused to marry you. I ... I was going to give it back to you as a symbol of severing our past and starting anew," she said softly.

Regret speared him. He pushed it aside. Regrets later. "Badra, you’re going to have to cut yourself loose."

"How? My arms are tied to my waist."

"You can do it," he encouraged her. "Lift your legs up."

He felt her shift behind him, struggling to reach the knife, and he crooned words of encouragement. His eyes fixed on the burning candle. The wax dripped onto the floor, and the flame flickered closer, so close now, to the fuse.

"I have it!"

"Good. Cut the rope tying us to the column."

He didn’t dare breathe or think. The dagger would not be well-honed. Sawing through the rope would be like using a butter knife. He closed his eyes, feeling sweat trickle down his face. Kenneth heard a small cry of distress when she obviously cut herself. But she continued on.

"It’s cut!" she cried out.

"There’s no time to free your ankles. Brace your feet and hands against the column, and press against my back and force your weight up. We’re going to stand together and hobble over to the candle to blow it out before it lights the fuse."

"I’m ready."

Setting his feet flat against the floor, Kenneth grunted and strained to stand, pressing against Badra as she braced herself against the column. Slowly they struggled to stand. Kenneth’s eyes never left the candle.

Less than an inch to spare now. An inch away from death.

"Badra, listen. I’m going to walk over there to blow out the candle. You’re going to have to walk backward as I do."

He began hobbling to reach the candle, pulling at Badra, feeling her try to assist by moving her feet backward. So close, he could nearly reach it, the bright orange flame flickering near the edge of the fuse ... burning closer and closer. He hobbled faster, life and love pressing him on.

Close enough now. He puffed out his cheeks and blew.

The candle went out.

The fuse lit.

Kenneth swore as the spark raced along the fuse. He had to put it out somehow. He spat at it. Missed. Tried again. Missed. Helplessly he watched the spark sizzle toward the dynamite.

"We’re going to die," Badra whispered.

"No," he said fiercely.
I’ve got too much to live for
.

The shop door slammed open. His gaze snapped to the intruder. Rashid stood there, scimitar drawn.

"Cut the fuse!" Kenneth roared.

The warrior sprang forward. His scimitar snicked through the air, chopping off the fuse just before it reached the dynamite. Kenneth sagged in relief.

"You’re late," he accused.

"I could not find the shop," Rashid replied.

"You can navigate the entire desert at night by consulting the stars but you cannot find a simple antiquities store in broad daylight by asking directions?" he drawled.

Rashid grimaced. "I hate asking for directions."

"Rashid, what is happening?" a familiar voice yelled.

Scimitars drawn, Jabari and Ramses ran inside. They assessed the situation and sheathed their blades. "Thank God you are all right," the sheikh breathed.

Kenneth’s accusing gaze found Rashid. "You told them."

"I made him," Jabari replied. "I saw Badra leave with Victor and knew something was amiss. I am your brother, Khepri. I appreciate you trying to protect me from danger, but you forgot a man standing alone is but one warrior. When his brothers stand with him, he is an army."