The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (5 page)

"I have work," she muttered.

As she went to duck into her tent, he lightly grasped her wrist. "Meet me at my tent when the moon climbs up into the sky," he told her. "I have something to show you. Something special."

Badra shuddered in both fear and anticipation.

A full moon spilled over the camp as Khepri greeted her much later. Gray light glossed the long, dark hair spilling from beneath his indigo turban and winked upon the steel scimitar strapped to his waist.

They walked in companionable silence, passing the dying embers of cooking fires and black tents sheltering Khamsin families inside. It was remarkably quiet, but for the brush of the wind against the sand and horses nickering at the camp’s edge.

"It’s very still tonight," she commented.

"You do not hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"The sound of night," he said softly. "Of passion."

She heard nothing, then her ears opened. A woman’s soft cries mingled with a man’s deep groans. Rustling fabric, husky whispers. Bodies slid against bodies. Something dark and living and carnal, it was an erotic dance of sound. It poured over her senses, daring her to imagine ...

Khepri spoke quietly. "When a man and a woman take joy in sharing their bodies, they create the music of love. It is the sweetest sound in the desert."

They passed the main group of tents and the area where the horses were kept hobbled for the night. A twist of mountain lay before them, jagged boulders whose rugged edges shone blackish-gray in the pale moonlight. Khepri kept walking.

"What did you want to show me?" Badra asked.

Khepri halted near the entrance of a narrow canyon she recognized. "In here," he gestured.

Towering limestone walls flanked them as they wound down through the canyon. Finally Khepri halted before a scattering of large boulders. "There," he said with satisfaction.

She gasped with delight. Out of one of the tall limestone rocks, Khepri had carved a waist-high Egyptian cobra. Its hooded head reared up in menacing beauty, ready to strike.

"I wanted you to see it in the moonlight." He ran a caressing hand over his creation. "When the light strikes ..."

"It looks real," she marveled.

"It was here I received my cobra totem, so I wanted to mark the memory," he told her, leaning a slim hip against a boulder.

‘Tell me," she said eagerly.

"I was on a hunt with Jabari, looking for small game. He stepped near these rocks and we heard a hiss. I saw it first. A cobra, disturbed from its rest."

"You killed it?"

"No. My father told me these cobras do not spit venom and are sacred in Egyptian history, revered as protectors of kings. If I killed it, bad luck would visit Jabari. I remembered a trick an old snake charmer once taught. I took my rifle, forced the snake to wrap around it and the snake went still. From then on I was known as Cobra, the one who acts—swift as a serpent."

She smiled, remembering how his astonishing reflexes had stayed her hand from using his dagger to kill herself. "You are Cobra. Your totem serves you well."

He studied her in the brilliant moonlight. The moon. Her namesake. He gestured skyward. "As does your name. Though the beauty of the full moon pales beside you, Badra."

Nervousness fraught with an odd yearning returned to her. She glanced at the web of starlight glistening in the night sky. "But nothing’s as lovely as the stars. They make me feel as though I could touch them. Like glittering gems I saw once in Cairo."

"You are more beautiful than all the stars in Egypt’s sky."

His husky voice was like warm velvet. Khepri lightly clasped her shoulders. Heat emanated from him like from the glowing coals of a banked campfire. "Jabari has released me of my vow not to touch you. Do ... do you want me to kiss you?" he asked softly. "Badra?"

Yes
, her heart cried. Hope rose in her breast. She regarded him in the moonlight. The way he said her name, so soft and smooth, tickled her overly sensitive skin. She shuddered and yearned, fearing and yet craving this new closeness, this heated intensity. He brushed a finger against her cheek, drifted down to her trembling lips and she nodded.
Yes. Kiss me
.

"I have waited so long for you, Badra," he murmured.

A determined, intent look came over him. Khepri cupped her face in his strong palms and lifted her mouth up for possession. He claimed her mouth with a kiss that stole her soul and her breath away. His lips grazed hers in reverent worship, a light caress. Intrigued, she moved her mouth against his. Then he pressed his lips hard against hers, his tongue tracing her bottom lip, flicking it lightly. When Badra gave a small sound of pleasure, he slipped into her mouth. Shocked, she compressed her lips.

"Come, Badra, open for me," he coaxed. Then his lips captured hers again.

Her breath was sucked out in a whoosh as she opened her mouth. Khepri’s silken tongue plunged in, tasting her, claiming and setting fire to her as she clung to him. His body pressed against hers, all hard muscles and bone. He continued his relentless assault, plundering her mouth with expert strokes. He ravished her mouth, rousing an odd fullness in her loins. The heat he created gave Badra fresh hope. Perhaps this was the pleasure Elizabeth meant.

Then she felt his hard manhood grind against her. His taut arms locked about her like shackles, trapping her against the rock with his weight and strength. Khepri uttered a deep groan. His sudden intensity frightened her, made her feel powerless. Terror replaced her arousal. He would grunt and strain as he violated her body with mindless lust as Fareeq had. And she’d hate him for it ...

He released her, panting as he looked down. Moonlight and dark desire glinted in his eyes. "You make a man mad with your beauty. I nearly could not stop. If we were married, I would not have," he said hoarsely.

"You would not have?" she asked, deeply shaken.

"I’d never let you leave my bed. I would keep you too busy to take walks in the moonlight."

His words promised old horrors. Badra could not bear to see his gentle, protective manner change as desire darkened his eyes, to wrench away in panic as his powerful body covered hers and he thrust rudely inside her as Fareeq had.

She realized the horrifying truth: If they married, no pleasured cries would come from their black tent, only her screams of terror. Warriors would look on Khepri with contempt. Whispers would start. She cared too deeply for him to shame him thus. She could not bear to condemn such a virile, passionate man to a marriage as dry as sand. Or to drive him into the arms of another woman to satisfy his body’s needs—as he had done in the past with Najla.

As they returned to camp, she stifled the haunted sorrow rising in her throat. This presented no real challenge; she had plenty of experience in doing so.

Khepri’s past came galloping back the following day.

Humming happily, thinking of how pliant and soft Badra’s lips had been beneath his, he sat before his tent, carving a new wood loom for her. At the thunder of approaching horses, he looked up. A cloud of dust rose on the horizon. Blood froze in his veins as it drew closer. A party of white-skinned English, escorted by his brethren, approached on sleek Arabians.

Jabari had warned him about the strangers coming to visit. They’d claimed Khepri might be family. Unease had gripped him, but Khepri joked no Englishman would want him. He was too stubborn, too cocky—too Egyptian to be English.

Two pale foreigners, one with light brown hair, one much older with a shock of white, dismounted. They wore the strange linen suits English archaeologists preferred. Dry-mouthed, Khepri watched Jabari greet them. The sheikh escorted the pair to Khepri’s tent. With a speed surprising for one so old, the white-haired Englishman raced forward.

He halted abruptly. Wrinkles carved his face like well-worn rock. Khepri stared into a pair of eyes as blue as his own.

"Good God, it’s true," the man slowly rasped in English. "It’s Michael, just when he was your age."

Khepri’s panicked gaze flew to Jabari, but his brother’s face tightened and he looked away.

"Kenneth, I’m your grandfather. So long I’ve prayed to find you. I am Charles Tristan, duke of Caldwell," the man continued.

The younger Englishman, with a thick mustache and side-whiskers, his pale brown hair thinning, stepped forward. "Hullo," he said heartily. "I’m Victor Edwards. Second cousin, on your father’s side. Such a relief to find you."

Khepri reeled with shock. "I have no English family," he croaked in halting English. "They were killed by an enemy tribe years ago. The Al-Hajid murdered my parents and brother."

"Yes." Sorrow came into the old man’s blue eyes. "But not you. And now I’ve found you. Kenneth Tristan. My heir."

Heir? What was an heir?

"I am your grandfather, Kenneth," he stated again.

Grandfather? His grandfather, Nkosi, was visiting the Al-Hajid with his wife, Elizabeth’s grandmother. Khepri’s frantic gaze pleaded with Jabari, but the sheikh continued gazing stonily into the distance. How could this be? He was a Khamsin, warrior of the wind. Egyptian. He rode the dusky sands. He was brother to the greatest desert sheikh in Egypt. And now a strange Englishman from beyond the seas claimed him? Khepri’s stomach twisted. He must drive these intruders away.

He thrust out the soles of his feet at them. "Walk away from me. I know nothing of you," he said brusquely.

Of course they would not understand how rude the gesture was. They were English. But Jabari tensed with anger.

"Khepri!" he said sharply. Then he said in a gentler tone, "You forget your manners. A Khamsin always shows courtesy to guests." He turned to the two Englishmen. "
Ahlan wa sahlan
. You are welcome to my tent."

The news spread like a sandstorm. While the Englishmen’s Egyptian servants unloaded their trunks, Jabari personally welcomed the visitors with
gahwa
. The coffee ceremony was an honor the sheikh reserved for the most prestigious guests. Elizabeth, Ramses and his English-born wife, Katherine, joined them as a crowd of onlookers hovered outside, staring at the two Englishmen.

Khepri bristled with pride at the skillful way his brother roasted the green coffee beans in a pan over a tiny brazier, cooled them in a wood dish and ground them. The two Englishmen sat on the thick red carpet watching and talking quietly. He glanced at them, irritated. Did they not hear the beautiful music the pestle made as it struck the mortar? Jabari’s artistry failed to impress the foreigners. Khepri folded his arms, glaring at them with indignation.

When the coffee was ready, the sheikh politely served his two guests small, handleless cups. The priceless porcelain had been in the family for generations. The English murmured their thanks and sipped. A barely concealed grimace twisted Victor’s lips. Khepri felt fresh annoyance.

When the guests were served, he sipped his coffee, enjoying the spicy pinch of cardamom. With secret glee he noticed the English sucking on dates between sips. Dates sweetened the bitter brew. These men could not be his family. They could not even drink coffee.

Khepri kept staring at the elderly man whose face was stamped with such similar features to his own. No denying the resemblance. The world tilted crazily on its axis as he listened to the man tell Jabari how important it was to have found his grandson.

When the sheikh slowly nodded, he screamed inside. No! This man was not family. Not his. People gaped with open curiosity at the visitors. On the crowd’s fringes, he saw Rashid. Clad now in indigo, the warrior stared intently at the English visitors. Then Rashid’s gaze met Khepri’s. Rashid whirled and stomped off.

Confused and uncertain, Khepri’s thoughts whipped to Badra. What if the strangers wanted to take him away to their land of green grass? His whole being had centered on protecting her. Watching over her. Keeping his love and desire embedded deep in his heart, his need of her a deep ache. He would not leave her.

"Khepri," Jabari said in Arabic. "Your grandfather is asking you a question."

Not my grandfather, he thought resentfully.