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Book: The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) by Bonnie Vanak
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Authors: Bonnie Vanak
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Simple sounds delightful. You can start with dinner tonight. You’re now the new cook." Kenneth shot the French chef a cool, calm look. "Pack up your things. You’re dismissed."
Pomeroy’s jaw dropped. "But, but ..." he spluttered.
"Today," Kenneth said in a quiet tone.
Then, feeling much more cheerful, he left a blustering Pomeroy screaming in French and escaped to the quietness of his library. There he sank into an over-stuffed wing chair and propped his chin on his fist, staring at the flames crackling in the white marble fireplace. Every room had a roaring fire. He was wealthy and could afford the coal. And yet he was so damn cold.
A small noise drew his attention to the doorway. Zaid stood there, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Kenneth’s heart sank.
"Those need my signature?"
Zaid nodded. Kenneth motioned to the satinwood desk. He settled onto its sturdy chair and stared at the thick documents Zaid handed over. They looked official and important.
Slowly he dipped the thick gold pen into the inkwell. His hand hovered above the vellum. Kenneth steeled his spine and drew the intricate swirls and curlicues that made no sense to him. They looked very official. Zaid dusted sand over his signature to dry it.
Kenneth pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket. His friend, Landon Burton, the Earl of Smithfield, had asked to meet him at his cousin Victor’s antiquities shop. He’d promised a small surprise.
"Order the carriage, Zaid. I’m late for my meeting with Lord Smithfield."
When the secretary left, Kenneth stared at the particles clinging to the black ink on the paper. Sand. Egypt. His feet longed to walk the land he once called home. But it was home no more.
Such irony. The English duke who’d sworn never to return to Egypt pining for that land more than anything else. He felt adrift, without country or culture. From the moment he’d left Egypt, he vowed to forget the woman who’d crushed his heart. Badra was in his past, when he’d ridden like the wind across dusky sands and swung a scimitar with a mighty arm. When he’d been called Khepri. The memory of her beauty beckoned like a siren’s song. He had to stuff rags into his ears to shut out the melody.
God help him if he ever saw her again. God help them both.
Chapter Three
This assignment was far more dangerous than she’d ever anticipated. Badra’s heart skipped a beat as she stared out the carriage window. She blew a breath on the glass, frosting it, and drew her name in English. The letters made her smile. Once she’d been illiterate. Now she could read and write in both English and Arabic. It was her greatest achievement.
Anxiety gripped her. Did she now face her worst failure?
Smuggling stolen artifacts belonging to a stranger was one thing. But a necklace belonging to Khepri? Sweat slicked her tightly clasped hands inside her fur muff.
The cold, gray land Khepri now called home chilled her blood. Badra ached for Egypt’s warm sands, soft desert breezes and burning yellow sun. She shuddered at London’s smells and crowds, the thick pall of black coal smoke in the air, the pitiful pleas of ragged beggar children huddled in doorways, the continual clip-clop of carriages rushing indifferently past ordure and filth in the gutters.
She glanced at Rashid, talking to Lord Smithfield, Katherine’s father. The earl had helped them secure a trustworthy source to sell Khamsin gold artifacts. With that money, they could educate the tribe’s children in England. Rashid still wore his trousers and indigo binish , the turban wrapped about his long, dark locks. His only concession to English style was a thick wool cloak to fend off the icy chill.
At their destination, Badra clutched her wool cloak as the wind whistled beneath it. Her clothing felt odd. She had some trouble maneuvering in the laced boots. A wood sign swung in the winter wind above the shop window. It read "ANTIQUITIES."
She followed Rashid and the earl inside. A
Pomeroy’s jaw dropped. "But, but ..." he spluttered.
"Today," Kenneth said in a quiet tone.
Then, feeling much more cheerful, he left a blustering Pomeroy screaming in French and escaped to the quietness of his library. There he sank into an over-stuffed wing chair and propped his chin on his fist, staring at the flames crackling in the white marble fireplace. Every room had a roaring fire. He was wealthy and could afford the coal. And yet he was so damn cold.
A small noise drew his attention to the doorway. Zaid stood there, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Kenneth’s heart sank.
"Those need my signature?"
Zaid nodded. Kenneth motioned to the satinwood desk. He settled onto its sturdy chair and stared at the thick documents Zaid handed over. They looked official and important.
Slowly he dipped the thick gold pen into the inkwell. His hand hovered above the vellum. Kenneth steeled his spine and drew the intricate swirls and curlicues that made no sense to him. They looked very official. Zaid dusted sand over his signature to dry it.
Kenneth pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket. His friend, Landon Burton, the Earl of Smithfield, had asked to meet him at his cousin Victor’s antiquities shop. He’d promised a small surprise.
"Order the carriage, Zaid. I’m late for my meeting with Lord Smithfield."
When the secretary left, Kenneth stared at the particles clinging to the black ink on the paper. Sand. Egypt. His feet longed to walk the land he once called home. But it was home no more.
Such irony. The English duke who’d sworn never to return to Egypt pining for that land more than anything else. He felt adrift, without country or culture. From the moment he’d left Egypt, he vowed to forget the woman who’d crushed his heart. Badra was in his past, when he’d ridden like the wind across dusky sands and swung a scimitar with a mighty arm. When he’d been called Khepri. The memory of her beauty beckoned like a siren’s song. He had to stuff rags into his ears to shut out the melody.
God help him if he ever saw her again. God help them both.
Chapter Three
This assignment was far more dangerous than she’d ever anticipated. Badra’s heart skipped a beat as she stared out the carriage window. She blew a breath on the glass, frosting it, and drew her name in English. The letters made her smile. Once she’d been illiterate. Now she could read and write in both English and Arabic. It was her greatest achievement.
Anxiety gripped her. Did she now face her worst failure?
Smuggling stolen artifacts belonging to a stranger was one thing. But a necklace belonging to Khepri? Sweat slicked her tightly clasped hands inside her fur muff.
The cold, gray land Khepri now called home chilled her blood. Badra ached for Egypt’s warm sands, soft desert breezes and burning yellow sun. She shuddered at London’s smells and crowds, the thick pall of black coal smoke in the air, the pitiful pleas of ragged beggar children huddled in doorways, the continual clip-clop of carriages rushing indifferently past ordure and filth in the gutters.
She glanced at Rashid, talking to Lord Smithfield, Katherine’s father. The earl had helped them secure a trustworthy source to sell Khamsin gold artifacts. With that money, they could educate the tribe’s children in England. Rashid still wore his trousers and indigo binish , the turban wrapped about his long, dark locks. His only concession to English style was a thick wool cloak to fend off the icy chill.
At their destination, Badra clutched her wool cloak as the wind whistled beneath it. Her clothing felt odd. She had some trouble maneuvering in the laced boots. A wood sign swung in the winter wind above the shop window. It read "ANTIQUITIES."
She followed Rashid and the earl inside. A
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