Page 11 of The Promise of a Kiss

They reached the clearing with her well and his horse. Tremayne untied the panniers from the donkey, untethered both animals, and glanced around. “So, where have you made camp?”

Hester led him around the back of a partly-ruined temple to where she and Suleiman had pitched their tents and smiled at the sight of the colorful striped material.

Uncle Jasper hadn’t believed in traveling light. He’d been loath to give up his creature comforts, even when traveling so far from home, and his ‘essential items’ had included a full Meissen tea service, a campaign-style folding bed with feather bedroll, a portable writing slope, and numerous woolen rugs to protect the feet from the sandy, rocky ground. It wasn’t Grosvenor Square levels of luxury, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.

Tremayne made short work of starting a fire, and Hester tried not to be impressed. She doubted the Harry Tremayne she’d known three years ago would have been able to do that. He’d lived for pleasure, not practicality. Now he was indisputably a soldier, older and wiser, with a competence to match. He was a little bit more wicked too, and the additional lines around his eyes and the hint of grey at his temples only added to his unholy appeal. This Harry Tremayne was a man, not a boy.

But still not the man for her.

He bent and rummaged in one of the saddlebags. “I brought you a present. All the way from England.”

Hester accepted it gingerly and untied the string that bound the brown paper. The scent hit her first, and she took a deep, appreciative sniff then almost squealed in delight. “Oh, my! Black tea? Thank you.”

She smiled at him with genuine pleasure. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she experienced a squirming sensation low in her belly. She bit her lip, and he glanced up with a wry expression.

“You’re welcome. It was Aunt Agatha’s idea, actually.”

“Well, there’s no milk, I’m afraid. Unless you want camel milk?”

“No, thank you.”

Hester marveled at the strangeness of politely taking tea with Harry Tremayne in the middle of the desert. It was bizarre, almost like a dream, and yet it somehow seemed entirely natural. As if she’d always imagined him here with her.

She frowned. “I am becoming increasingly concerned about Suleiman. It’s very unlike him to simply disappear without a word. What if he’s been injured? He could have fallen into a burial shaft or been bitten by a snake or a scorpion.”

“Perhaps we should ask the locals?”

“Most of them are tending to their sheep in the hills. But there is one village elder who might know where he is.”

“Let’s go see him, then. And perhaps he can tell us more about that necklace, too.”

Chapter 6

The Fayium village elder was an ancient, wizened old man whose face was the color and wrinkled texture of a ripe date. Hester and Tremayne ducked into his ramshackle hut and accepted a seat, cross-legged on the floor.

The old man spoke a smattering of both English and French, having served for some time as a translator for Napoleon’s invading army, but the clarity of his speech was hampered by the fact that he lacked most of his teeth. With halting gestures and a good deal of pantomiming, they finally deduced that no-one had seen Suleiman since earlier that afternoon, when he’d watered Bahaba, Hester’s bad-tempered camel.

When Hester reached inside her pocket and withdrew the scorpion necklace, the old man sucked in an awed breath. His gnarled fingers shook as he reached out to touch it, then he seemed to change his mind and snatched his hand away. He made a gesture in the air, as if to ward off evil.

“Where it find you?” he asked urgently. “Here?”

Hester frowned. “Do you mean, ‘where did I find it?’”

The old man shrugged, as if it were the same thing.

“Up on the hill, in the sand outside one of the tombs. By the fallen pillars.”

“Ah. Temple of Serqet.”

“Serqet?”

The old man regarded the necklace with an odd mixture of reverence and trepidation. “Scorpion goddess. She who stops breath.”

“You mean she was beautiful?” Tremayne asked. “Breathtaking?”

The elder’s laugh was dry and cracked. “No. She steal breath from body. Men die.”

“Oh, well, that’s cheery,” Harry muttered.

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