The Cobra & the Concubine (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) by Bonnie Vanak Page A

galloped as her dinner companion, Viscount Oates, gallantly held out her chair. For a long moment Badra’s legs froze. How could she do this? She was a simple Bedouin woman who sat on thick carpets on the sand, ate with flat bread as utensils and drank cups of thick, rich camel’s milk. A footman moved methodically down the table, pouring ruby-colored wine into glasses. She did not drink alcohol, either.
    She glanced across the table at the duke, who was conversing with his pretty dinner partner. Badra swept the table with her gaze. Which fork to use? What if she spilled something? So many crystal glasses as well.
    Women glanced at her with avid interest, bright eyes eager to see her fail. How could she manage this? I cannot.
    Badra stared at Kenneth, willing him to look at her, to offer some reassurance. Studiously, it seemed, he ignored her.
    Please look at me, Kenneth. Please. I’m frightened.
    Finally, he did. Badra’s desperate gaze held his steady one. Helplessly, she touched the gleaming utensils near her plate. She raised her gaze to Kenneth in a wordless request.
    "Watch me," he mouthed.
    Servants began serving the first course. Badra studied the white liquid sitting before her in a delicate china bowl, and then at the assortment of spoons. The duke lifted the largest spoon and dipped it into the soup, slowly bringing it to his mouth. Badra attempted the same, tasting the concoction, surprised at the creamy taste. She ate more, smiling politely as Lord Oates chatted about his family’s fine collection of horses.
    I will not appear a savage. I can use the correct utensil.
    Badra watched Kenneth carefully as footmen cleared the soup bowls and brought the next course. He picked up the heavy silver utensil, speared a white oval dotted with green shavings and brought it to his mouth. She followed suit, resisting the strong impulse to break off some thick white bread to scoop up the meal, just as she longed to push back the heavy mahogany chair and sit on the floor.
    A florid-faced nobleman sitting nearby addressed Kenneth from across the table. "So, Caldwell," he boomed. "Shall we go shooting again this year at my estate? Bag a pheasant or two?"
    "As long as it is pheasant and not peasant I down, Huntly. I’m afraid the last time I nearly clipped one of your tenants instead of the bird," Kenneth joked smoothly, to the amused laughter of those listening.
    A pang of jealousy twisted Badra’s insides at the women’s adoring glances. Khepri was gone forever, Kenneth the duke neatly sliding into his place, a polished, sophisticated nobleman who assimilated smoothly into this strange, gleaming world. She felt like a dull pebble surrounded by sparkling rubies and diamonds.
    Surprising her, Lord Oates sneered. "Bagging peasants sounds well and good, but you rarely attended any of last season’s balls. Are you shunning the Marriage Mart? Or is it waltzing you fear? Did they not teach you any social graces in Egypt?"
    Kenneth narrowed his eyes.
    "Oh, right, I forgot. That lazy heathen tribe who raised you doesn’t dance. Except when poked with a British saber."
    Oates’s laughter rang out. Badra flinched at the insult.
    A sound escaped Kenneth’s lips: a whisper, a familiar undulating purr from the past, a war cry Badra knew he made when confronted with male posturing. It was the call to arms his father had taught him. Not his real father, but the sheikh who’d raised him.
    "What was that?!" one woman exclaimed.
    Silence fell around the table like a heavy curtain. Badra bored her dark gaze into Kenneth’s, thoroughly shocked but secretly gleeful. Khepri may have been swallowed by the urbane duke, but he could surface still, the Khamsin war cry undulating from his lips. The duke turned his attention toward the woman.
    "That, my dear Lady Huntly, was a demonstration of the call to dance by the tribe who raised me. You are correct, Oates. The Khamsin do not dance in the traditional English sense. Their dances are fierce