Title: Glad Tidings
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark
Teaser: Little vignette about what could have been…..
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Universal Pictures.
Genre: General/romance. For more fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Bloodlust UK www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm
Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.
Notes: I know I usually put poor old Ardeth in a variety of swashbuckling scenarios, but I'm feeling sentimental, so he gets a scene of domestic bliss… The lady in this snippet isn't anyone you know, more a Lady X, a lá Elbee (sorry for nicking the concept, El!). This story is completely separate from my 'Avatar' series.
*
A quiet, contented buzzing sounded in her left ear, accompanied by a soft sigh that tickled her cheek. Ignoring it, she snuggled closer to the source of deliciously warm skin and firm muscle, tucking her head into the hollow of a collarbone. The buzzing continued, a little louder, more guttural. Without opening her eyes, she poked her husband in the ribs. He muttered a faint complaint and looped his arm around her, hand sliding down to her buttock. She smiled at that, pushing gently at his chest so he turned onto his back and ceased snoring. Sliding across the low pallet bed, she fitted herself comfortably against his flank, head pillowed on his chest. The regular bump-thump of his heart soothed her towards sleep.
I'll tell him, she vowed, drifting in the void just before sleep. Tomorrow, I'll tell him… Mother Isis, let him be pleased…
Listening to the night wind whisper across the dunes, stealing through the camp to ruffle tent flaps and agitate the horses, she fell deeply asleep. Some hours later she awoke with a start, heart pounding loud, a hoarse cry ringing in her ears.
"No! The Creature must not be raised! I'll dynamite Hamunaptra if I have to!"
Though familiar with the occasional nightmares, they still streaked goosepimples across her skin. Her husband, a man of strong character and sometimes fiery temperament, would never admit that Imhotep pursued him in his dreams, or that he still heard the insane cackling of the jackal army. Sitting up, the rust orange and sienna woven coverlet falling back, she caught his hands to stop him fighting in his sleep.
"Ardeth," she said firmly, calmly. "It's a nightmare, beloved. Just a nightmare."
Gritting her teeth as he jerked his hands free, jarring her shoulders, she shook him. He woke with a convulsive shudder, inky eyes momentarily wide and furious, fingers curling as if around his scimitar hilt.
"Allah," he swore at length, a hand rising to scrub at his face. "Not again. Are you alright? Did I hit out?"
She shook her head, smoothing his hair from his forehead, fingertip tracing the sacred Med-Jai tattoos.
"No – no bumps this time."
He caught her hand, guiding it to his mouth, kissing the knuckles, the palm and then the inner flesh of her tattooed wrist. Sighing against her palm, he turned his cheek to it, folding his hand over hers.
"That's the third time this month. If this keeps up, dearest, I'll have to tie you up," she observed dryly. "At least that way I'll get some sleep."
He grinned, suddenly displaying the playful side to his nature that not many saw, that had won her over.
"I would not count on that, wife," he purred, pulling her down and rubbing his beard on her bare shoulder.
Letting out a delighted squeal of laughter, she kissed him, seeing the unadulterated mischief in his twinkling dark eyes.
"Bad boy," she chided, assuming a mock serious expression.
"Not as bad as you," he retorted, framing her waist with his hands, stroking the sensitive skin across her hips with the balls of his thumbs. "You collapsed the tent last time."
Feigning indignant disbelief, she scrunched her lower lip and pouted. Ardeth chuckled, perfect white teeth shining in the blue-purple darkness.
"I do believe I'm going to have to report you to the Mawlana," she announced, mimicking the whining voice of a known camp complainer.
"Oh?" he asked with a raised eyebrow. "And what will you tell the illustrious Mawlá?"
Turning her gaze upwards, pretending to be immersed in thought, she stabbed her index finger towards the apex of the tent.
"That my husband is a reprobate," she said solemnly, shifting her weight to slide a leg over his torso and straddle him. "That he does awful things to me."
"Mmmm, I see," he murmured, nipping her neck. "Like this?"
His wife smiled broadly and shook her head, flicking the tip of his nose with her tongue.
"Far worse," she breathed. "How well d'you suppose we put the tent up this time?"
*
Waking by languorous degrees, Ardeth stretched out his arm, mildly surprised when he felt a space instead of his sleeping wife. Frowning, he rose and pulled on his black pants and desert-dusty boots. Pushing back the tent flap, he ducked out into the lavender cerise dawn. It was still very early and nobody else was up. The sands rolled away, dyed grey pink as the merest sliver of sun crept over the horizon. Feeling the air cool against his skin, he strode out, scanning the rows of tents and smouldering fires waiting to be raked and relit. Making his way to the edge of the camp and the tethered horses, he saw her. Dressed in a loose black and silver robe he recognised as his, feet bare, she was petting the nose of her favourite horse. The animal was whickering happily, nudging her shoulder each time she paused.
Ardeth stopped short, seeing the way she was dragging her big toe through the sand, holding her lower lip between her teeth. Something was troubling her. Quickly, he ran through recent events, searching for anything that would upset her. Never a conventional woman, even in her native England, she had caused something of a furore amongst the more traditional members of society. Not content to keep house and learn the ancient herbal lore, she had insisted on joining those few women who fought alongside their men. She had learnt to use a scimitar, shoot and ride a horse. The day she had the sacred marks tattooed on her face and wrist remained forever in Ardeth's memory, even though they were not yet more than friends. She had bitten her lip, knuckles white from the pain of the tattooist's needle, but not uttered a single sound of complaint. That day, she had silenced those who had scoffed and called her enthusiasm the fad of a white girl playing Bedouin. She continued to surprise and mystify him in equal measures, with her earthy sense of humour and quiet determination. She had fought by his side at Am Shere, screaming like a banshee, as she had later commented. When the second wave of jackal warriors had surged across the dunes, she had reached out and wordlessly taken his hand as they waited to die.
Now, she was troubled, and he had no idea why. As he watched, she sighed, stroking the velvet nose of the fierce stallion. The early morning breeze caught her dark hair, tugging at the long, sleep-snarled locks. He approached, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She jumped a little, then relaxed as he looped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him. Spine flush with his abdomen, she relaxed into his embrace as he leaned his cheek on the crown of her head.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly. "Are you sick? You look pale."
She shook her head, eyes fixed on the horizon, on the faint shimmer of heat from the rising sun. Placing her slim hands over his, she hugged his arms to her. For what seemed a long time, she did not speak.
"How does the brave, noble Ardeth Bey feel about fatherhood?" she asked, still not looking at him.
Ardeth blinked. Moments ticked past. Letting her go, he turned her about to face him. A dark indent creased her brow, features tense and wary, afraid to hope either way.
"A baby?" he stuttered.
She nodded jerkily, wrapping her arms around herself, hugging her elbows. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her eyes, which she blew away.
"I-I thought we couldn't, that you'd been told by doctors in England that…" he trailed off, completely astounded.
Her brow pleated, chin sinking to her chest, sure he did not want the child. The life they led was dangerous, the natural hazards of the desert and manufactured risks of men and the supernatural were hardly conducive to raising a child. She felt herself snatched up and whirled around, nose filled with the scent of his skin and hair. He was laughing, deep, ringing peals of overjoyed laughter.
"A baby!" he exclaimed, hefting her up above his head, beaming like an idiot into her face.
The horses whined and stomped, bemused by the sight of the half-dressed Mawlana spinning his wife around like a ballet prima donna. A relieved smile bowed her lips and soon they were both laughing.
"I wanted to be sure, before I told you," she said as he covered her face with tiny kisses.
"How soon?" he asked breathlessly, his features animated with an excited joy she had rarely seen.
"Seven months," she replied. "And if it's a girl, we're naming her after my mother."
Carefully, reverently, Ardeth put his hands on her flat stomach, fingers splayed. An expression of perfect wonderment spread across his bearded face.
"Who knows," his wife mused. "We could have the first female leader of the Med-Jai on our hands."
With a look of horror that was only half feigned, he gathered her in his arms.
"The brave, noble Ardeth feels honoured," he said gravely, "to have such a fine lady for his wife… and I'm sure it will be a son."
She shot him an oblique look, which he smilingly ignored. The sky was warming, changing from a bluish fudge to umber and burnt gold as the sun rose higher. They watched it in silence.
"It will be a son."
"Daughter."
"Son."
"Twins?"
*