All the usual disclaimers apply. I don't own most of the characters in this story, (You know who I mean) Stephen and the guys do, for which they has my utmost respect. No copyright infringement is intended. They could sue me if they really wanted to waste their time, because I have no money anyway. It would be a much nicer idea to give me a contract to write for them. I think I could manage that. Meirionnydd I do own, as I do Jennifer Hamlyn and a few other original characters. If you want to use any of them please talk to me first. I can be reached at eirian.phillips@virgin.net
Feedback is always welcome.
The characters and events in this story are purely fictitious (well, with the exception of WWII – more's the pity), and any similarity to anyone living, dead, undead or disincarnate, is purely coincidental.
Angel of the Heart Chapter 1She looked at herself in the mirror, losing herself in the beauty of her reflection for a moment as she considered if she could be convincing enough to lure the man she loved into her arms and her bed.
She sighed. Her sister was always the more beautiful. Brighter, softer, more full of life and light. It was little wonder that his favour had fallen in her direction.
Enough! She pushed the thought from her mind. If this were going to work she would need to be strong, happy… bright.
With a final ruffle of the feathered cloak she wore she turned from the mirror and started to walk toward the door of her chamber.
It was only a short walk down the hallway to the rooms of the temple occupied by her desideratum. She paused in the doorway, singing a low charm under her breath before she stepped through into the dimly lit and sweetly fragranced chamber.
He stood as she entered and she gasped at his magnificence. He was shining with it. His dark hair fell in curls around his shoulders. The muscles on his oiled chest flexed as he held out his strong hands toward her and lower, beneath the drape of cloth that covered him, his firmly shaped thighs and calves bunched and relaxed as they carried him closer.
"Sister," he said, and for a moment her heart sank as she thought he had seen through her deception. "Wife," he added in an altogether different tone as he wrapped her in his embrace and bent his head to drink deeply of her willing mouth.
"Are you tired, my love?" she asked, running her fingers down his back and feeling the way he pulled her against him more firmly.
"Never too tired to pleasure you, my heart."
He took her hand then, leading her further into his chamber, into his bed, joining with her in unmatched fiery passion; possessing every inch of her body until she was dizzy with it – drunk on his touch and powerless against the pulse of his life inside her.
"Osiris," she gasped his name as their union was fulfilled.
"Isis," he breathed against her hair as he lowered his head beside hers.
"My love," Nephthys said gently, and smiled as he raised his head to look down on her. She raised her head to take his mouth in a sweet and almost tender kiss. He matched her emotion, tenderness… love… and began to stir to life once more in the sacred temple of her body.
**
"My love… my heart… you know, you understand…" The woman astride his naked body breathed the words against his neck between hot kisses. One of his hands buried itself in her long brown hair, while the other wrapped around her waist.
"You tease me," he growled and rolled over, so that he was over her, so that he could claim her as she knew he wanted. His dark curls fell to shield the face of the woman into whose body he gave himself with such passionate emotion.
She heard the woman gasp, and the arms around him became tense for all of a heartbeat, before they relaxed, before they pulled him again toward her and she moaned as he claimed her a second time.
"Ardeth!" Meiri woke with a start, the dream still in the frame of her mind. For a moment she forgot where she was, it was something she was doing less and less as time progressed, and she reached out a hand to where Ardeth should have been. The space beside her was cold.
A wave of sad loneliness so intense swept over her, bringing tears to her eyes as she rolled onto her side, facing away from the empty space.
"Soon, my heart," she breathed into the darkness. "Please soon."
A cry broke the silence of the small dwelling. High and distressed it was the cry of a child in need of her mother. It was a cry that Meiri felt inside on nights like this but could not express.
Grabbing a robe in which to wrap herself she threw off the blankets and skins covering her and padded across the room to where her daughter slept in the most sheltered spot in the small cavern that was her home. She picked up the child and cradled her close, returning with her to her own bed.
"Khalidah, hush…" she rocked the child gently, full of love. "Did I wake you?"
"M…ume…y," Khalidah wept in a strange mix of infant Arabic and English.
"Don't let my sadness hurt you, little one." She lowered her head to kiss her daughter's hair, dark curls, like her father's. "Daddy will come soon, I promise."
Warmed in her arms Khalidah soon quietened, and sleepily ran her tiny fingers over Meiri's hands. She cuddled her closer, as she once had the son she had delivered to Ardeth some three years before. Three years… was it really so long? And in the past year she had seen him so very rarely… and her son not at all.
Once more she tightened her arms around her little girl and pulling the covers over both of them, lay down to sleep.
**
Thunder rolled repeatedly over the dreary London skyline, shaking the windows of the aged mansion and providing a baritone for the shrill soprano cry of the telephone. The combined noise pried open the sleepy, sad eyes of Rick O'Connell from sleep that he had only hours before managed to finally reach – a product of his grief.
"What now?" he mumbled as he pushed himself upright, feeling around for where he left his dressing gown.
He stumbled from the bedroom toward the stairs and paused to steady himself against a small, round, oak table. His hand nudged against the photograph there and absently, he picked it up.
As he continued his journey to silence the ringing of the phone his eyes inevitably dropped to the picture.
"Evy," he breathed and his fingertips trailed across the smiling face of the woman in the picture, wrapped in his arms and in turn holding Alex. God but those were happy times! He breathed out sharply, trying to banish the sob that still found its way out of his chest in the form of a huge shudder. He just wanted her back.
He missed her infuriating arguments; her unending enthusiasm; her gentle hands ministering to his tired muscles at the end of a long day. He needed her back – whole and healed.
He blamed himself. He should have noticed there was something wrong long before it happened. Hell he should have recognised what was going on when they were back in Egypt. He'd seen it often enough and just kept turning a blind eye to it and putting it down to other things.
But their love had always been so strong. It had shielded them from everything else – so why did it fail this time? Why had he lost her?
He squeezed his eyes shut tight to stop the tears that were threatening to engulf him again, as they had earlier, after his visit with Jonathan. A few moments more and he realised the incessant ringing was still sounding annoyingly in his ears. Whoever it was there were persistent bastards.
A flash of panic drove away all other emotion. Alex! It had to be the school; no one else would call at this hour. Alex must be sick! Without a further thought he snatched up the heavy receiver and put it to his ear.
"Yeah?" he answered.
"Mister O'Connell?" The voice on the other end sounded a little put out by the brusqueness with which he answered. He almost shrugged.
"Yeah," he confirmed.
"Sorry to waken you at this hour," The woman's voice was familiar, and he frowned trying to place it for a moment before she continued. "It's Sister Allen, at Bellevue Hospital."
The panic he'd been feeling a moment before rushed back with a vengeance and threatened to choke him as everything inside him seemed to fall away into the soles of his feet.
"Evy!" he gasped. "What's happened?"
"Please, Mister O'Connell, try not to panic." The Sister's voice sounded in his ear, firm and matronly as always. "There's been a er…"
"What? What's happened? Tell me!" he tried not to sound rude, but she was scaring him, and this was his wife she was talking about."
"There's been a bit of a problem I'm afraid. Can you come to the hospital?"
"What's going on?" he demanded. It was a two hour drive to the hospital and he didn't think he could stand not knowing for that long.
"I'd rather not discuss the matter over the telephone Mister O'Connell. Please come to the main gate. Someone will be waiting to let you in. Good night." She hung up before he could say anything at all.
**
She twisted her hands nervously in her lap, and then in an effort to keep them still, she examined her fingernails one at a time. She relished the idea of the latest assignment – to examine the psychology of the desert tribes, but not just any desert tribe, the Medjai.
She'd read so much about them, and still knew so very little, but what she had read, that they were fiercely protective of their territory and their secret ways, fascinated her. It was a strong mind that could live with that kind of isolation… and she was so looking forward to meeting with their leader.
Of course she had to win his approval, but…
She looked up and almost leaped to her feet when the door of the curator's office opened. She groaned in disappointment as Wilfred Bartlett – the member of the board of directors that had first contacted her – walked into the office. She'd hoped that he would stay away and let her handle the meeting herself.
"Miss Hamlyn, so good of you to ensure you are punctual," he said in greeting.
"That would be Doctor Hamyln, Mister Bartlett." She straightened her skirt over her legs and sighed. "I thought we had decided that I would meet with the Medjai chieftain myself."
"You suggested it, Doctor." He gave her a viper like smile. "But I rather think he would respond more favourably toward another man."
"If you've actually ever read any of the available information about the Medjai, you'll find they're actually very respectful of women." She corrected him with a superior tone of voice.
"I think you'll find the fact and the fantasy in those storybooks you've been reading are far removed from one another," he countered.
"Mister Bartlett, if you truly believe that, then why did you engage a woman's services in the first place?" she snapped irritably.
"Because my dear woman, the Medjai are also very passionate men," he sneered.
**
"Peace be upon you, Ardeth," The curator of the museum said with a slight bow as he clasped Ardeth's outstretched hand.
"And upon you also, my friend," he answered, clapping the man on the shoulder with his free hand. "Now, what is this nonsense all about?"
The curator's face fell and Ardeth cocked his head on one side in query.
"The board of directors." The man answered. "It seems that somehow they have finally discovered the brains enough to work out the involvement of the Medjai in the running of the museum."
"They have known for a long time, Ali," he argued, shaking his head a little. "It suits them well enough, gives them the protection they need in keeping Egyptian artefacts in Egypt."
"Apparently not," Ali sighed. "At a meeting several weeks ago, one of the new directors suggested – and remember these are his words, my lord – that having a "band of ruffians" involved in such a venture at this delicate time was not necessarily a good thing."
Ardeth bristled, but kept his face impassive as best he could. "Who is this man and what does he want?" he asked calmly.
"His name is Wilfred Bartlett. He was co-opted to the board in the last few months. He's British, and has a keen interest in the New Kingdom exhibits."
Ardeth sighed heavily. "Hamunaptra… another greedy man seeking to make his fortune quickly without really knowing what it is he disturbs. And he seeks to remove our influence from the museum, yes?"
The curator nodded. "Though I have to say the Medjai's assistance was well defended by most other members of the board."
"So why the danger?" Ardeth nodded his understanding of the unspoken complement given him by Ali. Ali was not Medjai, as other curators had been, but was loyal to them and understood their reasons for keeping a close eye on the affairs of the museum.
"He has proposed that the culture and the psychology of the tribes be examined to ensure that there would be no problems that could tip the delicate balance here." Ardeth frowned, not fully understanding. "That your "warrior mentality" would not have you – how did he put it – throwing in your lot with the Germans?"
Ardeth waved away the suggestion.
"I know, I know," Ali held up his hand to prevent Ardeth from interrupting. "He has proposed that you have a psychologist, a doctor, travel with you, stay with you for a time, and bring a report back to the board."
**
"Passionate?" She leaped to her feet this time and backed away from the objectionable man that had just made it clear that she was to be little more than – what was the word her brother always used – totty – to lure the Medjai into revealing their true nature. She wasn't just insulted by the chauvinism of the comment, but by the implicit suggestion that she wouldn't be able to complete her examination of the ancient tribe of warriors without the use of her skirts. "How dare you!"
"Oh do calm down dear girl," Bartlett waved an arm at her disparagingly. "It wouldn't be the first time a woman's charms have been used to calm an angry beast."
"You engaged my services to prepare a report on the psychology of the Medjai," she said slowly. "And that is precisely and all I am prepared to do. I don't intend to be some… some… scientific whore for you to…"
She stopped as the door opened and the curator of the museum returned to his office, but it wasn't his return that had stopped her from speaking. It was the presence of the man behind the curator.
He towered over the smaller man, glowering in the flowing, many layered, black robes of his desert attire. Leather bandoliers full of bullets and shotgun cartridges were slung across his body in the shape of an X. The hilts of twin, curving swords emerged from beneath a wide, black fabric sash under which she could just see the leather of the baldric that held twin scabbards. His head was covered by a high turban, from which the indigo cloth of his face covering hung below his chin, and somehow, though she couldn't see how, seemed also to be draped around his shoulders and part of the outer layer of his robes.
His face itself was serious, almost stern looking but made to look mysterious and exotic by the neat goatee beard and crescent tattoos on his cheeks, and by the way the ends of his rich dark hair curled around the bottom of his chin where it had escaped from his headgear.
Her excitement almost strangled her, turning to nervousness under the intense way he was meeting her eyes as she scrutinised him. The room wasn't exactly small, but he filled it all alone, certainly carrying himself like a chieftain that she knew he was.
The curator cleared his throat as though to break the tension in the room and then with a glance toward Ardeth began the formal introductions.
"Doctor Jennifer Hamlyn, Wilfred Bartlett," he gestured to each of them in turn. "May I present to you Ardeth Bay, First Medjai."
The Medjai warrior inclined his head only the tiniest fraction, and then only in her direction, she noted.
"First Medjai, Doctor Jennifer Hamlyn, and Wilfred Bartlett from the museum's board of directors."
She felt a little more than intimidated as she held out her hand toward the tall, black clad warrior, but felt that she should do so all the same. She didn't know why, but it surprised her when he reached forward to take her hand into his. However, he did not shake the hand he now held, but covered it with the other of his hands and inclined his head over them.
"Al salaamu aleekum," he said in a soft, but firm voice that also took possession of the room. She swallowed hard, feeling a little giddy.
"Aleekum al salaamu." She had been practising that one simple phrase since the moment last week when she was told that she would come to meet this man, and still – from the slightest cringe she detected in the corner of his eye – she had made a mess of the pronunciation of the Arabic words. "I'm very pleased to meet you," she added, hoping that he didn't mind.
"IHna asad," he softened his expression just a little then. She had no idea what he had just said, and feeling that awkwardness again, eased her hand from between the two of his.
"Mr Bay," Bartlett burst in on her moment of awkwardness and thrust his hand in the Medjai's direction. "Fantastic to meet you at last."
Jenny couldn't help but smile when the Medjai chief's eyes hardened again and he merely looked at the hand that the other man held out. The man had Bartlett's measure all right. She looked at the tiled floor when the warrior's eyes flicked her way for a moment before returning that uncompromising stare of his the director's way.
Bartlett dropped his hand back down to his side looking, she thought, like a guilty schoolboy.
"Right, well… maybe we should just sit down and discuss the matter in hand then," he said, gesturing toward the couch and nearby chairs.
"Itfaddalu." The quiet answer came from the Medjai's lips in the same light but authoritative tone. Jenny glanced at the curator, wondering what had just been said.
"Please go ahead," he said, making a gesture of his own towards the seats in the room and lowering himself into one of them. Ardeth Bay did not however move to sit down; he simple shifted the position of his booted feet slightly and folded his arms across his chest.
**
Perverse as it sounded, he was enjoying what could have been a very stressful meeting. He had heard the woman's protestations through the closed doors, and Bartlett's answers too, and had taken an ever greater dislike to the man than he already felt. It pleased him to be difficult, even if it were perhaps unfair to the woman, so obviously innocent of any part in the conspiracy.
He watched as they all settled themselves into their respective places. Watching the man like the enemy he was and appraising the woman for the role that she was expecting to be granted. She sat delicately, smoothing her skirt over her knees with a well manicured hand that he knew to be soft from when he had held it in the traditional greeting he'd used.
No. Even if there had been no ulterior motive behind the request there was no way he would have taken such a woman into the Sahara. It would, quite literally, be the death of her.
"So, maybe we can get to business then." The one called Bartlett spoke again, his voice irritating, like a horse fly. "Ali, be a good fellow and translate for us, would you?"
Ardeth's jaw tightened at the way the arrogant little man spoke down to his friend and ally. Time to end this.
"There is no need," he said in a clipped voice. He fought to keep the smile from his face when both Bartlett and the woman jumped. "I speak English perfectly well. My father's third wife was British. She taught me and my sisters to speak English when we were but children."
It wasn't exactly a lie, an exaggeration perhaps, but no lie. Rachel had been his father's lover, never a wife, but she had indeed taught all of his siblings, and himself the nuances of the British language that their native father had been unable to so do.
"Well great!" Bartlett squeaked. "So perhaps we can get to it then. Thanks awfully for seeing us at such short notice."
Ardeth sighed, losing interest in playing with the sorry excuse of a man any longer he uncrossed his arms and rested his wrists on the hilts of his blades.
"Since I am informed that you threaten my people, why would I not?" He asked, his voice almost cold.
Bartlett stood and backed up a step.
"Now hang on. I think you've been sorely misinformed old chap." His voice quivered slightly.
"Do you indeed?" He didn't move more than an eyebrow, which he raised. "I think not. I think you seek to try and prove that the Medjai are a threat to the continuing independence of the Museum at the very least."
"What on Earth gives you that impression?" Bartlett spluttered, and turned an expression of suspicion Ali's way.
"And at worst, to try and prove to the British Army that we present a threat that needs to be eradicated," he paused. "We have no interest in your wars beyond the threat to the safety of ancient Egyptian artefacts and sacred sites. But allow me to give you some advice… Mister Bartlett. Stay away from Hamunaptra."
"Are you threatening me?" Bartlett demanded indignantly.
Ardeth shook his had and said in a calm but menacing tone, "Not yet."
"The nerve of the…"
Switching to Arabic he moved toward Ali, "I shall leave Bahir with you my friend. I do not trust that he will not take action against you in retaliation for your warning."
"There is no need. All will be well."
"Even so," Ardeth placed a hand briefly on the man's shoulder. "I would sleep more soundly knowing that you were guarded."
He turned back to face the director of the board. "The Medjai decline your request," he said to the still spluttering man and to the young woman, with a nod of farewell, he added. "My apologies, Doctor Hamlyn."
Without another word, he turned and strode from the room.
**
It took her a moment to catch up with what had just happened and realise that thanks to the chauvinistic idiot on the board of directors she had lost the chance to gather information on the psychology of a race of people descended from an ancient warrior class in the time of the pharaohs. It could have opened doors for her.
Damn it, she wasn't about to let Bartlett ruin everything for her. She leaped to her feet and before the startled men could stop her, she set off through the door after the Medjai chieftain.
"My Bay!" she called as she all but ran after that man. "Please wait."
She heard him sigh as he stopped walking and he swung round to face her. "Doctor?"
"I understand your concerns, Mister Bay, and your objections, but…"
"I do not believe you do," he answered smoothly. "Mister Bartlett acts only for his own gain and he would use anything he felt appropriate to satisfy his desires, including you. Were I in your position…"
"Well you're not in my position, Mister Bay," she answered. "And neither am I in yours, but if I were, then I would turn the opportunity around and use the situation to my advantage."
"No," he said firmly, with perhaps a hint of pique. He was obviously a man unused to having his decisions questioned. He started to turn away again.
In desperation, she did something that she would never have done if she had thought for even a moment about the impact of her actions. She reached out and took hold of his arm.
"Let me come with you. Let me write his stupid report and prove to him and the rest of the museum board once and for all that the Medjai…"
"No," he repeated himself and this time turned back to face her. "My decision to deny your request to study my people was not simply based on Mister Bartlett's selfishness, Doctor Hamlyn, but also that my people do not deserve to have their dignity and their privacy invaded in that manner."
"It wouldn't be like that," she argued quietly.
"Completely aside from which fact, in the current climate of unrest in the desert, I could not in all conscience allow you to put yourself into the way of the kind of dangers you would face there. Nor can I burden my men with the extra duty of protecting…"
"I can take care of myself," she pouted openly at the suggestion that she was a mere woman that needed the protection of a strong man in order to maintain her safety.
"Is that so?" he asked and before she could answer, or move a muscle, both of his hands shot out toward her to grasp her wrists and pull her hands closer to him.
The heat coming off his robes surprised her, as did their softness. Even so she tried to free her hands from his unyielding grasp, though she failed completely, his hands were simply too strong. In fact he gripped her wrists so tightly that he started to hurt her a little, and her hands began to tingle from the reduced circulation.
Equally as quickly as he had taken hold of her, he released his grasp and, no longer having anything against which to pull, she stumbled backwards. This time when he caught her elbows, his grasp was gentle, supportive. He stopped her from falling and she caught the sleeve of his robe.
"Your soft hands would be cut to ribbons by the leather of the reins. The sun and hot Sahara winds would take your pale skin from your face, your neck and the top of your scalp and the desert nights are colder than you could possibly imagine. You do not speak Arabic and you have seen nothing but the inside of a classroom these years past." He set her on her feet and turned his head onto one side. "You will forgive me if I insist that you would not survive life among the Medjai."
"You made your point," she said mournfully. "Please let go of me."
He nodded respectfully and withdrew his supportive touch from her arms, sliding one of his hands down to find her hand and to take it into his own. She swallowed hard, and then blushed as he raised the back of her hand to his lips and barely grazed her knuckles with the slightest of touches.
"For the record, sitti," he said quietly. "The Medjai are an honourable people. Emotion and passion have their place, but not between strangers."
"You heard?" she pulled her hand from his.
"I heard," he confirmed. And with a respectful nod, he took another step back. "Sirma ma'salaam."
She watched him turn and leave, not sure whether to be disappointed, angry, or something else entirely.
