BUSINESS
Summary: The wife of the curator of the British Museum meets Med-Jai warrior Ardeth Bay. Ardeth, OC.
Category: Angst, drama, romance.
Rating: M (eventually)
Author's note: All of my original characters bear no resemblance to anyone, living or dead. I'm just writing this for fun and pulling "facts" from my ass, so please excuse any departures from real life.
Chapter Three
Sunday morning she faked a stomachache, and sipped on a cup of Earl Grey in bed as Alfred and Charlie donned black suits for church. From her chair at the window, she watched them heading across the courtyard with a handful of ambassadors and their parasoled wives, and after they had disappeared into the crowd outside of the gates, she waited for fifteen more minutes, finishing the rest of her tea. Then she threw on a kimono – white silk, painted over with delicate cherry blossoms of black and red – and headed downstairs into the lobby.
The mass exodus to God's house had left the room completely devoid of British faces. An Egyptian policeman and an olive-skinned serving girl with thick eyebrows stood at the corner of the lobby, talking to each other in muted tones. Turbaned porters milled about, drinking away the heat from large glasses and absently studying the mosaic tiles that patterned the lobby walls.
She took a seat at the sofa and ordered Turkish coffee, which the waiter brought to her in a small silver pot with a long handle. She poured the pungent black liquid into a teacup and downed the mixture of cardamom and cloves, letting the bitterness and loose coffee grounds slide upon her tongue.
She was on her third cup when he came in through the entrance. He didn't see her. No, he was a warrior chief; he couldn't have missed her. He was purposely cutting through the lobby as though she did not exist.
"Med-Jai."
If he was surprised to encounter her here, he didn't let it show, and he did not slow his stride as he passed her. "Mrs. Harrington."
"Come sit with me."
He wasn't stopping, so she reached out and grabbed the free end of his black waist sash. The tension held him and he spun to her, teeth glistening between parted lips.
"Your business is with Alfred," she said, "and I must tell you that he's not here at the moment."
The startled anger that clouded his eyes didn't abate. "How unfortunate for me."
"He's at church, seeking forgiveness with God."
This time, his lips twitched in something that hinted at a smile. "How unfortunate for him."
"That he's seeking forgiveness?"
"That his wife is not with him, following suit."
She smiled. "You're angry because I'm here, Ardeth Bay." She let his name lazily fall from her tongue, and smiled inwardly at the way he tensed, however subtly, at the words. "And I know why. You're here because you thought that Alfred and I would be at church. You wanted to snoop about our hotel room and dig up anything that might compromise Alfred and the British Museum. Use it as leverage to get back those tablets and that bracelet."
She hadn't expected him to laugh, but that was what he did. The sound ricocheted off of the mosaics on the walls, and the Egyptian lovers in the corner regarded them for a moment with silent wide eyes before resuming their murmuring conversation.
He sat down beside her on the sofa, leaving a cushion's space between them, and from this distance she could smell the desert on his clothes, the sand and the smoke and the sweat. "Blackmail, Mrs. Harrington. An uncultured and boorish plan of action from a – what was the phrase? A rag-headed heathen."
"No," she answered truthfully. "A brilliant and ruthless plan of action from a perceptive leader. You play the game from two steps ahead while my husband only plays from one."
"And yet you've intercepted me."
"You flatter me," she said. "I was just here for the coffee. Don't you want any?"
"I want to know how much you know."
She finished the last of the coffee, leaving the dregs in a gravelly brown mass at the bottom of the cup. "Your name is Ardeth Bay and you're the chief of the seven tribes of the Med-Jai. The British Museum has nabbed a bracelet and two stone tablets from your people. You're negotiating with my husband for their return, and you've been at a stalemate for a month. But what I don't understand is why you haven't pulled out the dirty tricks sooner, Ardeth. Give those treasure hunters who call themselves museum curators a taste of their own medicine."
He shook his head. "You give your British friends far too much credit. They're not the villains this time around. We are. One of our brothers in the Cairo Museum has allowed his greed to consume his better judgment."
"He sold the artifacts from your museum to ours?"
"The artifacts were never meant for a museum, Mrs. Harrington. They are historical relics from our past and are meant to remain with the high council of the Med-Jai. The traitor stole them from us and took them with him to the Cairo Museum, where he sold them to the British."
"We came by the artifacts legally, then. I must say I'm surprised."
Ardeth's glare only darkened. "As was I."
"Then with all due respect, you, sir, no longer have any right to any of it. Not even a crumb."
He dented his pearlescent upper teeth into his full lower lip. A snarl. "Your British brethren do not have rights to most of the items in that museum, Mrs. Harrington. If it weren't for your firepower, and your airplanes, and your sterling pounds, we would have regained rightful custody of all that you have stripped away from us centuries ago. If your navy and your army had not—"
"It doesn't matter, Med-Jai. No one at the British Museum will listen to your reasoning. Not when money continues to be made. If you don't deal with us the same way we've dealt with you, you can kiss those artifacts goodbye. I say you rob it back."
"We tried." He wasn't looking at her. "Multiple times. By Allah, we failed."
"A legitimate trade, then."
"One holy relic for another? Do you take us for swine?"
"Not relics," Marjorie said. "Me."
His eyes snapped up to hers, fierce and bright. "What?"
"Alfred has no choice but to love me, because he's completely lost without me. I'm the mother of his son. He'll trade in anything you ask for."
Ardeth stared at her, his broad chest heaving with silent, quick breaths underneath the layers of his tunic. A muscle worked in his jaw. Finally he said: "No."
"But you're tempted. I can see it."
"No."
"Kidnap me and two days later I'll be back home in rainy, cold London, and you'll be holding those relics with your own hands. Imagine…" She reached over and touched his hand.
His fingers were dry and thick and cool, like the sunburned, ropy fingers of any other worker Egyptian who lived outside of the hotel's iron gates, but nevertheless Marjorie found herself concentrating on the texture, running it over in her mind and storing it away into her memory.
And then she gasped. Ardeth had taken hold of both of her wrists in his fists. His hands were extraordinarily big, and his thumb overlapped the first joint of his index finger as he tightened his hold. She felt the pressure screaming through her bones.
"Mrs. Harrington," Ardeth said, "this is not a game." And he released her.
She watched as the blood surged back into the white indents left by his grip, and wondered what else he could do to her before one of them gave in. Then smiling into his face, she said: "It could be."
He rose from the sofa. "Do something productive with the rest of your time in Cairo. Find a friend."
"What do you mean?"
"You're a lonely woman, Mrs. Harrington, and that's why you are dangerous."
TO BE CONTINUED…