Page 16

I T WAS NEARING DUSK on their third day when the riders appeared on the horizon.

Camille and Kat had both just emerged from the “desert bath,” as they had come to call their little watering hole, and the horses were just visible on the horizon. It seemed to be a large party, at least ten riders.

They came to stand on the little rise above their camp building where Brian and Hunter stood, both looking to the horizon, as well.

“Who is it?” Camille asked.

Brian turned to her. “I believe it is the Lady Margaret,” he said.

“There are so many!” Kat gasped.

Hunter said, “Lord Avery would never allow her out into the desert unescorted. Most of the riders will be guards.”

His words proved to be true. Soon, the riders reached their location, and most were men, armed and wearing their flowing head scarves and desert caftans.

Emma, distraught and uncomfortable, had accompanied Lady Margaret.

As had Arthur Conan Doyle.

There was a flurry of excitement over her arrival, all the young men trying to outdo themselves in an effort to see that she had everything she needed. Emma, of course, was moaning, and it was Ali who quietly went about seeing that she was given a chair and a strong shot of whiskey first thing.

Kat, after hugging Margaret, was delighted to greet Arthur Conan Doyle. He was joyous to be out in the desert on the dig and seemed pleased, as well, to see her again.

“Fascinating! Simply fascinating!” he told Hunter and Brian once they had walked him through the structure they had discovered.

“I can see, my friend, that you are already writing a book in your mind!” Hunter told him with a laugh.

“Well, the mind is like a storage facility itself, eh?” Arthur said.

With the visitors came fresh supplies, though they were hardly down on their own. Lamb, which was cooked over the open fire, and several pies that still had a just-out-of-the-oven taste. It was a pleasant evening, almost a party.

The workers, ever vigilant, arranged for Lady Margaret to have a section in the building with a cot and every nicety they could manage. Arthur would join the men, and Emma was given a little space just beyond the ancient doorway of Lady Margaret’s sector. That night, Kat fell asleep the minute she lay down on her bedding on the hard floor. When, or even if, Hunter came in, she didn’t know.

The next morning, Lady Margaret was sitting on the sand in a camp chair with a canvas roof rigged over her head. A little table was set at her side, along with a pitcher of water. She watched the proceedings.

Kat, nearby, sketched, discovering each day that she was more and more fascinated by the art of drawing people, just as her father was. The workers had such wonderful faces! Ali’s, so proud and beautiful, and others, work-worn and yet so noble!

And then, of course, those with them.

She drew a sketch of Camille, digging in the sand, looking up just as her husband came to her, smiling as he bent toward her. There was so much tenderness between the two! Kat looked critically at her work and was delighted to see that she had captured the mood with her pencil.

“Kat, may I see?” Margaret begged.

“Of course!”

“Lovely, so lovely!” Margaret said. Then she sighed. “How do you do it?” she whispered.

“Do what?”

“Stay out here! It’s wretched.”

Kat was startled. “Actually, it is not so bad.”

“The cot is horrible.”

“At least you’re on a cot,” Kat said with a laugh.

Yards over, where the workers had been digging, there was suddenly a shout. Kat leapt to her feet. “They’ve found something!” she cried.

With Margaret at her heels, she began to run.

It was one of the workers who had hit something. He was shouting excitedly in Arabic, and both Hunter and Brian were at his side, then down on the ground, hands in the sand as they kept sweeping the desert away.

“It is! It’s…well, it’s something!” Brian cried.

“Perhaps only an empty shell, such as we have already discovered,” Hunter murmured, “but then again, perhaps more. Margaret, you have been good luck for us!”

“How wonderful!” Margaret said. She looked at her shoes and the hem of her skirt. They were covered with sand. “I will get out of the way then, so that you may continue.”

“We’ll take tea now, I think, and then continue,” Hunter suggested.

“Break?” Robert Stewart cried. “Ah, Sir Hunter! We are on the brink of discovery!”

“And there is a lot of desert on whatever we have found. It will not go away without us.”

And so they took their break. Returning to the camp ahead of the workers, Kat found Arthur seated by the campfire, where a kettle heated continually. He was busy scribbling away in one of his notebooks.

“They’ve found something,” Kat told him.

He looked up cheerfully. “I heard the commotion.”

“You didn’t come out!”

“I daresay, they’ve a long way to go before they’ve anything to show for themselves.” He smiled, then a slight frown creased his brow. “Have you seen any of the newspapers lately?”

“I heard that there has been a rare scarab found, and that a pawnbroker was killed,” Kat told him.

“Oh?”

“That’s not what you were referring to?”

He shook his head and reached to his side, producing a paper that was in English, but printed, apparently, for the tourists in Egypt. “They have put a name to a local mystery,” he said.

“And that is…?” She accepted the paper.

As her eyes scanned the article, Arthur summed it up. “It all has to do with the very priest you’re seeking. The fellow who talked to the gods. Police in Cairo suspect that a cult has risen. They call themselves Hathshethians. They believe, supposedly, that his spirit lives in the desert sands and that he is calling them together to be the protectors of Egypt. A fellow was caught stealing from a crate at the museum—the Cairo museum. As he fought off the police, he yelled something about the revenge of the Hathshethians. Sadly, he was shot in the struggle, and so little is known about this society.”

“How very strange,” Kat said. She shook her head. “As you said, why steal from the Cairo museum if you are trying to preserve Egypt for the Egyptians?”

The others were coming close behind. Arthur lowered his head toward Kat. “Exactly. So if that isn’t the case…”

“One can assume the cult isn’t really out to save Egypt?”

“My thought exactly,” he said. He spoke more quickly. “Therefore, I would think that someone, at least, the organizer, high priest, whatever, is in it for gain.”

“A group to steal treasures and sell them to the black market,” Kat said.

“That would be a logical solution,” he told her.

Then he fell silent. Allan Beckensdale, shaking the dust from his hair, was entering. “Ah, the thrill! It’s great, outstanding!” he said. “But, ah, for tea, yes, amazing. I realized, after Sir Hunter spoke, that one does need nourishment to endure the sun and sand and wind and keep digging!”

The conversation during their meal was lighthearted, everyone guessing what they had come upon, exactly.

“Remember, we thought that we had made a find immediately, when we came upon this place,” Hunter said.

“But it was scarcely buried!” David said. “And absolutely empty.”

“It must have been storage,” Camille insisted. “What else could it have been?”

“A morgue?” Arthur suggested.

“Oh!” Lady Margaret cried.

“No, no, Arthur, I don’t think so, truly,” Camille said.

“Think, Lady Camille! All these little rooms, the hallway? Where better place to store bodies after the removal of brains and—” he caught Margaret’s shocked countenance and amended whatever he’d been about to add “—store them in the various salts they used. Sorry, my dear. They didn’t simply wrap the dead, you know. They dried them first, and it took about three months.”

“So…you think that each of these little rooms was…was a place for a body to be preserved?” Margaret gasped.

“Arthur,” Camille interjected softly, “if that were so, I believe that the walls would have been lined with prayers and depictions of Horus and others.”

“I believe that Camille is right,” Hunter said. “Lady Margaret, we are surely living in old storage space, nothing else.”

Margaret seemed somewhat appeased. David rose at some point and came around to her chair. He spoke to her softly, holding her hand, seeming to assure her of something. Kat was curious regarding his words, and nothing else.

But when she turned her gaze from the pair, she saw Hunter regarding her, his expression unreadable, and her heart sank. She turned her gaze from him, as well.

When tea was over, Kat took up a position again with Lady Margaret. Trying to cheer her, she did a drawing of her. Watching her own work, she thought of how lovely Margaret really was. Born to wealth and position, she had nonetheless always been kind. She was sincerely concerned for the welfare of others. Delicate, like a rose in the desert. That was Kat’s thought as she sketched, shading as Atworthy had taught her, for depth.

She thought her finished project one of the best she had done. Margaret was delighted with it, smiling broadly.

“Kat, how lovely, how kind! Why, you have made me quite beautiful!”

“But you are beautiful. Surely, you know that.”

Margaret smiled. “I am rich. And I would not be loved for my money.”

“Margaret, I swear, you are beautiful!”

“Thank you. But…see those fellows out there?”

“The workers?”

Margaret laughed. “No, our student workers! Allan, Robert, Alfred…and David. Can you sketch them? Sketch them as you see them now—and as you see them in your mind’s eye? And with your soul.”

Kat looked at her, afraid that she might have known what feelings she had once harbored for David. But then she realized that Margaret had asked her for a far different reason. Her father was pressuring her. And she truly didn’t know if she would be making the right decision.

“As you wish,” Kat murmured, frowning as she thought how to tackle the concept.

“Here, if you would…draw on the horizontal, one face after the other,” Margaret said.

Kat began to do so.

Robert Stewart first. Fine face, wide eyes, slightly narrow lips, a bit of arrogance, but an open smile. Allan next. Perhaps the least classically handsome of the group, but with honest eyes and a real enthusiasm for life, pleasure in what was around him. Then Alfred, Lord Daws. Again, some arrogance. Lean face, strong cheekbones, a challenge, a devil-may-care, I-am-who-I-am, I-own-the-world look about him. Then David. Beautiful David. But as she sketched him, Kat realized that she was drawing a chin that was slightly weak, eyes that hid a constant fear, a manner that was uncertain, seeking.

She handed the book to Margaret when she was done.

Margaret studied the sketches carefully.

“Thank you,” she said.

Kat looked at the sketches over Margaret’s shoulder. There was something that disturbed her about her own work, though exactly what, she didn’t know.

David? She had drawn what she had begun to see.

Allan. Perhaps she had done the same. She liked Allan best.

Robert Stewart? Well, he did think himself akin to royalty.

And Alfred. Again, the fellow was Lord Daws.

It was his picture, however, that bothered her most. Strange, she should have liked the fellow, should have felt a real kinship with him. They both despised his stepmother so!

She didn’t hate him, any more than she hated David. She believed in her heart that, even if Hunter hadn’t arrived that night, they would have let her go. David would have accepted the fact that she couldn’t be his mistress. They had been behaving like very spoiled schoolboys.

And that, basically, was what they were.

“Hmm,” Margaret murmured. She glanced at Kat. “Have you sketched your husband?” she asked.

“No.”

Margaret laughed. “You must!”

“I—”

“For me, please. I had such an infatuation for him for so many years!” Margaret admitted. “Of course, I never dared tell my father! And, of course, to him, I was never more than Lord Avery’s precious little blond daughter. He was polite, tender, caring…but, oh, I envied those women he looked at with that certain glint in his eye. Oh, I am sorry, I’m talking about your husband. Of course, I’ve never seen him with anyone as he is with you. Except, of course…”

“Who?”

“Oh, nothing, never mind.”

“Margaret! That is not fair!”

“Yes, and I’m sorry, truly sorry. Young women of good breeding do not sit around and gossip thus!”

“I’m not, in truth, a young woman of good breeding, not in the sense that you mean, and therefore, it’s quite all right for you to finish that thought!”

Margaret started to giggle again. “You are so determined, and passionate, and surely, that is why he loves you so.”

“Margaret!”

“Oh, surely, you’ve heard some rumor. Luckily, rumor doesn’t mean a thing to any of them. All of England knows that Brian Stirling turned into a hermit, a so-called monster, after his parents’ deaths. And that was when Camille met him. But at the time, Hunter thought that Brian had really lost his mind. And he was so afraid for Camille. He tried to scare her away from Brian—he was really worried. Strange, of course, because he—Hunter—was instrumental in helping Brian when the truth was finally known. And the two of them quickly became the best of friends. They have so very much in common. But, truly, I have never seen Hunter with anyone else as he is with you. He and Camille are wonderful friends, and I believe that Brian and Hunter would second each other at any turn. So…what I’ve said is really idle gossip, and that is all. He does love you so, Kat!”

Kat kept silent. She couldn’t tell Margaret how very wrong she was.

“Thank you. That is a lovely thing to say to me.”

“Do a sketch of Hunter. Do it for me. You see, now, to me, he is my very good friend, as well. I would cherish a drawing of him.”

And so Kat sketched Hunter. And she sketched all that she had come to see in him. The light in his eyes that sometimes mocked himself. The set of the chin that promised he would see every vow through. The cheekbones, the brow, the slight smile. And in his likeness, there was both arrogance and humility, pride, passion and strength. He was strikingly handsome, and perhaps she hadn’t even realized that until she had fashioned the truth of his face with her own fingers.

“It’s wonderful!” Margaret said. “Truly wonderful. You must show him.”

“No!”

“Please? He will love it!”

“No, Margaret, I beg you! You mustn’t show it to him!”

And then Margaret stunned her with her wisdom, saying softly, “Kat, you did have that very silly affection for David going, but…well, anyone can see that you have moved far beyond it!” She looked away. “David sees it, and I believe he is quite heartbroken. Because David can’t quite decide his heart.” She sighed. “I would be loved, Kat, for me. Not for money. And I would never have a husband who chose me because I was Lord Avery’s daughter, because I was wealthy.”

Kat gazed at her, so touched and truly admiring all that she saw in the young woman whom she had judged to be so light of heart and mind. She put down her sketch pad and hugged Margaret warmly.

“Well, this life may be for you, but it isn’t for me!” Margaret claimed. “Tomorrow, I’m going back to the hotel. And that is that.”

“But, Margaret…”

“I really do enjoy Shepheard’s. And there are so many visitors. Lovely, enchanting people to meet,” Margaret said. She shivered.

It was growing colder, Kat thought. It was amazing to go from such heat to such chill. But on the desert, it happened often enough.

The light was beginning to fade, and it was time to pack up her pencils and pads for the day. Margaret helped her, and together, they headed back to camp.

K AT HADN ’ T REALIZED THAT Ali had left them until she saw him riding back across the desert just as the sun was setting in earnest. Margaret had gone to her quarters.

Hunter was still on top of the hard stone slab they had uncovered earlier, and Ali rode straight to him. He dismounted with the expertise of the desert horseman, and she thought that he, too, was someone she must draw.

Her brow furrowed as she watched the two. Whatever he was telling Hunter must have been worrisome, for Hunter listened to him with grave attention. When he had finished speaking, Hunter set an arm around the fellow and they started walking in together.

“Kat!”

She turned. Camille was there, soap and towels in her hand. “We’ve a guard around the watering hole. Can I interest you in a dispersal of desert dust?”

“I… Yes!” she said, always glad to be something less than completely coated in sand.

She glanced at Hunter and Ali. Hunter was the one doing the talking then, Ali nodding as he listened. She turned and followed Camille.

“I saw the sketches,” Camille said. “The portraits. That’s a lovely one you did of Brian and me. I should very much like to have it.”

“Of course!”

Camille shook her head. “You never knew before that you were as good as you are?”

“My father is the artist.”

“Yes, a wonderful artist. But so are you.”

“Professor Atworthy has certainly taught me a great deal.”

“I’m sure he has. But your skill, your talent, they were always there.”

“I always enjoyed drawing, and watching my father. He is far better with oils than I am.”

“Well, I think that everyone has something unique. With you, perhaps, it’s your ability to remember so well. To put on paper what you’ve seen before.”

Kat chuckled ruefully. “Like today. I was supposed to be sketching more of the dig and I wound up doing sketch after sketch of faces.”

“I’m sure that will be fine,” Camille said. She thanked the workers who were standing guard around the canvas screen of their “bath.” In the shallow but clear, cool water, she shed her trousers and shirt and ducked down, soaking her body and hair. Kat followed suit.

“Ah!” Camille said rising. “Can you imagine! Brian has told me about digs he has been on when there is no water, none at all, and every drop must be saved for drinking. I suppose I would endure it, though. I do love all this so very much!”

“It is exciting,” Kat agreed.

“Not to everyone. Lady Margaret is unhappy.”

“She plans to return to the hotel.”

“It’s best. We’ll go back now and then ourselves, you know. This is slow work. Very hard, very tedious.”

They lingered in the water until the last of the light, then rose, dressed and returned. By then, supper had been prepared, the others were all about eating or finishing up, returning the utensils. Although their workers were able and adept at every mode of service, Brian and Hunter ran the kind of camp where everyone pitched in, and therefore, most often, everyone tended to his or her plate and utensils.

Kat and Camille had just finished eating and were cleaning up when Hunter made a surprising announcement.

“There will be a party heading back to the hotel tomorrow,” he said. “Lady Margaret is returning to her father with a full report of all that has happened thus far. Mr. Doyle is returning to his wife, and our young men will be heading in as well, with several of the workers as escort. Oh, Kat, you will be joining them, too.”

“What?” She was so startled that she voiced her incredulity in front of everyone.

“You’re going back,” he repeated.

“But…why would I be going back?” she demanded.

A hush had fallen over the group. She realized that everyone was watching the two of them. Camille was pretending to pick a piece of lint from her skirt. Arthur was scratching his head, looking at the fire. The others made no pretense of doing anything but watching.

“Because I have said so,” Hunter told her.

She didn’t care to have an argument in front of the entire company, but neither did she simply intend to back down and meekly obey.

She stood, straightening her hair. “We shall discuss it later,” she said, and walked out of the tent.

She was stunned. Why on earth was he so eager to get rid of her? So eager, in fact, that he would send her back with David.

She should have known that he would be right behind her. She had cleared the area of their camp by no more than a hundred feet when she felt his hand on her arm, stopping her, spinning her around.

And he was angry.

“Do not defy my authority in front of the entire company,” he said sharply.

“Then don’t send out shocking edicts in such a manner!” she countered. “I have no desire to go back. Margaret may be uncomfortable out here, I am not!”

“I want you back at the hotel.”

“Why? I’ve done nothing wrong out here, I’ve…I’ve settled well, I think,” she said, faltering a bit. She had thought that he had enjoyed the fact that there was a body awaiting him at night. She had thought that…well, if he didn’t really care for her, at least he enjoyed her!

“I will explain to you. Apparently, there is a cult out here, and it is growing increasingly bolder. Ali has been out, gathering information. There was an attack on a camp just south of here, nearer the Nile. That group had been working in the tombs of some lesser queens. Two men were killed.”

She shook her head. “But you’re here. And Brian is here. And we have Abdul and Ali…and if you don’t send them back, Robert, Allan, Alfred and David!”

“You’re going back,” he repeated stubbornly. “As are they.”

“Is Camille going back?”

“No.”

“Then why must I?”

He let out a massive sigh of exasperation. “Because I have said so!”

“But—”

“Kat! You seem to be a magnet for trouble. I want you back at the hotel.”

She was shocked by his words. She swallowed hard. “I will not go back.”

“Believe me, you will. One way or the other.”

He meant it. She could imagine the rich humiliation of being bound and tossed over her horse’s back to be forcibly removed from the desert. It would make Ali unhappy to perform such a service, but he would do it. And none would protest Hunter’s authority.

She was angry and close to tears. Oh, yes, sending her away would doubtless keep her safe from attack, but she was convinced that the real reason was that he was tired of her, that she had, indeed, proved troublesome. She wondered what she had done to make him feel that way.

“You would force me out of here?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

She started past him, then. She stopped, tossing words over her shoulder, not at all sure why she was saying them, except that she was so very hurt. “You are loathsome, you know!”

“You should be happy. You’ll be off with your ever precious David. And I will not even be with you.”

“Yes, but I’m sure I will be under guard.”

“You may guarantee that. Ali would kill without a qualm in his heart. They are very strict about such matters here.”

She hissed out an oath and started back for the camp, still wondering what transgression had so turned him against her.

She paused, staring out at the rows of tents, at the moon, shining down with all its glory, in the distance, touching the enchanting rise of the great pyramids. The common area was empty now; perhaps everyone was packing. Everyone but Hunter and his chosen few.

She hurried down the dark hallway to their private area. She, too, should pack.

She chose not to.

She wanted to throw something. There was nothing to throw but the lamp, and she didn’t want to be cast into pitch darkness, not when she was alone. She threw herself down instead, curling close to the wall on the bedding, her face to the wall.

She lay awake, eyes staring at nothing, seething inside. He was not that far behind her. She heard him shed his clothing, douse the light and lie beside her. She felt his hands on her back. She stiffened, trying to inch away from him. There was not far to go before being entirely smashed against the wall.

“Kat…you will be gone,” he said, and despite her last words to him, he did not sound unkind.

But then, why should he? He was the one doing the dictating!

“I will be gone because you are sending me away. And that is your choice,” she said.

“You little fool. I am afraid for your life.”

“What about Camille?”

“Camille has not been involved in nearly so many dangerous situations of late as you have been. And she is Brian’s concern. You are mine.”

“And I don’t care to go.”

“But you will.”

“Then you will kindly take your hands off me.”

She was startled by the sound of his laugh, ever so slightly arrogant, and yet even more bitter. “So all the world is a bargain with you, is it?” he demanded.

“No! Yes! Maybe…I don’t know. What do you want it to be?” she demanded angrily.

He rolled her to face him. She was dimly aware of the power in his voice when he said softly, “The truth? I’d never risk the truth, my love. But we will not part like this.”

She was stunned, then, to learn that anger could be such a staggering aphrodisiac. There had been nothing she’d wanted more than to be cold to his touch, pretend that his touch was nothing to her. She was becoming known for the precision of her memory, and now she wanted their lovemaking etched indelibly there, every detail—the scent of his naked flesh, the slick feel of it rubbing against her, friction, heat, the slightest brush of his fingers, his every kiss and caress. She didn’t think that she had ever responded with such searing passion herself, clinging, arching, moving, touching tasting…shoulders, chest, beyond, for it suddenly seemed that it had never been more important to seduce and arouse.

She could only pray that some small piece of herself would be caught in his mind, in his soul, and even, if naught else, in the carnal memory of the flesh…

And still, in the end, there was nothing but the wall. No words. He did not intend to relent. She was vaguely aware that he lay awake just as she did. But with passion spent, he was distant. He did not even draw her against him.

Eventually, morning came, and quickly, he was gone.

K AT WOULD NEVER KNOW how very sorry he was to see her seated on the mare, chin high, refusing to so much as glance his way.

Nor would she ever know just how worried he was, heart and soul. He had told her about the cult attack at the other dig.

He had not told her the worst.

That Francoise, the French-Egyptian girl, had been discovered out in the desert, her throat slit, her blood drenching the sands. Kat would find out soon enough. The news was being shouted throughout Cairo. But by then, she would be at the hotel. Lord Avery had sent messages, and he had returned them, asking Lord Avery to see that Kat was as protected as his own daughter. And Ethan would stay at her side, as well.

He still didn’t trust David and his cohorts, but those young men were being sent back, too, something he had determined with Abdul, Ali and Brian. The only certainty they had was that the young men had not been the culprits who had attacked and killed the two men at the other camp. He was sending the women off with an escort of half the workers, David and his cohorts, as well as Ethan and Ali. It would take a horde to stop them.

Kat would not look at him. He walked to her, anyway, taking her hand where it rested on the saddle as she waited.

“I’ll be there in a week or so myself,” he said.

“Will you?” she inquired with a complete lack of interest, moving her hand.

“Kat, this is necessary.”

“No, it is not.”

“Well, then, my love, take care, and good journey.”

He didn’t try to kiss her goodbye, and merely signaled Ali. The caravan set off.

As the last of the horses disappeared from sight, Brian came to stand by his side. “This cult is serious,” he said. “Not something that we only have to wonder about. People are being openly slain.”

“Do you really believe that these people think that an ancient priest is calling to them?”

“No, do you?”

“Absolutely not. I think that it’s organized. And I think that…” He hesitated.

“That what?”

“That someone British has created this Egyptian cult.”

“Yes, perhaps, but what bothers me is this… How does it connect with what has been happening in our journey? The stone at the Colosseum, the snake in the room in Rome…even what took place before?”

“I don’t know. Pity Arthur left with the others. His powers of deduction might have been of tremendous use!”

“Y OU MUSTN ’ T BE ANGRY ,” Margaret said, riding alongside Kat. “This is for the best.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Oh, but you are! You’re absolutely furious.”

“There’s no reason for this.”

“There is. Hunter believes that you’re in real danger.”

Kat shook her head. She started to speak, then closed her mouth. Margaret just didn’t really understand the truth of any of it.

Ali was riding at the front, and each time they neared a dune or the smallest obstruction in their path, even so much as a tree, he called a halt, sending out riders. Kat was certain that it would make the endless ride even longer, but Margaret had told her that it was not nearly as far as she had thought—when she had ridden out, she had done so with camels carrying tons of supplies. They were just a group on horseback now, and they were moving much more quickly.

“Well, I think the fellows, with the possible exception of Allan, will be glad to be back for a night,” Margaret mused. “I think they far prefer the nightlife in Cairo to the loneliness of the sands.”

“I’m sure,” Kat murmured, wishing she wanted to take part in a conversation. Margaret was truly nice. And she was trying very hard to make Kat feel better.

She had just turned toward Margaret, ready to smile, when she heard the high-pitched cries from across the sand. There was a dune to their left, and it must have been higher than it appeared, for suddenly, there were riders coming over it.

They were dressed completely in black, turbans loosened to shield their faces. Nothing but their eyes were visible as they swooped down on the caravan. For a moment, Kat was stunned and frozen by the awful majesty of the attack, the thunderous horsemen, perfect in their precision, bearing down on them.

Ali roared out some kind of an order. His men began to circle around Margaret, Arthur and herself.

“Dear God!” David breathed from behind her. He was fumbling to draw his weapon, a pistol. He had a second weapon, that one strapped to his saddle. Kat urged her horse closer to his.

“Give me the gun.”

“No, no. I will shoot. I will protect us. I am the man.”

“Give me the gun!” she shouted, and reaching over, she snatched it from the holster on his saddle.

But by then, though she was surrounded by Ali’s men, the fighting was upon them. The sand blinded her. She heard Margaret scream, and she turned her horse in that direction.

She was stunned when a noose came around her, dragging her from the mare and depositing her hard on the sand. The stuff filled her eyes and mouth, and she coughed and rolled, entangled in the rope. It jerked, and she rolled again, and saw the fellow encased in black as he walked menacingly toward her, ready to collect what he had snared.

She raised the pistol and fired.

The man fell.

For a moment, she stared at him, shocked that she’d had the presence of mind to shoot, and also, that she had killed a man. But she didn’t dare linger in the sand. She would die by being trodden to pieces by one of the horses, which now were everywhere, if she didn’t move quickly.

She staggered to her feet, trying to see through the terrible fog of sand. Out of it all a man came rushing at her, his sword raised.

She screamed and tried to shoot again.

Her gun had jammed.

She looked up. The fellow had lowered the sword and was coming toward her. In his free hand, he carried a rope.

She turned to run.

For the second time, a noose flew.

And she stumbled into the sand. Rolled. And he was there, all in black, reaching down for her.