Excerpt of The Lady & The Libertine by Bonnie Vanak

Chapter One

Khamsin camp, Eastern desert of Egypt, 1908

He would not be the virile groom tenderly deflowering her
on their wedding night.

He would never cause a sigh a passion to wring from her
slender throat as he caressed her virgin breasts, now
hidden beneath the modest white kuftan.

The sparkling ruby dangling between them stood out like a
blood droplet against a snowy bank. His hands, accustomed
to stroking the skin of whores, were not worthy of touching
her. They were, however, quite capable of stealing the
ruby, as they had swiped other priceless Egyptian
antiquities.

Crouched beneath the shade of a cigar- shaped ben- tree,
Nigel Wallenford, rightful earl of Claradon, studied his
prey as he clutched an oily rifle in his sweating palms.
The silent woman picked up scattered seeds on the ground.
Karida was her name. She guarded the ruby he needed to
complete the key and locate the trea sure of the sleeping
golden mummies.

All week, during his visit here on the pretext of buying
Arabian mares, he’d heard her relatives praise her virtue
and honor as if she were not a living, breathing woman but
a limestone statue. Nigel wouldn’t have cared if she was as
corrupt as he; he cared only about the ruby.

Ben- trees, acacia trees, and yellow- green plants peppered
the water source near the Khamsin camp. The burning yellow
sun played off jagged mountain peaks and peach- colored
hills of sandstone. A cooling breeze chased away the sultry
afternoon heat shimmering off the tawny sands. Black
mountains and endless desert ringed this part of Egypt’s
eastern desert.

Jabari bin Tarik Hassid, the Khamsin sheikh, thought Nigel
was currently at the water source to kill desert hares, but
he had chosen the spot to pursue Karida. Each afternoon
since his arrival, she came here to gather seeds. Like a
good hunter, he’d learned her habits, knew her movements.
Like a hare struck down by a bullet, Karida would never
know what hit her.

The ruby would soon be his.

Karida kept stealing glances at him. Her face, hidden by a
half- veil out of courtesy to the visiting al Assayra
tribesmen, was expressionless.

A good hunter knew how to disarm his prey, make them feel
false security. Nigel set down the rifle and offered his
most charming smile. He gestured to the bullet- hard seeds
she dropped into her goatskin bag but kept his gaze
centered on the ruby. His fingers itched to swipe the
stone. Soon.

“Are those for eating?”

Karida blinked, as if startled to hear a human
voice. “Samna. Cooking oil.”

Like her Uncle Ramses and the rest of her family, she spoke
perfect English. Yet her accent was odd, as if she’d lived
somewhere other than here in Egypt.

“I’m marrying tonight. This will be my last time gathering
the seeds.” She gave a little sigh, as if pondering her
fate.

“Do you love him?’ Nigel blurted, then could have kicked
himself. A rude question. But he was a foreigner; maybe
she’d forgive him.

“I do not know him.” Karida gave a little laugh, as sweet
and musical as the jingling of gold bracelets. “I was
informed I was chosen as a bride, but I don’t know who has
chosen me. All the al Assayra warriors are honorable and
noble, however, and so my husband will be.” Her large,
golden- brown eyes, so exotic and mysterious, seemed to
pierce him. “He will never lie to me or steal, and he will
be admirable all his days.”

Nigel stared at Karida in sudden bleakness, feeling the
shadows of old ghosts smother him. She was so damn perfect,
an angel compared to the demon lurking inside him. His gaze
dropped to his hands, and he rubbed them violently against
his khaki trousers, knowing he wasn’t fit to touch her.

You would never marry me. I can’t father your children. My
own sire lied about my birthright because I was sterile,
and though I was older, I could not give him an heir like
my twin brother. I wouldn’t give you my heart, but I could
steal away yours.

Or worse. I could kill you.

Screams echoed down a rocky mountainside in Nigel’s mind,
then silence. Nigel tensed against the memory, guilt
swallowing his soul until nothing remained but an inky
darkness. He could just shoot Karida, take the damn stone,
and leave her corpse here, festering in the blistering
heat. One more crime to add to his list.

She glided over to a small brown rock to pluck out the few
seeds scattered there. Each movement held an inborn grace.
As sinuous as a serpent, so lovely. Unlike Nigel, Karida
was not scarred from painful surgeries to fix an arm that
would never work quite right. Her skin was flawless, her
body smooth and unmarked.

Her exotic gaze centered on him as she straightened. “You
won’t see many hares at this time. It’s too hot. Like the
scorpions and the vipers, they like to hide.”

“Like Englishmen should,” he joked. “Ground’s hot enough to
poach an egg.”

His gaze dropped to her feet, and he wondered if her toes
and ankles were as perfect as the rest of her. Fabric
billowed in a sudden gust of wind as the gods answered his
prayers, revealing a flash of shapely ankles and well-
shaped feet in silver sandals. Nigel licked his lips,
imagining his fingers stroking her delicate skin and
tickling her toes.

As she moved toward the tree, his eyes caught a sudden
movement in the rocky sand. “Christ, watch out!” he yelled.

He raced forward, hooked an arm about her waist, swept her
off her feet, and waltzed her away as if they were dancing
in a ballroom. The goatskin bag tumbled from her fingers
and fell to the ground with a smack just as the viper’s
head emerged from its sandy nest. Fangs struck the bag
instead of her ankle.

Trembling, she remained in his embrace. Nigel became aware
of those soft breasts pressed against his chest, the rapid
pounding of her heart. A fragrance of orange blossoms and
almonds filled his nostrils. For a wild moment, he wanted
to rest his cheek against the top of the scarf covering her
head and stay there, holding her in his arms.

Reluctantly he set her down and turned, watching the snake
disturbed from its afternoon nap. He hunted for a rock to
kill it.

“Use this.”

Karida handed Nigel a nearby stick he’d seen the Khamsin
use for shaking acacia leaves loose to feed their camels
and sheep. He grasped it, and his fingers tentatively
brushed hers.

Nigel trembled violently at the sizzling contact. Drawing
in a sharp breath, he curtly told her to stand back.

He lifted the sturdy pole to strike the viper. It lifted
its head and, for a moment, its cold, beady gaze seemed to
reflect the blackness inside him. Then Nigel struck. Again
and again he beat the snake, even after it lay motionless
on the ground. Blow after blow, the misery and self-
loathing inside him exploded like gunpowder.

A gentle hand tugging on his jacket sleeve caused him to
stop. “That’s enough, Thomas. I think it’s past dead.”

Her gentle, teasing tone caught him off guard, almost as
much as her use of his false name. Nigel tossed away the
stick and turned to stare at her. Dryness filled his mouth.

Bloody hell, she was beautiful. Pure as polished ivory.
Radiant as the sun. His gaze dropped to his hands. Hands
that killed more than just snakes. Nigel scrubbed them
against his trousers.

“Are you all right?” he asked hoarsely.

Karida gave a little nod. She stared back with frank
interest.

Rapt, he leaned forward. Was it his imagination, a trick of
fading sunlight, or did her eyes widen as if she liked what
she saw and wanted him as well?

His pulse quickened. Nigel wished he could see more of her
face. Was her mouth thin and flat? Did she have a wart on
her nose? The flimsy veil was a fabric barrier between his
curiosity and answers.

Take it off, he silently ordered. He began chanting in his
mind: Take it off.

Karida unhooked the veil and let the fabric flutter down.

Breath hitched in Nigel’s throat.

Good God. No warts. Nothing but honey- toned smooth skin, a
face sculpted by the Egyptian goddess Isis herself. A pert
nose, full lips in a cupid’s bow, elegant cheekbones, and
the most startling caramel eyes he’d ever seen. As her long
fingers smoothed over her cheek and she tilted her head, he
watched with rapt fascination. Such grace. Her every
movement was elegant as an ibis taking flight.

His gaze fell to her rounded chin that nonetheless hinted
of stubborn pride. The contrast between her graceful
femininity and the arrogance of that little chin stirred
his blood. She looked like a fighter. He wondered if she
would prove such in bed, wrapping her limbs about his hips
as he drove into her, nails raking down his back as she
hissed and bit in a fury of desperate need.

Blood surged hotly through his veins as he indulged this
wild imagining. She was his bride and, on their wedding
night, she shyly removed her robes to bare her lovely body
for his pleasure.

Nigel’s lids lowered, and he daydreamed about cupping her
breasts with absolute reverence, their heaviness resting in
his palms as he gently kneaded, showering her with tender,
adoring kisses. Making love to her through the night, he
coaxed shrill cries of pleasure from those rose- red lips,
waking up to her in the morning and knowing she was
exclusively his, that he’d forever marked her with his
passion and she’d never forget him . . . even though he was
a lying dog and she was a beautiful princess.

He shook free of the daydream as she reattached her veil.
He turned away, knowing she was a woman of honor bound to
marry a man of honor. A sweet innocent like Karida would
never lower herself to be with him. The women in his bed
were always whores, or liars just like him.

His gaze dropped to his thieving fingers. It was time to do
what he must. He was in desperate need of money.

In a desert cave was locked a map leading to stolen
treasure as vast as King Solomon’s. Nigel had the scorpion
charm and needed only the ruby, the missing stone atop the
stinger, to acquire the map. He soon would return to En
gland, find proof he was the true heir, and drop this
absurd masquerade as his twin; the title would be his, the
earldom of Claradon, and afterward he’d seek the treasure
and become wealthier than the pharaohs.

Tension knotted his stomach as he remembered a hopeful,
gaunt face waiting for him in England. Little hands,
calloused and scarred by hard labor, eyes far too sad. Damn
it all, he was a sinner, not a saint, but he’d get that
gold and for once in his miserable life do something right.

Karida had turned to retrieve her dropped goatskin bag.

Nigel fished in his pocket for the fake necklace that would
replace the treasure around her slender neck. He swallowed
hard, but his hand shook violently as he reached out to her.