Dreamers (27 page)

the others?

But footsteps sounded on the marble in the great hall, and

she turned from the doorway, afraid to face him. After a

moment woven of eternity she heard the creaking of the cedar

door that led into her chamber. “You rang, mistress?”

Every nerve leapt and shuddered at the timbre of his voice.

“Yes, Paneah, I did,” she said, turning toward him. “And it’s

Sagira, now, remember? We are quite alone.”

He wore his best linen kilt, a pleated garment of her own

design, and the narrow waistline accented his trim waist and

his broad shoulders. Handsome leather sandals adorned his

feet, and a single golden band lay on his upper arm. His hair

hung lush and lovely about his memorable face as he awaited

her request. How like a god he was! How appropriate that he

had dressed in his best for this day.

He hesitated at the threshold of her chamber. “Do you

want me to drive you to the river for the festivities?”

“I don’t want to be in a crowd today,” she said, smiling at

him through tilted eyes. “I want to enjoy this place that we have

built—you and I.” She opened her arms, but he did not stir

from the doorway. She rolled her eyes, amused at his reticence.

“Come here, Paneah, don’t loiter like a child at the door.”

“You know more about childhood than I,” he said, stepping

into the room. “I’m older than you by far.”

“I’m nineteen.” She tipped her head back to look up at him.

“Old enough to know what I want.”

“I think you’ve always known.” He came forward and planted

himself on the floor in front of her. “And you have yet to tell me

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what you want. Do you have plans for another room? Another

garden? Perhaps a pool that will put Pharaoh’s to shame?”

“We are not working today.” She drew in her cheeks until

her lips formed a rosette, then blew him a kiss. “I’m in the

mood for poetry, Paneah. Read to me from the scroll you’ll

find on my bed.”

He gave her a faintly reproachful glance, then crossed to

the bed. He lifted the scroll and began to unroll it, but Sagira

draped herself across the bed and propped her head on her

hand. “Sit while you read,” she ordered. “I am not comfort-

able with you standing over me like a vulture.”

He sighed and sat on the edge of her bed, facing the wall. “Is

there anything sweeter than this hour?” he read, the sound of

music in his voice. Sagira turned onto her back and folded her

arms, hoping the words came from his heart and not just his lips.

For I am with you, and you lift up my heart—

For is there not embracing and fondling when you visit

me and we give ourselves up to delights?

If you wish to caress my thigh,

then I will offer you my lips also—they won’t thrust you

away!

Will you leave because you are hungry?

I can satisfy your hunger!

Will you leave because you need something to wear?

I have a chestful of fine linen!

Glorious is the day of our embracings;

I treasure it a hundred thousand millions!

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Paneah turned. “What is wrong?”

“Ah, my Paneah—” she stared at the ceiling “—I don’t

expect you to understand.”

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“Have I not understood your hurts in the past?”

“You have been the only one who understood—but you

cannot understand this.”

“Perhaps I can.” His voice gentled as he offered a smile. “We

will not know until you explain the sound of tears in your voice.”

Had any plan ever gone so well? Surely the gods were

smiling. “Paneah,” she said, letting her gaze mingle with his,

“my heart breaks because I am a young woman who will

never bear a son.”

He turned as if afraid to broach this personal topic, but she

pushed herself up and placed her hand on his back. He could

not escape her now.

“Potiphar is more feeble than you know,” she went on,

hurrying so he could not question her. “I am young and yearn

to suckle a baby.” She spoke the honest truth now, and felt

reckless with power. Why not be honest with him? The star

of ambition burned bright in his character and the prophecy;

perhaps he would seize her dream as his.

“Mistress—Sagira—”

“The royal blood of the pharaohs flows through my veins,”

she said, slipping off the bed, “and the child I could have will

someday be pharaoh of Egypt.” She crossed to Paneah and

knelt at his feet, then placed her hands on his knees. “If the

gods decide to destroy Amenhotep’s house, I will be the

heiress, the embodiment of Horus, the Lady of Heaven. My

husband will be Pharaoh, and our child will be the greatest

ruler in the world.”

His eyes held a teasing light; he did not understand the sig-

nificance of the truth she had just revealed. “Potiphar would not

accept the double crown, Sagira,” he said, gently gripping her

hands. “Has Ramla filled your head with these silly visions?”

She clung to him. “The gods themselves have spoken. I will

have a child, Paneah, sired by the man I love.”

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“Potiphar will be pleased.”

“Not Potiphar.” His eyes were as unreadable as water; she

yearned to look into his soul and see what thoughts stirred

there. An indulgent smile rested on his lips, and his hands kept

her at a distance even though she leaned toward him, drawn

by his masculine power. “Not Potiphar,” she repeated, sway-

ing as he held her. “My son will spring from the loins of the

man who has stolen my heart from its rightful owner.”

The meaning of her words took hold. His gaze traveled up

and down her as his face flooded with color, then he tried to

rise. “Mistress, you do not know what you are saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” she said, rising before

he could escape. She sat in his lap and wound her arms about

his neck. “Today, Paneah, you and I will share everything we

should have been sharing for the many months we have

known each other. Have you not noticed that I adore you? I

admire the curve of your mouth, I appreciate the gentleness

in your eye, I idolize the graceful strength of your hands.”

“This is not right,” he said, struggling in her grasp. “I

cannot—”

“Have you never had dreams of greatness, Paneah?” She

lowered her head and murmured into his ear. “In divining

your future, Ramla has foretold that one day every knee in

Egypt will bow to you.” As if she had struck a chord, his re-

sistance eased.

Sagira exulted at this first sign of victory. “Have you dared

to dream as high as Pharaoh’s throne?” she continued, feeling

his heart pound beneath her palm. “The way to your destiny

lies in my arms. How sweet this path is, my love! How gentle

the gods are with us! Imagine it, my god in flesh, kings and

queens from the world over will bow before your throne. As

the divine son of Osiris, even the sun and moon will bow

before you!”

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Sagira smiled in triumph when he gasped. Pride had paved

the way to his heart, and ambition would propel him into her

arms. He had never considered the possibilities she might lay

before him. She had already made him the most respected

man in Thebes, slave or free, but she had much more to offer.

In one deft movement, she stood and slid her fingers to the

catch of the concealing robe on her shoulders. The heavy gar-

ment slipped to the floor like a pool of blood at Paneah’s feet,

and she stood before him as exposed and vulnerable as a

newborn baby. He gasped and closed his eyes, confusion and

torment warring on his lovely face.

Playing the game with purpose, she ran a finger over his

chest, then hooked it beneath his kilt’s waistband. She could

feel the warmth of his nearness as he shifted in an effort to

escape. “Why should you pretend to resist me now?” she

said, running her lips over the smooth skin of his cheek. “I

am your mistress, my love, and I command you to kiss me.”

His pace of his breathing increased, but whether from

passion or pride she could not tell.

“Sagira,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, but this was not

the time for talking.

“Lie with me, Paneah.” Her hand tightened around the

fabric of his kilt. “Give me a son. The day is ours alone, and

the night as well.”

Desire, primitive and potent, poured through her veins,

the fires within her shooting upward and outward as she

pressed him toward her bed.

“No!” Yosef lunged forward, unceremoniously dumping

his mistress onto the floor. He moved to the wall and pressed

his hands to his head, struggling to regain his perspective. His

senses throbbed with the feel and scent and textures of her,

but what she was suggesting, no, demanding, was wrong. He

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was man enough to admit that his common sense skittered into

the shadows every time she touched him in that tantalizing

way, and she had no business wearing that dress before any-

one but her husband.

For an instant he had believed her, had almost followed her

into the lunatic fantasy of ambition that extended to the throne

of Egypt. When she mentioned the sun and moon bowing

before him, he had wondered if God had sent her as the ful-

fillment of his old dream.

But this devilish swirling heat inside his veins could not

be part of God’s plan. She was another man’s wife, and some-

thing dark shadowed her moves and motives. Even though her

touch could make him forget who and what he was—

She had not given up, but rose from the floor like a

determined tigress, eyeing him with a look of scorching

intent. “I can fulfill your dreams. You cannot escape me,

Paneah, the house is empty. I know some silly shred of

honor makes you regard your duty to Potiphar, but he has

never been a husband to me. He cannot be. He was

wounded in a battle long ago—”

He put out a hand to ward her off. “Don’t.”

She shivered and kept coming, as if his prohibition had

excited her. He slid along the wall, moving toward the door-

way, yet still she came, slowly, seductively, because she knew

he was watching. “I hate to assume the man’s role and pursue

you,” she said, her voice low and promising, “but there can

be no other way, my dear love. Lie with me, Paneah, and be

the real master of the mistress.”

He wanted to look away, but she might pounce. “I won’t

do this thing, Sagira,” he said, injecting a note of authority into

his voice. “It would be a sin against God and against Potiphar.

You cannot command me—I would suffer a whipping first.”

“I wouldn’t mar this golden skin with a whip,” she said,

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reaching for him. The touch of her hand burned his flesh, and

he gasped as she grappled with the fabric of his kilt.

“Sagira—”

“Don’t struggle, beloved.”

“God, help me!”

She laughed and Yosef pulled away, but she clung to his

garment with all her strength. A ripping sound rent the air,

fresh air slammed against bare skin, and then he was out of

her chamber. Reaching the corridor, he turned to run for his

room, then he realized she’d go there first, seeking him. She

would hunt him down until she found him, for he had never

seen such determination in the eyes of any living person. She

would look for him everywhere, searching the garden and

even the kitchen, but she was too fastidious to accost him in

the stockyard.

Without thinking further, Yosef turned and sprinted for the

cattle pens.

“Paneah!” Sagira called, mimicking the singsong way

mothers call their young children. She held up his kilt in case

he happened to be watching. “I have something that belongs

to you! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

She moved through the bedchambers and the great hall, but

no sign of him could she see. He was being coy, merely

playing a game. Men liked to be the hunters, not the hunted,

and perhaps she had surprised him with her sudden declara-

tion. But the day was yet early, and if she let him find her…

She walked through the kitchens, idly running her hand

over the bowls and pottery, hoping he would step out of the

shadows and claim her. She walked more briskly through the

servants’ quarters, wondering if he had found the courage to

replace his kilt, but he did not appear. He was not in the

garden, on the porch or in her women’s quarters.

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He had run away.

She fell onto her couch, exhausted and humiliated. With

each passing hour of the water clock she waited, anxious that

he appear, and several times she rang her bell to summon him.

He did not answer.

Angry beyond words, furious at her vulnerability before a

slave, she tore her dress and ripped handfuls of hair from her

wig. She threw cushions, broke vases and upset the furniture