Reflections in the Nile (33 page)

CHAPTER 11

A
fter months of hearing an alien language that she could both understand and speak, the French out of Cheftu's finely chiseled Egyptian mouth was like an icy blast.

Chloe jerked away from him. “
What did you say?
” she cried in English.

He lunged at her, his eyes pools of amber fire, his grasp iron on her wrists. He babbled incoherently for a few moments until he finally said, in hardly discernible English, “My darling, you have also traveled? From where do you come?”

Chloe looked into his face; his excitement was palpable and unrestrained. Was it too much sex, not much sleep, and very little nourishment? Or just the resounding shock of hearing French from her ancient Egyptian husband? Maybe simply because she could think of no other response? Whatever the reason, Chloe said, “Holy shit,” with a definite American accent and fainted.

“RaEm, RaEm,” a rough masculine voice said. “
Plaire à Dieu
, why do you not wake up?”

Her eyes snapped open. Cheftu knelt over her, fanning her face and calling to her in a mixture of ancient Egyptian names and French invocations. Regrouping her thoughts, Chloe reached up to touch his face. He swiftly kissed her fingertips.

Speaking slowly in English, she said, “Do you understand me?”

His face lost some of its deep color. “
Oui, ma chérie
.”

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes. I speak more than twenty languages—most of them dead.”

Her hand froze, because the bulk of questions she had to ask him would not organize themselves inside her fogged brain. She sat up, and he stared at her with fully widened eyes, all his masks of nobleman, priest, healer, and magus gone.

“What is your name?” he asked slowly, stumbling over the syllables. “You are English?”

“Chloe, and I'm an American. Mostly.”

“From where?”

“The United States,” she answered.

His brow furrowed in confusion.

She tried French. “
Des états-Unis
.”

He waved away her response. “It is a bagatelle. What year?”

“Nineteen hundred ninety-f…” She never finished; his face turned gray.

“The twentieth century?”

“
Oui
.”

He dropped her hands and turned away, burying his face in his hands. “
Haii, mon Dieu
…” He shook his head back and forth.

Chloe sat in silence. “Cheftu, what is, was, your Christian name?”

From the muffling of his hands she heard “Francois.” He faced the wall and dropped his hands. “I left my time of 1806.” He turned to face her. “Do you know the name Napoleon?”

“Of course. He was defeated by the British at Waterloo in 1815.”

He glanced at her, not comprehending. She reached out to touch him, quiet the confusion in his eyes.

“So the time in the temple, when you didn't remember, that was when you came through?” he asked.

“Yes. I don't know
what
I came through, though. When I got here I thought for a while that I was ill, or dreaming … but then … I realized I had somehow traversed a time-space continuum and ended up here.” Her English words, spoken rapidly, fell into a confused pile at his feet.

He stared at her as though she had two heads. In a cracked voice he asked “The hieroglyphs, they have been interpreted? They can be read?”

Chloe frowned at him. “Of course.”

“Who broke the formula?”

“Some guy named …” She bit her lip in concentration, trying to recall that name she'd heard so many times from Cammy, the name in so many of those books.

“
Haii
?” Cheftu's face was lined with expectancy.

Chloe snapped her fingers. “Champinion … no, wait, that's mushroom in Spanish. Umm …”

Cheftu stood up and walked to the window, his movements jerky. “Champollion?” he asked his voice a monotone.

“Yep. That's it.”

“
Il l'a decouverte sans moi
,” he said in an anguished undertone. He faced the black night, his arms braced on the window frame.

Chloe was frozen, her mind spinning. Who had discovered what without him? But more important—he was like her! He knew what it was like to be removed, without warning, from everything! Since he was still here, he obviously hadn't found a way back. She stared at his bronzed back, trying to let the astonishment sink in. Eighteen oh six … He was more than 150 years older than she but the same in this day and age.

It was comforting that the man she loved was not of a race and mentality completely foreign to her. He was European … though she didn't know how long he had been here or anything else. She looked at him and knew that regardless of his age, his nationality, or his name, she loved Cheftu. Not for where he was from, but because of who he was, the risks he took, the level of care he showed. The way he made her feel.

She walked to where he stood motionless. Chloe took his arm and guided him to the couch. “Sit, my beloved brother,” she said, seeing his blank, staring eyes. What was wrong with him? Was he in some sort of shock? Speaking softly in Egyptian, she pushed him down, wondering what to do if he really were ill. He stared blankly at the ceiling.

“Cheftu, Cheftu, wake up, greet the night, the RaEmhetep,” she said. No response. She checked his pulse: it was racing, and his breath was coming in little animal pants. What could have been so horrifying? Napoleon losing the war? Someone else finding the key to the hieroglyphs? What did it matter, here and now?

She took some wine from beside the couch and sprinkled it on his face. He didn't even blink. She splashed water on his face. Zip.

Biting her lip in remorse, she slapped him across the cheek. He did not respond, didn't even flinch. She sat on the stool, thinking and getting scared. What had made him freak out? Finally she shouted in French, “Francois, Francois, you must wake up, Champollion is doing it without you!”

He roared alert, cursing and swearing as he stared blindly. Chloe reached to gentle him, and he jerked her to his body, growling with fury, lost in an unseen world. Shaking with emotion, he backed her into the wall, kissing her until her lips were raw, filling her with his demonic energy. His hands molded her to him; his nakedness and strength were overwhelming.

Chloe waited for him to take a breath and then ran. He caught her before she took two steps and brought her back against his chest. Her wriggling attempts to run inflamed him further, and she felt his heat and hardness against her back.

He was speaking in ragged French, decrying someone for betraying him, for not believing in him, for not waiting for him. He seemed to think she was the tool of whoever had deceived him and whispered about the pleasure he would take in extracting his revenge. Chloe resisted him as he pressed against her, his hands never leaving her body, his lips and tongue reducing her brain to a pile of red-hot ashes.

Then he began stroking her, and Chloe felt herself merging into him. His touch had gentled, and his caressing hands were pushing her over the edge. They fell onto the couch, his cheek rough against her shoulder. She was trembling, hot and ragingly hungry for him. Then he pulled away.

Once more he stared, unseeing.

She ran her fingernails down his bare chest. He hadn't mentioned another woman. All other questions could wait until afterward. “Do not dare leave me this way,” she hissed.

With a snarl he pushed her onto her hands and knees, his arm around her waist She felt his touch as he filled her, groaning with excitement kissing her neck and shoulders. The experience was consuming, as if he had suddenly become an octopus, and her every need was being met simultaneously. He held himself close to her, moving slowly, seductively. Her ears burned with his words, emphasized by his hands and lips.

Chloe was exhausted and energized, more alive and more real than she had ever felt. The intimate smells of sweat and sex mingled around her until she was drunk on sensation. The world consisted only of the heat and sweet vibrations building like a fever inside her. Then he pulled up, fixed his hands on her waist, and thrust so deeply that she was sure he'd touched her womb. She fell into a hundred, thousand pieces, sobbing Cheftu's name, and he collapsed over her, wiping away sweaty hair and salty tears.

When Chloe woke up she felt like an earthquake victim the morning after. The boundaries, the walls and floor, had shifted. Nothing was what she thought it was. She was glad to be alone, to ponder the changes. Cheftu was French. Francois. A shudder rushed through her … pleasure and fear. What would happen now? Wincing with an assortment of strained muscles and already developing bruises, she limped to the chamber pot.

He was not there.

She hobbled to the window, taking care not to be seen naked. Just the normal courtyard scene, people rushing to and fro … no graceful, strong, misplaced Frenchman. Surely he wouldn't have left her? No, she might not know five things about him, but she knew he was honorable and that he wanted her. He would return. Was he sad that she wasn't RaEm? Chloe wandered back to the couch and fell onto it, luxuriating in the cool linen against her skin.

The quiet opening of the door woke her. Cheftu came in, solemn as a funeral. He knelt and took her hand. Without looking at her, he spoke in his heavily accented English. “My behavior last night was unforgivable. To use you as a whipping post for my anger is horrible. I don't even know who you are, yet I treated you like a whore.” He raised his amber gaze to hers. “Worse than a whore.” He swallowed. “All I have done since I have met you is berate you for the past, a past you do not even know.”

Chloe sat stunned. He was far removed from the remote but beautiful man she had come to know. He focused on some point beyond her. “This is not the way I would have behaved normally.” He licked his lips, which were swollen. “Last night was a series of shocks.” She was silent. “Although that is no excuse for my behavior.” He looked up into her face, his breath catching as she trailed her fingers through his hair.

“What shocks?” she asked, then flushed as he arched an eyebrow. “Besides the obvious.”

He bit his lips. “There is nothing that matters anymore about my former life. It is gone. My vocation, my dreams, my family—” His voice cracked. “Deceased, for hundreds of years.” He looked up at her. “Now is the only thing that matters. Keeping you safe, riding out this political storm.” He rose to his feet, his eyes blazing as he faced her.

“The most shocking thing last night was—I realized I love you.” He continued without missing a beat, “You were a maiden and I took you like an animal.” He groaned, rubbing his face with his hand. “I cannot believe I actually did that. I have never before lost control.”

Chloe pulled his hand away, staring into his golden eyes. “
What
did you say?”

“I love you. Those vows I made came from my heart.”

“For me, or RaEmhetepet?”

“You. From the twentieth century. Who asks ‘what if’ questions and paints in the night.” He paled as he spoke. “I still cannot believe this,” he muttered.

“For how long?”

“What?”

“How long have you loved me?”

Cheftu chuckled. “It began when I saw your enchanting derriere.”

“Enchanting?”

“Mmmmm,
oui.
”

“And then?”

“Your grace in handling Hatshepsut, living forever!”

“I fell apart later. Dealing with history has never been my forte.” Sorry, Mom, she apologized mentally.

He twined a finger in her hair. “I desired your body when you almost shot me.” She frowned in confusion. “With the arrow,” he explained.

“I have excellent aim,” she said. “Right over the prow and into the water.”

“Mmm,” he said. “Although I was lost forever when you asked me ‘why.’”

“Why?”

He slid his hands down her arms, then gripped her low around the waist and pulled her to him. “Why this, why that. What would I do if … those many questions seduced me, word by word. I saw your soul. A person who questions and creates. I knew I loved you then … and only you,
chérie.
”

“You hid your feelings well,” Chloe murmured, breathless.

“I had hoped my actions would speak for themselves. I tried to care for you, protect you, give you the time you needed to become accustomed to me again.” He smiled grimly. “I had to keep from entrancing the assorted lords and soldiers you collect like flies!” He kissed her tenderly, barely brushing her lips with his. Speaking against her mouth, he said, “When I followed you off the boat that night, you were weeping so, I thought my heart would break. Then, when I touched you, you melted into me, needing me, wanting me.” He kissed her again, hungry. “I had already lost myself with RaEm once. I could not understand why I did not recognize your flesh. Indeed you warmed me more than fire.”

Chloe held him close and felt the steady thrumming of his pulse underneath her hands. “I liked it, Cheftu,” she whispered. “I liked everything then, and,” she gasped with remembered pleasure, “everything last night.”

He pulled back her head to look into her eyes. “Everything?” Passion flared in his look as her hands lifted the edge of his kilt.

“I think lovemaking is probably like ice cream,
glace,
” she mused. “Lots of different flavors for a lot of different occasions.”

Cheftu pulled her back with him, toward the couch. “Flavors?
Haii?
” He smiled. “Like mint and orange and honey?”

She smiled, unbelting his kilt. “Let me tell you about an institution in my country … it is called Baskin-Robbins….”

Chloe turned in his arms, much later.
“Haii
… coffee with cream is a nice flavor.”

Cheftu laughed, his chest shaking her. “Thirty-one flavors is an intimidating number,
chérie.
Do not tell me I create them on my own?”

“No … I will be some assistance. However, my sweet tooth has been satisfied….” She waited a beat. “For a while.”

“Praise Isis!”

She punched him on the arm gently. “Talk to me. I miss hearing English, or French, or whatever you want to use.”

“Bien.
What shall I tell you?”