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Entombed with her enemy...
Will her heart remain unscathed?
Left to die in the tomb of her beloved Pharaoh Tausret, royal adviser Aya would be silenced forever by those who seek power. But she is not alone! Egyptian soldier Intef is there to steal her mistress’s gold. Now they must work together to escape. This handsome warrior is Aya’s enemy, yet it’s passion not hatred that burns between them. Can their desire withstand the revelations that await them outside?
GRETA GILBERT’s passion for ancient history began with a teenage crush on Indiana Jones. As an adult she landed her dream job at National Geographic Learning, where her colleagues—former archaeologists—helped her learn to keep her facts straight. Now she lives in South Baja, Mexico, where she continues to study the ancients. She is especially intrigued by ancient mysteries, and always keeps a little Indiana Jones inside her heart.
Also by Greta Gilbert
Mastered by Her Slave
Enslaved by the Desert Trader
The Spaniard’s Innocent Maiden
In Thrall to the Enemy Commander
Forbidden to the Gladiator
Seduced by Her Rebel Warrior
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Saved by Her Enemy Warrior
Greta Gilbert
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-0-008-90133-2
SAVED BY HER ENEMY WARRIOR
© 2020 Greta Gilbert
Published in Great Britain 2020
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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For my beloved Aunty Kathy,
our family’s reigning queen,
who has loved and inspired me all my life.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Extract
About the Publisher
Chapter One
1189 bce—Valley of the Kings royal burial ground, west of Thebes—modern Luxor—Egypt
Aya was kneeling in prayer when she felt the guard’s hand cover her mouth. She tried to cry out, but his large palm muted the sound. ‘Do not scream,’ he muttered in her ear. ‘Remember your dignity.’
He tugged her head backwards and she felt the cool of a blade against her throat. ‘It will be over soon,’ he assured her. ‘Close your eyes.’
Aya did as she was told. Quickly, she thought. A merciful death.
A bronze voice sliced the silence. ‘Cease.’
Aya opened her eyes to discover the High Priest of Amun standing over her, the torchlight flickering on his powdered face. He blinked at the guard. ‘No blood may be spilled inside a house of eternity. Use rope.’
There was a rush of movement into the burial chamber. Aya was seized by her arms and lifted, and her feet were pulled out from beneath her.
‘Behind the shrine,’ the High Priest directed and Aya was carried across the chamber like a goat.
‘Holy One,’ she said. ‘What is happening?’
She was tossed to the floor beside the hut-sized golden container that had been constructed around Pharaoh’s sarcophagus. She tried to sit up, but the guard’s large palm held her down.
‘Pharaoh’s Most Beloved Advisor is irrelevant now,’ he muttered, his sour breath in her ear. ‘She will follow Pharaoh to the fields of paradise.’
Aya perceived a rope being threaded between her bound arms and wrapped around the shrine.
She heard the sound of men heaving. Her wrists rose up above her head, suspended by a rope she could not see.
‘The pectoral,’ the High Priest intoned. Aya felt the weight of her golden pectoral necklace—the most valuable thing she owned—being lifted off her chest.
She tried to kick, but her feet were already bound. They were being lifted above the floor like her wrists had been.
‘I beg you to cease!’ she shouted at last and, when she heard the High Priest’s bemused grunt, she began to sob. ‘For the love of Isis.’
‘Silence her,’ he snapped and Aya felt a blow to her stomach.
‘Holy Ones!’ she shouted. Another blow. ‘Guards!’ A blow to her side, her head, her face...nothing.
When her wits returned, Aya heard the sound of bricks being stacked in mud. If death had a sound, this was it. Scoop, swish, set. Her head throbbed and her heart filled with dread. She moved to cover her ears, forgetting that her wrists were tied.
She opened her eyes.
If death had an aura, it was the quality of torchlight. It flashed across the painted ceiling, illuminating the garish yellow stars. She was lying on her back, her ankles also tied, and now she knew why the men had bound her this way.
Tied beside the shrine of the deceased, she could not show herself to the priests standing at the entrance to the chamber. She could not display her tears or appeal to them for mercy. She could not see them and they could not see her. She could only whimper in misery and stare up at those terrible stars, ablaze in the mocking torchlight.
Myrrh.
Its scent was everywhere. The priests had filled the chamber with its anise-tinged smoke. ‘The Breath of Isis’, it was called, because it was supposed to invoke the divine protectoress. But it only clogged Aya’s lungs, giving her the unusual sensation of drowning. If death had a scent, surely it was that of myrrh.
She was seized by a spasm of coughs. She strained against her bonds, forgetting that she could not cover her nose. She could do nothing but let her lungs clear themselves in the sanctified air of the tomb, feeling all the while that she was despoiling it. She should not be here, but she was tied. Tied.
She filled her voice with deference. ‘Is this some manner of test, Holy Ones?’ She pictured them lingering in the shadowy corridor just beyond the chamber, their bald heads gleaming in the torchlight. ‘Surely you do not mean to leave me here?’
The practice of burying living servants with dead kings had been forbidden in Egypt for thousands of years and the men at the entrance to the chamber knew it. It was an abhorrence, an offence to ma’at, the principle of order and justice. Yet not a single voice responded to her query.
‘Venerable priests,’ she began. ‘I beg you. Do not condemn me thus. I have never stolen. I have never cursed the gods. I have never harmed an elder, or a child, or spoken ill of anyone. I have served the Living God in all...’ she paused ‘...in most things.’
She awaited a response, but there was only the diminishing torchlight, the thickening air and the dogged rhythm of the bricks, as if the jackal-headed god of death himself were stacking them.
Her voice cracked. ‘I refer you to Pharaoh’s funeral papyrus,’ she said. And to your own humanity, by the gods. ‘I am to be freed from service! It has been written.’
But it was as if she were talking to the paintings on the walls.
Scoop, swish, set.
‘If you do not free me, you defy the will of a god!’ she shouted. ‘You place Great Egypt in danger.’
So why were the priests not responding? Aya searched her heart—the centre of all her thoughts—and a dark knowing descended. The priests did not care whether or not they offended Pharaoh Tausret, because they had never believed in Pharaoh Tausret at all.
Because Pharaoh Tausret had been a woman.
‘I can pay,’ Aya lied. ‘There is a cache of gold hidden in Pharaoh’s Temple of Millions of Years. I can show you where it is.’
She thought she heard someone grunt, followed by a breeze of whispers. Perhaps her lie had found some adherents among the priests and other officials. Perhaps the High Priest himself was considering her offer? She had long suspected his designs on the Horus throne.
The High Priest was not the only man with such an ambition. General Setnakht, a rebel general with his base right there in Thebes, had sought the double crown throughout Tausret’s reign. It was rumoured that he, too, was gathering his army and that Setnakht and the High Priest would soon face each other in battle, with the Horus throne as the prize.
There was only one problem with their efforts. Neither of the pretenders could prove a link to the royal bloodline. Without royal blood, none could win the loyalty of all the people. Royal blood was divine blood and only a god was allowed to sit on the throne of Egypt.
Whichever man succeeded in taking the throne would claim a link to Pharaoh’s bloodline and Aya was the only person who could prove him wrong.
Which was why it seemed that she was doomed.
‘You may save yourself,’ the High Priest said suddenly. The sounds of bricklaying ceased. ‘Tell me where I may find Tausret’s heir.’
Aya bit her tongue. She did not know exactly where the heir resided, but she knew enough. It was a secret that Pharaoh had shared with Aya alone. How did the High Priest know she kept it?
Perhaps he had only guessed that Aya knew about the heir. Perhaps he thought that the threat of entombment would be enough to coax her secrets from her.
‘Speak now, woman!’ the High Priest thundered. ‘Or be silent for ever!’
It was her chance. If she would reveal the location of Pharaoh Tausret’s only living son, she could save her own life.
But it was a confession she could not make. She had been a poor counsellor and an even poorer protector, but a traitor she was not. She would keep the heir’s existence hidden for ever, for that had been Pharaoh’s dying wish.
Scoop, swish, set.
Now it was Aya who said not a word and the moments seemed to stretch into years. She had failed Pharaoh in many things, but she would not fail her in this.
‘I will find him, you know,’ snapped the High Priest. ‘And I will kill him.’
Aya heard another brick slide into place and the sound of voices moving further and further away. ‘You will not find him,’ she whispered, as if merely saying the words could somehow make them true.
She would not allow herself to cry, though tears seeped from her eyes anyway. She needed to remember her dignity, as the guard had said. She had begged and grovelled and debased herself enough. Now it was time to quietly accept her fate.
‘The will of Osiris,’ she whispered and a stream of tears dribbled into her mouth. They tasted of kohl and brine, of sour and salt. They were the taste of suffering, of a long, slow, terrible death.
There was not a single sound now and even the painted stars had ceased to shine. And Aya was alone.
Chapter Two
Intef held his breath, testing the quiet. It had begun only moments ago, when the voices had faded and the sound of stacking bricks had ceased. Bless the gods for the peace. The woman’s grief-stricken ravings had been almost too piteous to bear—and so very loud.
‘I am to be freed from service,’ she had cried, betraying her advanced age. It seemed that the old woman had served Pharaoh all her life, for her freedom had become so precious to her that she was threatening to remain in the burial chamber if she did not receive it. She had even offered to lead the priests to gold in exchange for it.
She had obviously been overwhelmed by grief and in the end they had had to bind her limbs with rope just to extract her from the chamber.
That had been at least an hour ago, but Intef knew he could not yet emerge from the stuffy chest in which he huddled. The tomb was not yet empty. A whole gang of servants were currently filling its long entrance corridor with earth. He thought he could hear the faint spilling of their buckets. If he could hear them, then they would be able to hear him.
Another hour, he decided.
He exhaled, forcing his breath through the layers of linen surrounding him and reminded himself to stay calm. He had nine days, after all. That was how long the tomb workers had assured him that one man could survive inside a tomb before the spirits of the Underworld claimed him.
Intef turned away from the morbid thought. He had more immediate concerns, such as how to adjust the angle of his throbbing neck. He was not sure he could wait much longer. He was wretched with hunger and thirst and both his legs had gone numb.
How many hours had it been since the priest Hepu had stuffed him inside this wooden prison? Twenty at least, for it had been late the previous night when Intef had met the priest outside Tausret’s mortuary temple. He thought back to the strange encounter.
‘You are Setnakht’s beetle?’ Hepu asked. Like Intef, the priest had been working in secret for the rebel Generals—first Amenmesse, then Setnakht—for most of his life.
‘I am indeed, Holy Brother,’ Intef replied. ‘It is nice to finally meet you.’
Hepu looked disappointed. ‘You are too tall for the chest I had planned.’
‘Do you have another? Something with a rooftop bed and a view to the river?’ Intef jested.
‘You are nervous,’ said Hepu.
‘On the contrary, I am delighted to begin my adventure.’
The priest shook his head. ‘You should be nervous. I know not of a single living man who would do what you are about to do.’
‘How difficult could it be?’ asked Intef. ‘I will relax inside a chest for the next few hours, then get carried by royal chest bearers into the dusty hills. After another short rest, I will emerge from the chest into a lovely tomb, then chisel my way out through a bit of stone.’
‘When you realise what you have done, you must not panic,’ said the priest. He gazed at the hammer and chisel Intef carried. ‘You think those are your greatest tools, but they are not.’
Intef sighed. How priests loved to give advice. ‘What, I beg, is my greatest tool?’
‘Calm,’ said Hepu. ‘Come, we must hurry.’
Hepu sneaked Intef into the pillared staging hall and they stumbled amid the deceased Pharaoh’s sacred grave goods. ‘I have replaced the beer with water in a dozen amphorae bound for the tomb,’ he whispered. ‘They will be on the second shelf in the northeast storage room.’
‘Remind me again, Hepu, where is that particular room?’
Hepu expelled a heavy sigh. ‘Nobody has instructed you in the layout of the tomb?’
‘The men in the tomb workers’ village said it was very long, with two large chambers.’
‘By Horus,’ Hepu held out his arm. ‘Imagine this is the tomb,’ he said. He ran his hand down his forearm. ‘This part is simply a long corridor leading down to the chambers. After Pharaoh—and you—are entombed, it will be filled in with earth.’
‘I knew that much,’ Intef said.
Hepu arched a greying brow, then opened his palms and held them slightly apart. ‘This is what you will be left with—two large chambers connected by another corridor.’ He raised his left hand. ‘Your journey will end when you reach the second or main chamber. It is the deepest part of the tomb.’ He touched each corner of his hand. ‘There are four storage rooms adjoining the main chamber. Your chest will be placed inside one. In one of the other storage rooms you will find the water containers I mentioned, along with beer and bread.’
‘Olive bread?’ asked Intef.
Hepu ignored Intef’s attempt at levity. ‘To reach the first chamber, the false chamber, you must break through the main chamber’s security seal and go up this corridor.’ Hepu pointed to the space between his palms to indicate the corridor that joined them. ‘Just before you reach the false chamber, you will notice two entryways on either side of the corridor. Those are the unfinished chambers.’
‘Where Pharaoh Tausret’s greatest treasures lie?’ asked Intef.
‘For the sake of the rebellion, let us hope,’ said the priest. He raised his right hand. ‘You will have to break through another brick seal to reach the false chamber. It is slightly smaller than the main chamber but is similarly flanked by four storage rooms. It is also where you will carve your tunnel,’ said Hepu. ‘Ah, here we are.’
They had arrived at Intef’s unlikely ferry—a large ebony chest. Hepu opened the lid to reveal a cache of the late Pharaoh’s undergarments. ‘Get in,’ he said.
‘You must be jesting,’ said Intef.
But Hepu was a man who did not jest and Intef held his breath as Hepu covered him with layers of lavender-smelling loincloths.
‘You could not have chosen a chest full of salted beef?’ mumbled Intef.
If their mission succeeded, Hepu would be raised to the priesthood of one of the larger temples of Thebes. If it failed, he would likely lose his head.
Hepu arranged the last layer of garments atop Intef and sighed. ‘Forgive us, oh, mighty gods,’ he said. ‘We labour for the good of Egypt.’ Then he closed the chest and locked it shut.
Intef thought back to Hepu’s strange advice: ‘When you realise what you have done, you must not panic.’
Who was panicking? If there was any cause for panic, it was because he would be smelling like a woman for the next nine days.
It was an ignominious mission to be sure. Instead of marching alongside General Setnakht on his way to seize the empty throne of Egypt, Intef had agreed to be buried inside a tomb surrounded by a woman’s delicates.
And that had not even been the worst of his debasement. The processional journey from Pharaoh Tausret’s House of Millions of Years to her House of Eternity the following morning had been something akin to being baked slowly in an oven. At one point he had caught himself moaning.
Thankfully, none of the chest-bearers seemed to notice. Nor did the onlookers, whose oohs and ahhs only added to the cacophony. Who could detect a small moan above the jangling sistrums of the priestesses and the shrieks of the professional mourning women?
Then there was the distraction of Pharaoh herself, who had been transfigured into the god of resurrection via a solid gold coffin made in the shape of Osiris. A troupe of milk-bearers purified the ground before her as she floated towards her tomb on a sled borne by six white bulls.
The onlookers obviously revered her: she was the last direct descendant of Rameses the Great Ancestor, the last person in Egypt to carry that divine blood.
Though to be fair, she no longer carried any blood at all. Just seventy days ago, it had been drained by the embalmers and her cranial matter had been removed through her nose. Four of her organs had been preserved in sacred canopic jars, leaving her heart in its place, and her entire royal body had been smothered in Natron Valley salt.
After thirty-five days in salt, her royal corpse was then cleaned and wrapped in linen strips cut from her own robes. Precious amulets were placed beneath those linens, which were then sealed in place by unguent-scented resins.
Every preparation had been made to preserve Pharaoh Tausret in a journey that—it occurred to Intef—had begun only moments ago, just after sunset.
It was the first of the twelve hours of night and Tausret’s soul was journeying through the Underworld while Intef waited inside the chest that contained her undergarments.