AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Twenty-four hours of searching had not revealed any sign of his sister. If the shop owners in Old Cairo knew anything, none of them were speaking of the tall, pale Englishwoman. Fiona was noticeable, and he found it hard to believe no one had seen her being taken from their streets. He’d returned to Shepheard’s often, his heart buoyant with hope that Fiona had found her way back, only to sink once again on finding their suite still and empty.
He sank onto the settee in the sitting room and held his head in his hands. Closing his eyes, he pondered what to do next. When he opened them again, it took a moment for him to regain his bearings. He’d fallen asleep, but something had awoken him. He held himself still, listening. Then he heard it: a faint breath in the room’s stillness. A shadow moved in the moonlight, and before he could react, the cold steel of a blade touched his throat.
“Where’s the amulet?” a heavily accented voice asked.
Rhys’s pulse thrummed loudly in his ears. “Where’s my sister?”
The blade pressed more firmly against his throat. Sweat slicked his brow as he tried to discern his attacker’s face. The dim light caught a pale scar on the man’s cheek but did little to dispel the shadows about his eyes. The man was thin, though there was determination in the press of his knife. But Rhys was fast and strong and larger than his visitor. He was confident he could overtake the man, and his muscles tightened in readiness.
“The Collector will trade your sister for the amulet.”
Rhys stilled. Fiona was alive! His heart thumped with relief, and he swallowed against the steel at his throat. “Who is the Collector? Where is he keeping her?”
“He is a man you do not want to cross.”
“Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it if you take me to my sister.”
The man hesitated, and the pressure against Rhys’s throat eased.
“Do you have a sister?” Rhys asked. “A wife or a cousin, perhaps, under your protection? You must know I’ll do what’s necessary to protect my sister. Take me to her, and I’ll see that you’re well rewarded.”
The knife shifted against Rhys’s throat once more. “I cannot.” NotI will not, butI cannot.
“There’s no need to do another man’s bidding,” Rhys pressed, “when you can profit from your own enterprise.”
“I do no one’s bidding,” the man spat. “You have one day to deliver the amulet.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Then you must get it. You have one day,” he repeated.
“Where should I bring it?”
“I will find you.”
It was clear Rhys would learn nothing more here, but if he bided his time, waited until the man left, he’d follow him. Perhaps his visitor would lead him to this Collector or even to Fiona. Inaction soured his stomach when he wanted nothing more than to leap from the settee and throttle the man, but waiting was the most sensible course.
The man straightened and slowly removed the blade from Rhys’s throat. As he did so, another figure stepped from the shadows. Before Rhys could react, the second man delivered a powerful blow with his fist, and darkness edged Rhys’s vision.
When he woke again, dawn was lighting the sky. Rhys rose to sitting, groaning at the pain in his head. He planted his elbows on his knees and tugged at his hair in frustration. He’d let the man—his only lead to Fiona—get away. He rose, ignoring the ache in his head as he stabbed his feet into his boots. He set out for the port, determined to buy the pendant back. If he needed to, he’d call on old skills to break into the dealer’s shop and steal it.
As it turned out, there was no need to resort to thievery. A light shone from within the shop when he arrived. Mr. Osman, a thin fellow with smooth skin the color of cream tea, remembered Rhys. He stood back to admit him, although he’d not yet opened for the day.
“The scarab? Yes, I recall it,” he said in response to Rhys’s fevered inquiry.
“I need to buy it back.”
Osman frowned. “But I don’t have it,” he said. “I sold it to a museum gentleman.”
Rhys stared at the man, unable and unwilling to believe his wretched luck. He inhaled deeply and asked, “Do you know where I can find him?”
“I imagine he must be on his way back to England by now.”
CHAPTER ONE
BRITISH MUSEUM, LONDON
Miss Helen Corbyn was gratefulfor the full skirts that hid her tapping foot. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Lord Thorsby’s account of his latest mummy acquisition, but she’d much rather be reading ancient texts than debating mummification techniques.
