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‘Heaven forfend!’ Durham had objected. ‘It is true there are more talented illustrators in matters technical, but I do not know of another who could capture the emotions that quiver between the characters of your tales. One always feels that any moment that world will come to life and we shall all be swept into the adventure. I fear readers already attached to her images might feel cheated by any change midstream, so to speak, and that might affect our sales, Lord Edward.’
I don’t give a rat’s ass about sales, Edge had wanted to respond, but it was not true. The first book was published when Jacob was barely a year old, just before he fell ill. Edge had loved reading to Jacob—his son’s cinnamon eyes would light with pleasure at the cadence of his reading and his laugh made Edge’s heart expand to encompass the universe. Edge had no idea if his stories reached Jacob, but he knew without a doubt the illustrations did—whenever a page contained an illustration, Jacob’s plump, stubborn fingers would stop Edge from turning the page until Jacob looked his fill.
Unlike the Egyptians Edge did not believe in life after death, neither in heaven or hell or anything in between. But he wanted desperately to believe in it so he could imagine Jacob still existed somewhere other than in his dried husk of a heart. And if that was so, every book he wrote, and every illustration Sam drew, was for Jacob.
‘What is wrong, Edge?’
He hadn’t noticed she’d stopped drawing or that she was watching him. He turned away.
‘It’s boiling out here. At least come inside the temple. There’s even a statue of Senusret in there for you to climb on. You just might fit on his lap.’
Well, that was a mistake. The sharp knife of grief did lose its sting, but it was replaced by the image of her lush posterior on the statue’s granite lap, wriggling as she settled, the stone warming...
‘Help me up, then.’ She extended a hand and he took and helped her to her feet, her hand warm and dry in his. She gave a little moan as she balanced herself on the shifting sand. ‘My legs are still stiff after that ride yesterday. I wish women could go to a hamam and have someone—’
‘Blast it, Sam,’ he interrupted before that image also took root in his already disordered mind—his hands moving over her legs, kneading the taut muscles, skimming up her thighs, warm... ‘You cannot speak of such things in public. I thought you’d finally grown up.’
He saw anger flash in her eyes and was almost grateful for it. He’d be grateful if she pushed him off the temple roof if it countered his deteriorating impulses.
‘Well, I thought the same of you. You were hardly such a prude last night.’ She moved past him towards the bank of sand and this time he did not try to help her down.
* * *
Sam knew the moment they entered Bahariya that news of Rafe had arrived. There was a welcoming committee, led by Aziza with Janet by her side standing almost on tiptoe in her excitement. Edge reached them first.
‘They’ve found him?’
‘News of him, my dear.’ Janet grasped his hand, her other extended towards Poppy. ‘They stopped in Farafra several days ago and so are likely in Cairo by now.’
Edge turned to al-Walid.
‘Please convey my gratitude to your people. This means I must leave tomorrow at dawn.’
Sam followed Janet and the women, her thoughts stumbling over each other. Following Edge to the temple had only jumbled her thoughts further. She felt both more uncomfortable and comfortable with Edge than anyone she knew and that wasn’t helping in the least. There would be no time to explore her half-formed thoughts and plans. They’d only muddied the waters further. Tomorrow Edge would be gone and she would soon be returning to London and to whatever future she could build for herself.
Nothing had changed.
A small, sharp voice spoke at her very core.
You are right. Nothing will change unless you change it. So do something, Sam Sinclair. You are tired of being swept along, rudderless. So do something...
Chapter Four
Leila knelt by the silvered rim of the lake, placed her hand on the cool water, and called up her fate.
—Lost in the Valley of the Moon,
Desert Boy Book Three
‘Edge? Are you awake?’
For a moment he thought he’d mistaken the whisper of the wind for her voice. But then the cloth entrance shifted and a figure slipped into his tent. He surged to his feet, his whisper grating in his ears.
‘What the devil are you doing here, Sam?’
‘I need to speak with you.’
‘We can speak tomorrow before I leave. Now go away before you are seen.’
‘By whom? I hardly think any of al-Walid’s people will denounce me to the patronesses of Almack’s.’
