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‘We’re a fair pot and kettle then, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘You could give a mule lessons in holding its ground.’
‘A cross between a mountain goat and a mule—two very sturdy animals. You should be grateful you acquired me so cheaply; in Egypt you would have to part with many camels for the privilege of marrying such a sturdy wife.’
He rubbed his jaw, an audible rasp in the quiet of the cabin. Her body tingled and she called it to order. The man was in no state for any of that.
‘Sturdy Sam.’ There was still that smile in his voice and she wondered if it was kind to wish he suffer from megrims more often.
‘That sounds like a poorly named village fair exhibit: Sturdy Sam and her Spectacular Stalactites.’
‘Thank you, Sam.’ His voice was quiet, cutting through her nonsense and flooding her with embarrassment.
‘That is an even worse name. Though it rhymes with Thank you, ma’am. You could have the makings of a limerick there.’
‘You never could take gratitude or compliments very well. I seem to remember the first time I heard you use a profanity was when I told you that you had drawn a fine copy of a wall carving at Karnak. Something about my being related to a dung beetle. I forgot that.’
‘Well, now that you’ve remembered, keep it in mind.’
‘I shall try.’
His smile widened and so did the pit under her feet, but then he frowned.
‘You said you slept. Don’t tell me you slept on the floor, without even a mattress or a pillow!’
‘Of course not. I slept in the hammock.’
He looked in disbelief at the limp hammock hanging from one hook and she laughed.
‘It is true. I mastered the fine art of hanging it and getting in without cracking my skull. I am very glad you were lost to the world, though, because my entry and exit still lack grace, but you are quite right, I slept better than on that rack of a cot.’
He didn’t answer and absurdly she felt a wave of long-forgotten shyness join her embarrassment. She fiddled with her pencil.
‘Are you hungry?’
He stretched again and shook his head.
‘No. My appetite takes a while to recover after having nails slammed into my eye with a sledgehammer.’
‘Is that what it feels like?’
‘Close enough. On a good episode. When I’m not being stubborn and trying to push through it like a good soldier. But I do need to go take care of other more pressing issues. And find my boots. At the moment I can’t remember how or where I took them off.’
He stood very carefully and gave a small sigh of relief. At the door he turned.
‘Thank you, Sam.’
And left.
Chapter Eight
‘He is no warrior,’ Sekhmet scoffed, looking down at Gabriel’s sleeping form, her claws gleaming silver in the moonlight.
Leila cast her shadow between him and the goddess. ‘Yet he did not run with the others. He is here.’
—The Sprite Queen,
Desert Boy Book One
Egypt had been moving swiftly towards summer, but England still wasn’t convinced it was spring. The moment they sighted the grey and green coastline the world lost its sunny briskness and sank into a sulking drizzle that lasted all the way to London.
The same grey veil fell on Edge as well. It was his first time back in England in years and he was dreading it. He was even beginning to think fondly of HMS Lark, which was surely a sign of severe desperation. Sam tried to make conversation during the coach ride, but his mind refused to provide anything beyond monosyllables and she finally let him be. He hoped she would attribute it to what she insisted on calling a megrim. He could see the benefits such ailments served. Not that he wanted to keep Sam at bay, he merely...
He didn’t want to be here.
England was not a good place for him. All the light he’d ever really experienced in England was centred on that brief period with Jacob at Chesham House when he’d been shocked to discover he not only loved being a father, but was a good one.
Not a bad brother either—Rafe had surprised both of them by staying at Chesham for almost a year before he had to return to his affairs. Jacob had made the grey Greybournes bloom. And then wither.
Now he was back.
And married again.
It would be a miracle if he didn’t ruin this.
* * *
The carriage clacked to a stop and Edge stepped on to the pavement in front of an imposing Palladian-styled house. Sinclair House presented a perfect façade and probably hid a multitude of sins. He helped Sam descend from the carriage and her hand jerked a little in his, pulling him out of his self-absorption.
‘Sam? What is it?’
She shook her head, the ribbons of her bonnet dancing in the wind.
