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‘No. I always thought it had something to do with my health.’
Sam straightened, more present now in her curiosity.
‘How strange. Janet used to say you were the only one she dared allow help her when families brought their ailing children to Bab el-Nur because you rarely fell ill for more than the length of a day, even as a child. I doubt she would have subjected you to risk if your health had been poor.’
He rubbed his left arm, frowning.
‘I broke my arm once.’
Her eyes lit, tightening at the corners with suppressed laughter.
‘Were you climbing something? No wonder you are such a namby-pamby about my mountain-goat tendencies. But that would hardly be a reason to send a child away.’
‘I have no idea what namby-pamby means but, no, I wasn’t climbing anything. I...’ Pain shivered along his arm and he shook it. ‘I cannot remember. I must have been six, before I went with Poppy and Janet. It was the last time I saw snow for many years.’
He stared at her drawing, uncomfortable with the memory and with the worry in her winter-sea eyes. The drawing was of a rising sandstorm behind a shadowy figure standing on Senusret’s temple, his robes billowing about him as if he was conjuring the storm by sheer will. It was beautiful and powerful, but there was something very wrong with it—hidden in that storm was something evil and the man had no defence against it. It would be utterly perfect for a scene in the next Desert Boy book. He should be pleased, but he felt almost...invaded.
Sam slipped her hand through his arm and he looked away from the drawing. A hard fist of pressure was lodged in his chest again and without thinking he pressed her hand to the insistent thud under his vest. It was like walking into a brand—an aching heat spread outwards, a flush of fever spreading over his skin.
‘What frightened you just now?’ she asked quietly and he dropped her hand.
‘Nothing.’
To distract her and himself he reached for the leather-bound drawing case on the table, but she moved past him and took it.
‘These aren’t ready.’
‘I don’t mind, I merely wished to see...’
‘I mind.’ She slid them into a drawer, leaning back against the dark wood. ‘My uncle is coming this morning. I dare say he will be here soon.’
He stepped back as well, tucking away his hurt at her rejection. If she didn’t want to share her drawings with him, then fine.
‘You spoke to him?’
‘No. I promised I wouldn’t, but Lucas said he would if you didn’t return before he left. I never expected you to be absent so long.’
‘Believe me, I derived no joy from spending days and nights riding hired hacks the length of England. You knew full well this was my priority.’
‘Full well, my lord.’
‘Don’t snarl, Sam.’
‘You started it.’
He rolled his shoulders, trying to pull back. ‘So I did. I apologise. I should have at least told you where I was going and how long it might take.’
‘Blast you, Edge. I hate when you pull the rug out from under me.’
‘That was very ungallant of me, I know. Shall I apologise for that as well?’
‘Pray don’t bother; your apologies only make me feel guilty. Will you speak to my uncle, though? As long as Rafe isn’t threatening to undermine Parliament I give you my word Oswald shan’t harm him. He would even have protected Ricki had I asked and he detested him.’
Edge leaned against the table. She never mentioned her husband and he’d never asked. He searched her face for some indication of her feelings and saw nothing. Sam of old could never have kept so much of herself hidden.
‘Detested is a strong word. Why?’
‘Ricki belonged to a fast set. My uncle was afraid he would not change his habits when we married.’
‘Did he?’
‘For a while.’
‘And then?’
‘It hardly matters now. Will you speak with him?’
‘Yes, blast it.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to face the leering portrait of her ancestor.
‘Have you hoarded all your curses over the past couple of weeks, or is it the Sinclair influence?’
He didn’t turn to see the smile he heard in her voice. There was something useful about the old Lord Sinclair’s leer—it was an antidote to his own lechery.
‘Edge.’ Her hand slipped over his and into his pocket, proving him utterly wrong. Every inch of him went on alert. ‘We will find him.’
‘I know we will.’ His voice was far too rough, but it wasn’t anger or dismissal. It was the sensation of her fingers slipping between his, their tips trailing fabric over his thigh. Just a little to the left... He opened his mouth to make the suggestion when the door opened.
