AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Akeem’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly before he said, “I have been tasked with retrieving the amulet in Alexandria. Bring it to the bottom of the Pont Vieux and leave it at the largest date palm. Someone will contact you with the information on your sister’s location.”
Rhys frowned. Did they think him so foolish to believe if he left the amulet under atree, they’d simply return his sister to him? He’d been strung along at the end of the Collector’s tether for too long, but he had what the man wanted. “I told you, I’ll not give up the scarab until—”
Akeem gave a short laugh, a low sound that iced the blood in Rhys’s veins. “You are not in a position to give the orders, Evelyn. Leave the amulet at the tree, and you will have what you want. Fail in this, and your sister will pay the price. The Collector is not a patient man, and he grows tired of this game.”
Rhys sucked in a heavy breath and nodded reluctantly, but he’d not play the fool. His sister’s life might very well depend upon it. He’d leave the amulet, but he’d watch to see who retrieved it. If luck were with him—and to be honest, he was due a little favor from the gods—then he’d follow the amulet back to the Collector. To his sister.
Akeem left him, and as Rhys wound his way through the dirty streets of the Turkish quarter, he couldn’t help the feeling that he was being watched. The weight of the pistol inside his coat offered poor comfort as he crossed the city.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Helen finished a lengthy letter to her parents, taking time to describe theTamariskand the glorious details of the baths they’d visited. Although her parents had probably seen similar sights during their years in Egypt, she knew they would read her letters to her siblings and grandparents. Aster and Eloise would appreciate the detail, even if Edmund would not.
Despite what she’d told Mrs. Tyndale, she was too excited to rest, so she went to stand at the rail. She left her bonnet in her room—she was mindful of her father’s warning about the Egyptian sun, but she wished to feel it on her face for just a bit.
It was a relief to be off theOriental.She looked forward to the next part of their journey, as river travel had never disagreed with her, and she eagerly anticipated her first view of the majestic Nile. Wilkinson’s guidebook described the route to Cairo, especially the stretch along the canal, as uninteresting and uninspiring. This portion, however, bustled with activity.
Thin dirt tracks lined both sides of the water where horses would tow the boats along the fifty-mile stretch of canal to the Nile. Beyond the tow track, buskers hawked their wares along a wide boulevard. And everywhere, porters in long robes carried provisions aboard the docked vessels while more men sorted the great piles of trunks and bags that had been brought from the port.
Helen shook her head once more at the chaos as one poor traveler’s bandbox tumbled from a large pile to land perilously close to the water.
A crowd of darkly handsome male travelers—Italians by the sound of it—could be heard from the next boat. They were loud and boisterous in the celebration of their holiday, and one young man shouted something inappropriate, in Italian, toward Helen’s deck.
Her neck heated. She was tempted to respond in kind, if only to show them she understood the crude words if not their meaning, then she thought better of it. She was the granddaughter of an earl, after all. She was above such displays, no matter that her lips twitched with the urge.
When their attention was captured by something on the opposite shore, she gave in to her curiosity and cast a furtive glance toward their boat. Scholarly interest, she told herself. That’s all her curiosity was—an academic interest in their customs and behavior, much as she had for the ancient Egyptians.
Then something on the shore caught her eye. She frowned and straightened at the rail. There, amidstthe towering pile of baggage waiting to be loaded onto the Italians’ vessel, was a trunk that looked suspiciously like… Lydia’s. And behind that… Helen’s carpet bag—the one with Wilkinson’s guidebook!
She hurriedly glanced around her own boat for someone—anyone—to assist in sorting the confusion. The professor hadn’t returned yet from his errand, and the captain was nowhere to be found. She tried to get the attention of the porters loading provisions aboard theTamarisk, but they were singularly focused on their task.
She looked up again and was dismayed to see two men beginning to load the Italian boat. They lifted heavy trunks atop their shoulders and stepped nimbly onto the deck with their burdens.
“Wait!” she called in Arabic, but they couldn’t hear her above the noise of the Italian travelers.
A door opened behind her, and Lydia’s head appeared from her cabin. “What are you going on about?” she asked, looking remarkably bright eyed for one who’d retired to her cabin with a head-ache and a bottle of laudanum.
“There’s been some confusion with our things,” Helen explained, still trying to get the attention of the porters.
“Well, I’m certain shouting like one of the natives won’t help matters.”
Helen gritted her teeth and said tightly, “The porters are preparing to load your trunk onto the next boat.”
Lydia’s eyes narrowed then widened in alarm, and she nearly stepped out onto the deck in her pink dressing gown. “Can’t you fix it?” she hissed, but Helen had already begun walking.
Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the wooden plank to where the porters were gathered. As she reached them, her bag toppled from atop a tall stack of trunks to land at her feet. Bending, she hefted it into her arms then explained the problem with Lydia’s trunk. The men stared intently at her uncovered hair as she spoke, and she regretted leaving her bonnet in her cabin. Finally, after much confusion and gesticulating, the men nodded and agreed to deliver the English trunk to the proper craft.
Helen released a heavy exhale, relieved that disaster had been averted. Gripping her bag, she navigated the mud and grass of the tow track back to theTamarisk. As she neared the plank, she was surprised to see Mr. Evelyn at the mouth of a nearby alley.
She was equally surprised by his transformation. Gone was the polished gentleman from theOriental. This man was dressed informally in boots and a dark neckcloth. A felt hat left his eyes in shadow while a traveler’s canvas frock coat over a vest and bleached linen shirt made him appear a proper explorer. An adventurer bent on discovery. A thief set on—No. Her imagination was being ridiculous. Nevertheless, her pulse increased its pace.
She waited to see if he would notice her, but he turned without a glance in her direction and strode down the narrow lane. She straightened her shoulders, not the least bit disappointed. Then she spied his leather satchel—the one he’d carried off theOriental—at the base of a large date palm. He’d left his bag.
She hesitated briefly before calling out. “Mr. Evelyn!”
He couldn’t hear her above the noise of the street. She shifted her bag in her arms, uncertain, but she knew how dismayed she’d be if her own things were lost. Decision made, she hurried across the boulevard and retrieved his satchel.
A donkey cart rattled past, and she lost sight of Mr. Evelyn momentarily. When the lane cleared, he stood in the shadows of a small alcove, hands on his hips. He spied her, and his eyes dropped to the bag in her arms then widened in dismay.
