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He shook his head. “As a crow flies, perhaps, but the canal was dug around the lake for the chief purpose of improving travel. The water level at this time of year is too low for a smooth sail across Edku, and we’d probably miss theTamariskaltogether.”
Helen studied him, then she considered the lowering sun and her unfamiliarity with the city and its landscape, not to mention her poor sense of direction. Despite her vast amount of preparation, no reading could compare with the knowledge of experience. And Mr. Evelyn did seem knowledgeable. And experienced.
“How far is it to Kafr Abu Homs?” she asked.
“A few hours’ ride, perhaps. We might catch them up sooner than that, but we should go directly.”
She nodded, relieved to have a course of action. “Very well. Let us go then.”
But before he could lead the way, a shout sounded from a nearby alley. Their pursuers had found them again. Mr. Evelyn groaned, and she scrambled to retrieve her bag as he pulled her back into the sheltering maze of the bazaar.
——
Miss Corbyn clutchedher bag to her as if she carried the incomparable Rosetta Stone. More than once Rhys had thought to relieve her of the thing—toss it into the canal perhaps, as it certainly didn’t help their speed.
But then he’d glance at her face and discard the idea. She’d been abandoned by her party, intentionally if he were to hazard a guess. Her bag was all she had. His jaw tightened at the cruelty of it. He was many things, but he wasn’t such a blackguard to take her only possession.
Not more than five minutes had passed since they’d last been spotted, and he feared it was only a matter of time before they were found again. With a decisive tug, he pulled Miss Corbyn into a garment seller’s shop.
“How do they keep finding us?” she asked breathlessly.
He shook his head and waved a hand vaguely to indicate her person. “Your hair,” he said, placing his hands on his hips as he tried to regain his breath. The devil take it, but his hand ached.
“My—my hair?”
“And your… form.” The distinctive silhouette of her gown, with its tight bodice, narrow waist and voluminous skirts, wasn’t hard to spot. He was surprised they’d evaded their pursuers this long. “You don’t precisely fit with the local residents,” he continued. “Many of them have never seen a European female, much less one with hair like”—she frowned, and he checked his words—“like that,” he finished.
“Let me see if I understand. You’re saying it’smyfault these men are chasing us?”
“Not in so many words, but… you don’t happen to have a cloak in your bag, do you?”
She turned her attention to the bag at her feet. “A cloak? No, I’ve only books.”
He coughed a laugh. “Books?”
“And some medicines and… and a sleeping apparatus.”
His brows dipped low. He should have tossed her things after all.
“Wilkinson highly recommends it. It’s the most ingenious design, really, to keep the bugs—”
“So, no cloak?”
She stopped and shook her head.
“No hat or bonnet?”
At another shake of her head, he turned to study the shop’s large wooden trunks. They were piled high with cottons and linen, garments of every sort, while bolts of colorful silk neatly lined two walls. He began moving through the piles, pulling items and thrusting them into her arms.
After some moments at this endeavor, she whispered, “You mean for us to don disguises. How clever!” And then she began returning items to the trunks. “But no one will ever mistake me for a Nubian, and besides, surely such measures aren’t necessary.”
“Desperate times, Miss Corbyn.”
She stared at him for a beat then nodded as she started her own collection. “What will become of my”—she swallowed, and he wondered if she’d be able to say the word “petticoats”—“mythings?”
“We’ll leave them.”
She stilled at that. “Leave them? That seems a bit excessive.”
