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“Unless you wish to carry them, but I assure you, a lady toting her petticoats through the streets will be a much more noteworthy sight.”
Her cheeks colored at his plain-speaking, but she pressed on. “Surely, there’s some value to be had. My—mythingsare made of fine cotton!” she hissed.
“Then by all means,” he said as he motioned toward the bearded shopkeeper, “you’re welcome to negotiate a price for them.”
He’d no wish to think of Miss Corbyn’s petticoats, much less continue to discuss them, so he turned his attention to a tall stack of woven head cloths. Behind him, Miss Corbyn was silent for a long moment before she began an earnest discussion in rapid Arabic. When Rhys turned, he saw she’d found the shop owner’s wife. With her hem lifted two—possibly three—inches, she was negotiating a hard bargain for her flounced underthings.
Rhys quickly averted his gaze and wondered at this lady who couldn’t even say the word “petticoat” but had no issue engaging with the locals in their language.
Then he wondered at himself—what was he thinking to help her catch theTamarisk? He didn’t have time to play noble escort for a stranded female. He needed to find the Collector. He needed to keep his wits about him. He needed to remain alive. A female would hinder his efforts in every regard.
He eyed the door and wondered if he could slip out. Perhaps he could retrieve his camel and be on his way before Miss Corbyn finished her negotiations. She was fluent in the language and resourceful. Without the draw of the amulet in his bag, she’d be safe enough. She’d find her way to the consul-general or a hotel or convent or some such. The granddaughter of Lord Whatshisname wouldn’t remain abandoned for long.
He exhaled heavily. As tempting as the notion was, he wasn’t the sort of man who left a woman behind. That thought brought him up short, and he swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. Fiona might argue he waspreciselythat sort of man, but he’d not do it again.
He’d see Miss Corbyn reunited with the Tyndales, and then he’d go his own way. Alone.
——
Helen stared downat herself and wondered how she’d ever be able to emerge from behind the screen. She’d removed her gown and petticoats to pull a loose, embroidered garment of pale blue cotton over her shift and stays. Though modestly cut, the robe swung and drifted about her as she moved.
She felt like an entirely different person.
Without the heavy, voluminous layers between her and the outer garment, there was so much… air. She could feel the brush of the cotton against her stockinged legs. It was absolutely decadent and, she was certain, indecent. Why, she might as well traipse about in her night rail!
“Is all well, Miss Corbyn?” Mr. Evelyn spoke from beyond the screen, and she started.
Was all well?
No!Nothingwas well. She’d been left behind, stranded in an unknown land with an unknown man for companion. She’d yet to post today’s letter to her parents, and people had beenshootingat them.
No, all was not well.
But she’d longed for adventure. She’d wished for it, and now an Arabjinnior one of the Egyptian gods had seen fit to deliver it to her feet.
With surprise, she realized she’d been muttering aloud. The silence on the other side of the screen was deafening, and heat flooded her face. Finally, Mr. Evelyn coughed and cleared his throat before moving away.
She inhaled a slow breath to calm the racing of her heart then lifted a lovely indigo scarf. She lowered it over her russet curls, wrapping the linen loosely about her head and neck and tucking her hair beneath the woven edges.
There was no mirror to gauge the effect, but she imagined she must appear a proper Arabaimra’a. It would surely be enough to escape the notice of the men who’d been chasing them. Mr. Evelyn would have no cause for further complaint.
“Miss Corbyn? We should go.” His voice was low beyond the screen, with just enough of a rough edge to vibrate along her spine. It brought to mind her museum thief.Themuseum thief. He certainly wasn’thers, and he certainly wasn’t Mr. Evelyn. It was ridiculous to even think it.
Museum thieves didn’t hold basins for peaky ladies. She forced her thoughts aside and stepped out from behind the screen.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She looked up and her mouth dried. He was still dressed informally in his explorer’s garb, but he’d added a dark grey head scarf. He wore it loose as she did hers, wrapped to cover his neck and hair, the ends looped over his left shoulder. His cheeks were rough with the hint of night whiskers, and in that moment, with his penetrating pale gaze, she had no trouble believing this ordinary Englishman and her dangerous museum thief were one.
Her heart thumped in her chest. Truthfully, what did she know of Mr. Rhys Evelyn? A shiver lifted the hairs on her nape as she eyed his profile. Was she about to entrust her life and her person to a… a criminal? Did she have a choice?
Go do what you need to do, Helen, and come home safely to us.
She didn’t think casting her lot with an unknown man was what her father had in mind, but the shadows beyond the shop grew longer by the minute. She puffed her cheeks with a sigh and nodded.
“I’m ready.”
CHAPTER NINE
