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Rhys’s heart tripped in hischest when Miss Corbyn emerged from behind the screen. She wore a flowingjalabiyathat tempted the imagination more than it concealed and a deep blue scarf that set off her spice-bin coloring. All in all, she looked like a vibrant sunset after a summer storm.
He frowned at the fanciful thought and drew a slow breath, even as he acknowledged that, for all her efforts, she would never pass for a local woman. With her pale skin and moss-green irises, no one would mistake her for a native to this part of the world, but at least her hair was covered. It no longer waved at their pursuers like a flag before a bull, and their passage through the ancient streets of Alexandria proved easier than Rhys had a right to expect.
Miss Corbyn walked quietly at his side as he led them to the livery where he’d stabled his camel. He knew the events of the past hours must have taken their toll on her nerves, as they had on his. There’d been that tiny moment behind the screen when he thought she might have been unraveling, but she’d done a creditable job collecting herself. There’d not been one hint of the vapors. No breathy whimpers of distress or complaints about the filthy streets.
Miss Corbyn was quite unlike the other ladies of his acquaintance, save one. His sister had a similar air about her, and he had no doubt that Miss Corbyn’s spirit was as practical as it was capable.
The lowering sun illuminated the city’s low skyline with fiery hues, and the air was thick with the combined scents of spices, warm bread, and goats. They wound their way through narrow lanes and alleys to the livery, where a donkey shuffled in his stall and a trio of mules chewed hay in an adjacent enclosure.
Rhys pulled a coin from his pocket and summoned a small boy to his side.
“I will assist you,effendi.” Malik, who’d aided him in his travels before, beamed a wide, gap-toothed grin as Rhys delivered instructions in broken Arabic.
When he finished, Malik eagerly snatched the coin and ran off to procure provisions and a couple of tents. While Rhys had every expectation of reuniting Miss Corbyn with her friends as soon as possible, he didn’t wish to be caught unprepared. He turned, surprised to find the lady standing close behind him.
She’d been pensive when they reached the livery, but now her eyes glinted with humor. She pressed her lips and he thought she might be fighting a smile. When he lifted his brows in inquiry, she said, “I’m curious to see if the boy’s successful in bringing the tailor.”
“The tailor?”
Her grin broke free. “Yes,al-khayaat, but the rest was spoken well enough. I imagine he’ll guess your meaning and that you wished to request… tents, perhaps?Al-khiyam.”
Rhys scrubbed a hand over his face and snorted a disbelieving laugh. Thetailor. Would his tongue never reconcile itself to this language? “Malik will sort it,” he said with more confidence than he felt.
“You’ve worked with him before?” she said as Rhys entered the paddock.
“I have. He’s young but eager to please.” And a coin from Rhys would feed Malik’s family for a week.
Rhys approached his camel with a blanket. She was an impressive beast with a thick, nearly white coat. Her shoulder was taller than he was, and she greeted him by trying to chew the scarf from his head.
Miss Corbyn eyed the animal warily as she trailed Rhys across the hard-packed dirt. With a gentle tug of the reins, he lowered the camel to her knees. “Though you may not believe it,” he said over his shoulder, “I’m better at reading the Arabic language than speaking it.” He settled the blanket on the camel’s back then layered thick, wool-stuffed pads over it.
“That’s often the way of it,” Miss Corbyn said. “I find when speaking that it helps to focus on the spirit of the message rather than the perfection of the words.”
“You make it sound effortless, but I assure you, I gave up on perfection long ago.”
She pressed her lips and studied his camel’s large teeth. “While I can appreciate the novel experience of riding a camel, would a horse not be a better mode of travel?”
“In the city, yes. A horse would navigate the streets with greater speed, but for longer distances in this climate, a camel has more endurance.” It was the reason—theonlyreason—he’d exchanged his own mount for the lumbering beast when he’d made the journey from Cairo weeks before.
Once he had the pads positioned to smooth out the contours of the camel’s hump, he reached for the saddle. It was a large wooden frame covered in leather and decorated with brass tacks, and he hid a grimace at the pain in his hand when he hefted it onto the camel’s back.
In a voice so soft he almost didn’t hear it, Miss Corbyn said, “You’re procuring tents. Do you think we’ll not intercept theTamarisk?”
He’d knelt to fasten the girth straps, but he straightened at the question. Her apprehension was clear in the high set of her shoulders. He considered lying, but he said simply, “I don’t know.”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
Before he could stop the words, he added, “But I’ll do my best to see you safely reunited with your party.”
She opened her eyes and studied him, measuring and assessing until he thought she’d burn a hole in his forehead. Finally, she nodded again, more firmly this time.
He resumed his task, attaching an ornate halter and a fringed leather leg-rest before finally adding a pair of elaborately woven saddlebags to either side of the animal’s hump. By the time he was finished, his hand throbbed fiercely, and tassels hung from every possible surface of the animal.
“How did you come by the tack for your camel?” Miss Corbyn asked.
Rhys combed his fingers through the woolly hair on the animal’s long neck. “The trader who sold her to me offered it for a bargain when he learned I had none.”
Miss Corbyn cocked her head, eyeing the impressive display. Finally, she smiled. “I think the trader has recognized you for a bachelor, Mr. Evelyn.”
