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“You’re very knowledgeable on the topic,” he said slowly.
“It’s a topic worth knowing.”
He wondered what Miss Corbyn would make of Fiona’s amulet, and he had half a mind to show it to her. But then, given the lady’s clear opinion on the illegal movement of artifacts, perhaps that wasn’t the wisest course.
So instead, he asked, “Do you have a particular area of interest? Pottery, or mummies and tombs, perhaps?”
“My brother Edmund would have preferred the latter, I think. He’s always said there’s fortune to be had in searching out the tombs, but my interest lies primarily in ancient texts.”
Although Rhys had never encountered a female scholar, it made sense, given her clear facility with languages, that she’d have an interest in the old tongues.
She released her grip on the pommel long enough to tuck a stray lock of hair beneath her scarf. The lowering sun outlined her profile, lining the gentle slope of her nose and the curve of her cheek. His arms had tightened about her again. He forced himself to relax and wished he’d had two camels for them instead of the one.
“As pleasant as our conversation has been, Mr. Evelyn, I think you’ll have a hard time filling your harem with polite small talk.”
Her words surprised a cough from him. “You think a bit more dash is needed?”
“Oh, I’d say a lot more. Egypt is a land of majestic mystery, of ancient kingdoms and alluring secrets. It demands boldness, sir, not boiled-turnip niceties.”
What would she say, he wondered, if she knew he’d been the one in the museum that night? If she knew he’d held her pressed against him as he enjoyed the warm, sweet scent of her hair? Would she find that bold enough? Or would she be appalled to know she rode with a former lock-pick? Then, sobering, he reminded himself “former” was no longer an accurate description.
He sighed and said only, “I happen to enjoy boiled turnips, Miss Corbyn. They’re a reliable and sturdy vegetable.”
Her lips tilted into a smile before she said, “Surely, there’s something to be said for conversation that’s… reliable and sturdy… but I’m afraid you’ll need to add a bit of spice if you hope to win yourself another bride. You can’t rely on your camel to do all the work. Perhaps you’ve some impressive tales of bravery to share?”
“If I hope to win another bride, Miss Corbyn? Are you vying for the position? You don’t strike me as the sort of lady who would share a husband.”
She gasped and turned, and he was delighted to see her cheeks had pinkened. “Of course not! I was merely speaking in hypotheticals.”
“Hypotheticals,” he repeated. “Of course. Regardless, I can’t imagine your Lord Thorsby would approve.”
She shifted on the saddle. He thought she’d not respond to that sally, but she finally said, “Not that it’s any of your concern, but Lord Thorsby and I do not have an understanding. Miss Tyndale… well, I’m not certain why she would have implied such a thing.”
Rhys recalled the flirtatious Miss Tyndale’s attempts to secure his notice in Valletta. He’d suspected she was up to something, but to hear from Miss Corbyn herself that there was no understanding between her and this Thorsby… Her words caused a curious flutter behind his rib cage that he settled with an irritated frown.
“I merely thought to tease you,” Miss Corbyn continued, “much as I do my siblings, I suppose. We used to play games with my father—make up stories and such—to pass the time on long carriage rides.”
Stories? The silence between them stretched until, with a sigh, he said slowly, “Well, it’s true I’ve had a few adventures in Egypt.”
She tilted her head, and her shoulders eased a bit. “Have you now?”
He nodded, wondering what the lady would find sufficiently entertaining. Given her intrepid spirit, he wasn’t certain he was up to the task. Nevertheless, he found himself saying, “I once led a caravan of traders across the desert—”
“The unforgiving desert.”
“Pardon?”
“For a truly compelling tale, the desert should be unforgiving.”
Rhys dipped his head. “My apologies. We were crossing theunforgivingdesert, when, in the midst of the fifty-day winds, we were ambushed by a tribe of nomadic warriors.”
Miss Corbyn’s brows dipped charmingly as she considered this. “Were they Tuareg? The Tuareg are very protective of their trade routes.”
“Yes, well, they might have been, I suppose. But in the course of the ambush, they…” He hesitated. Miss Corbyn canted her head in anticipation and he continued. “They took a lady from our party.”
“How dreadful,” she whispered.
“I managed to avoid capture.” Rhys cleared his throat, which had gone dry.
