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“It’s another two hours’ ride from here. We’ll reach it tomorrow as we near Tanta.”
“It’s so close? Wouldn’t it be better to push on a bit more? Surely—”
“We’ll camp here.” Her brows dipped at his high-handedness. His fear and worry were making him a bear to be around. He cleared his throat and softened his voice to add, “Bandits, Miss Corbyn. They’ve been active near Tanta, and I’d prefer to avoid them. We’ll stop while there’s still a bit of light to set our camp by then make an early start in the morning.” His stomach announced his hunger again and he added, “And I’d like to see what Malik has packed for our supper, if that meets with your approval.”
She closed her mouth on whatever argument she’d been preparing. Her brow eased as she said grudgingly, “I… I suppose that is a sound plan.”
Miss Corbyn seemed happiest when she had some measure of control. Or the appearance of control, at any rate. It was a trait with which he was well familiar.
They dismounted, and he set to preparing their camp. He placed Fiona’s saddle near a small palm and fashioned a second seat of sorts from the camel’s blanket. Thankfully, Malik had delivered two small tents, rather than tailors, and Rhys unfolded the canvas. His brows lifted when, instead of settling herself atop the saddle, Miss Corbyn stepped to the water’s edge to collect reeds. They worked in agreeable, if not wholly companionable, silence, and the tents were up sooner than he expected.
A shallow pit filled with bits of dry tinder completed their camp. Although the day’s sun had been warm, the night would be cool, and they’d welcome the warmth of a fire. He filled their skins with water and allowed Miss Corbyn some privacy with one of them while he rinsed his own face and neck at the edge of the pool.
He returned to find her seated atop the saddle and a small kettle on the fire. She’d removed her scarf, and the firelight caught occasional threads of gold and amber in her hair as she moved.
He lowered himself slowly to the blanket and sat with his back to the palm, one knee bent. Nearly twenty-four hours atop a camel had left his muscles spent and aching, and he knew Miss Corbyn must be feeling the same. He bit back a groan, grateful when she passed him a small tin plate. She’d piled it with flat bread and salted beef from Malik’s provisions, as well as dates and dried apricots.
She checked the kettle and added tea leaves before settling back onto the saddle. “How does your hand fare?” she asked as she nibbled her own supper. Her bites were small and delicate as if she dined at a fine London table. For a moment, he indulged in the fantasy that he was back in England until his dining companion waved at a buzzing fly.
“It’s well enough,” he replied. In truth, his hand was stiff and swollen and had turned an intriguing shade of purple. It was not, however, putrid, despite how she might have wished it. And though he disliked admitting it, her powder had done a rather impressive job of relieving the pain. He cleared his throat and conceded, “It still aches a bit, but the pain is much improved. Thank you.”
She smiled around a date. It was an I-told-you-sosort of smile that told him she would be the devil forsome poor chap to live with someday. Exasperating, probably. Irksome, undoubtedly. But soft and vibrant and most assuredly, never dull. There was a rare spark to her, not unlike the fireworks he’d seen in London on the occasion of Her Majesty’s marriage. A life with Miss Corbyn would surely be an adventure all its own. The thought brought him up short, and he returned to his meal with diligence.
She turned then and the firelight dispelled the shadows about her face. He pushed aside his musings and lowered his bread to ask, “Did you happen to bring any salves in your medicine box?”
Her brows dipped into a perfect V. “Salve? Yes, why? Are the gnats biting? I’ve noticed they’re rather more aggressive than our English variety.” As she spoke, she waved another insect from her face.
“I was thinking more of a remedy for sunburn.”
She peered down at him, checking him over, and he said, “Foryou, Miss Corbyn.”
His meaning finally took, and she raised one hand to her brow with a gasp. “Me?”
He nodded.
“Is it very bad?” She patted her forehead gingerly.
He shook his head. “It’s not so bad,” he lied. Her forehead and the bridge of her nose were a delightful pink, but come morning, she’d be as crimson as a holly berry.
She hurriedly popped the last of her bread into her mouth then lifted the medicine box onto her lap. “I’ve some elderflower lotion in here somewhere,” she said as she rummaged through the contents. “Lemon cream would be better, but I didn’t bring the proper ingredients for that. And who’s to say I’d find fresh cream in the middle of the desert anyway?”
Miss Corbyn, he’d noticed, tended to run on a bit when she was rattled. She finally retrieved a small bottle with triumph, and her teeth nibbled her lower lip as she worked the cork. Rhys watched her fumble with the container for a moment more before he reached over and took it from her. His fingers grazed hers and she trembled. He doubted he had such an effect, so it must have been dismay that caused the slight tremor in her hands.
He stood and pulled her up from the saddle, holding her fingers lightly in his to still their shaking.
“What—?”
“It’s only sunburn, Miss Corbyn,” he said, confused by her obvious distress.
“I know,” she said softly.
“You’ll be uncomfortable for a few days, but it will pass.”
“Of course, you’re right. It’s only… I promised my father—” She stopped. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, and she blinked once. Twice.
Rhys’s pulse sped at the unexpected threat of tears. He’d not have thought Miss Corbyn a watery sort of female, and he was relieved when she regained her composure.
With a swallow and a shaky smile, she said, “My father was concerned about this journey. I promised him nothing unfortunate would happen, but I’ve gone and lost the Tyndales. Or perhaps they’ve lost me, I’m not really certain. And now… now I’ve acquired a sunburn. I promised I would be cautious. He’ll be disappointed, and I can’t blame him. It’s an understatement to say nothing has gone quite as I planned.”
