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“I think it is, for anyone who believes in it. And anyone desperate enough to kidnap an innocent Englishwoman must believe in it, or at least in the power it can bring.”
“But there’s a flaw in the tale, Miss Corbyn, one large enough to drive a horse and team through.”
She lifted her brows.
“If this elixir worked, then where is Anuk now?”
She leaned near him to whisper, “Perhaps he walks among us now. Perhapsheis the Collector, seeking to reclaim his amulet.”
“And perhaps you, Miss Corbyn, have read too many novels.”
She smiled. “It doesn’t matter ifwebelieve in the Trinity’s power. Clearly, the Collector does, and the fact that you hold one of the pieces can only work to your advantage. Even if he were to acquire the wings, they’re worthless without the scarab’s body.”
“I only hope you’re right,” he said.
She reached out and gripped his good hand in hers. Giving it a gentle squeeze, she said, “I am. You’ll find your sister, Mr. Evelyn. I have every confidence she’ll be returned to you soon.”
——
Rhys waited whileMiss Corbyn retrieved her “sleeping apparatus” from Fiona’s saddle bag, then he doused the lantern. Whatever the curious contraption was, she was certain she’d not enjoy a wink of sleep without it.
He lay in his tent mere feet from hers and replayed the events of the evening. From Miss Corbyn’s revelations about the amulet… to their kiss… to her confident assurances that he’d find his sister. But always he came back to that kiss. He’d never enjoyed one like it, and he didn’t think the difference was merely the softness of Miss Corbyn’s lips or her seductive jasmine scent. The difference was, quite simply, Miss Corbyn. Helen.
He smiled to himself. Sleep would be slow to come as his heart refused to settle its skipping pace, but he had something he’d not enjoyed in a long while: hope.
He closed his eyes, and a vision quickly formed of Helen in her tent as she readied herself for sleep. She’d probably wear her hair in a braid as ladies did, and he imagined soft russet tendrils curling about her ears. He tried to picture her with her can’t-sleep-without-it apparatus, but the image wouldn’t form.
His mind was well acquainted with mechanical devices, but he couldn’t make sense of the thing, with its linens and sticks. He gave the matter considerable thought, turning it first one way then another, until his mind finally gave in to sleep.
When next he opened his eyes, light was rimming the edge of the earth beyond the canvas of his tent. He rose and checked the security of the amulet out of habit then put the kettle back on the fire. Taking a clean shirt from his satchel, he washed at the edge of the pool. He rubbed a hand over his whiskered cheeks, which could do with a warm towel and a sharp blade. When he returned from the pool’s edge, a soft rustling sounded from Helen’s tent. She was awake.
“Miss Corbyn?” he said outside her canvas. The rustling stopped, and the lady released a heavy sigh. He hesitated before asking, “Would you like tea?”
“Yeeesss…”
She didn’t follow that with anything else, so he asked, “Are you well?”
There was more rustling and another sigh. “Mr. Evelyn, I’m afraid I need your assistance.”
Rhys’s brow furrowed. “Um… of course. What—?”
“My sleeping apparatus has become tangled. I need you to untangle it, but you must promise to close your eyes.”
Rhys pressed his lips in amusement. “How can I assist you with my eyes closed?”
She hesitated before deploying her governess voice. “Very well, you have a valid point. You may look long enough to establish a plan, but then you must close your eyes.”
He needed aplan? “All right,” he said hesitantly. “May I come in?”
“Yes.”
Rhys pulled back the flap of the tent and poked his head in. Then he choked on a laugh as his brows climbed toward his hairline. Helen was trussed up like a well-wrapped mummy in a bundle of cloth and netting that covered her from tip to toe. The netting hung like a shroud from the upper reed of her tent to cover her face. It appeared to be sewn onto a giant linen stocking that held the lady herself, and the whole of it was twisted to such a degree that rendered her immobile, like a pea in a pod.
“What in the devil’s name is that?” he asked before he could check his words.
“It’s called a Levinge,” she said, still using her governess voice. “It was named for its inventor, and it comes highly recommended to keep out the mosquitoes and drafts.”
“It looks”—he coughed to hide his laughter then tried again. “It looks to be doing a fine job keeping you in.”
