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“But first,” Masri continued, “you must see my children. The youngest has grown since you were here, although she has taken a cough that worries my wife.”
He led the way into the Masri home, where Rhys made appropriate noises over the man’s offspring. Helen was nowhere to be seen, although Rhys could hear Mrs. Masri chattering in a back room somewhere.
At Masri’s invitation, Rhys lowered himself onto a large, tasseled cushion. The trader’s oldest daughter, a pretty girl of nine or ten, offered Rhys a cup ofkarkadeh, which he accepted with a nod of thanks. As he drank the sour hibiscus tea, Helen emerged from the Masris’ back room with a toddler on her hip. The child’s head rested on her shoulder as Helen gently stroked dark curls away from a sweaty brow. Rhys’s heart skipped unexpectedly at the sight. His mind quickly flashed ahead five years to an image of Helen holding her own child, perhaps one with shining, russet curls. He swallowed and stood as she approached them.
“I need my medicine box,” she said to Rhys, then she turned to Mr. Masri and repeated the same in Arabic, describing the box that could be found in their saddle bags. “I have something that should help little Mariam’s cough,” she explained.
Rhys stepped to her side, a frown creasing his brow. “It’s not opium, is it?”
She frowned in irritation. It was a look he was growing used to seeing, and not one that was altogether unwelcome. “It’s not but a bit of camphor,” she said. “I’ll mix it with some oil to create a rub Mrs. Masri can apply to Mariam’s chest. I doubt it will cure the cough altogether, but it should give her some relief.”
Rhys nodded and went with Masri to retrieve her box. When they returned, the ladies began mixing Helen’s camphor, heads bent together. Rhys was nearly overwhelmed by a rush of affection for the woman who’d become his unexpected traveling companion. With her scarf andjalabiya, she was as suited to Masri’s small parlor as an earl’s granddaughter might appear in an opulent ballroom. With her intelligence and easy manner, she adapted and molded herself to any situation, and he couldn’t say he’d ever encountered anyone quite like her.
“It worked, no?” Masri said softly.
Rhys realized he’d been caught staring. He pulled his attention back to his host and frowned in confusion at the man’s words.
“The camel… the tack,” Masri clarified with a nod toward Helen. He unleashed a rapid string of Arabic that Rhys was pressed to follow, but he caught the phrase “your bride.” A laugh bubbled up in Rhys’s chest, and he suppressed it. Helen had an annoying tendency to be right. His camel’s tackhadbeen selected with the aim of earning him a wife.
He started to correct Masri on the matter of his bride, then he stopped. The explanations would be too lengthy for his limited Arabic skills. Besides, he and Helen had shared a kiss and he’d cut her from her sleeping apparatus. Didn’t that make her his on some level, anyway?
He looked to where Mrs. Masri had begun rubbing the camphor on little Mariam’s chest a short distance away. Helen’s cheeks, which had escaped the worst of her sunburn, were now a delightful shade of pink to match her nose. She kept her gaze carefully averted from him and Masri, although Rhys suspected she heard every bit of their conversation. He clapped Masri on the shoulder.
“Shukran, sadiqi,” he said.Thank you, my friend.Helen drew in a sharp inhale, and Rhys hid his grin.
“Another camel,” Masri said slowly, “perhaps another wife, eh?”
Helen’s frown grew, and Rhys’s own smile fell as he followed Masri from the house.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Helen was certainthere must be ladies who weren’t prone to blushing, and she wished she were one of them. As it was, her cheeks and ears burned hotter than her forehead. She swallowed as Mr. Evelyn left with Mr. Masri and tried to focus on her task. Another wife, indeed!
Mariam drifted off to sleep in her mother’s arms, her cough soothed for a time. Mrs. Masri placed a hand on Helen’s shoulder and offered a soft consolation. “Do not be concerned if he takes another wife. It’s clear to see you have your husband’s heart, and that is what matters most.”
Helen smiled weakly then followed the other woman outside where Mr. Masri had brought out several horses for Mr. Evelyn’s inspection. The gentlemen stood at the fence near a tall chestnut mare as Mr. Masri pointed out the horse’s many attributes.
“My camels are the best for long journeys, but for the streets of Cairo, you will need a horse.”
Mr. Evelyn rubbed his chin, brows pitched low as he considered the animal.
“And if you seek the best horse along the Nile, she is the one,” Mr. Masri continued, rubbing his fingers through the mare’s thick mane. “Only five hundredpiastres. A horse of this quality will cost you seven hundred in Cairo.”
Mr. Evelyn shook his head. “She’s too tall.”
“Ah, you wish something more suitable for your bride then.” Mr. Masri moved them down the fence to a small bay whose ears twitched as she eyed them. “Do not let her size fool you. This one is a wise choice for traveling the city without emptying your purse.”
“Is she sure of foot?” Mr. Evelyn asked.
“She is steady,” Mr. Masri confirmed. “And for you, my friend, I will make a special price. Only four hundredpiastres.” He tugged on the horse’s lead and guided her about, demonstrating the mare’s even gait.
Mr. Evelyn made some noises of indecision, and Helen silently applauded his negotiating skills. She’d assumed from the number of tassels hanging from Fiona’s tack, that he’d blindly accepted whatever the trader had sold him, but it was clear he had a strategy.
He shook his head and started to walk away, muttering, “I’m sorry, Masri. It’s too much.”
Mr. Masri moved closer to say, “If you are concerned about the price, I will add the saddle bags. They are sewn from the softest leather in my cousin’s shop, with many compartments to make a functional yet attractive accessory.”
Mr. Evelyn looked up and spied Helen at the fence. Without betraying his bargaining position, he gave her a slow wink, and her insides turned to warm jelly.
