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She scowled, but humor sparked in her eyes.
He grew serious. “Are you certain?”
She nodded, and her hand curled into his. “I’m certain.”
The knot loosened in his chest, and he squeezed her hand lightly. “Thank you,” he said simply, but his voice carried the weight of everything he couldn’t express.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Helen’s elation on hearing Mr. Masri’s account of the English travelers had been immediate, for there could be no other “sour fruit” quite like Lydia. But then she realized the significance of this news. To go after the Tyndales would be one more delay in Rhys’s search for his sister, and her heart had plummeted at the thought.
They’d reached yet another impossible predicament. She couldn’t venture after the Tyndales alone, but neither could she allow Rhys to abandon his search to accompany her. Proposing that they continue to Cairo together had been the only sensible course. Rhys’s softly spoken gratitude and the gentle press of his hand on hers only confirmed she’d made the right choice.
She smiled and dropped his hand as Mr. Masri approached them.
“You do not need to choose Cairo or Alexandria,” he said. At their matching expressions of confusion, he clarified, “The gentleman has gone to seek supplies for his family’s journey. I sent him to my cousin’s shop in Selamun not more than ten minutes before you arrived.”
“Selamun,” Rhys said. “That’s this side of the river, is it not?”
Mr. Masri nodded. “You will find my cousin’s shop next to the blacksmith.”
Helen’s heart quickened and she raced to retrieve her map. She unfolded it atop the fence rail, and they leaned their heads close to study it. “It’s here,” Rhys said, pointing to a spot not more than a couple of miles from where they stood.
Helen looked up and caught his eye. They stared at one another in stunned disbelief before she jumped to help him secure the mare’s tack.
A couple of miles! Could it truly be so simple? Then she reminded herself of the hours spent chasing the Tyndales, and she laughed at the ridiculous question. This journey could never be described as simple. Rhys glanced over at her and grinned as if he knew the direction of her thoughts.
They took their leave of Mr. Masri and his wife in less than five minutes. Helen pressed her bottle of camphor into Mrs. Masri’s hand with a gentle stroke of Mariam’s brow, then she and her new mount led the way to the long drive. As Rhys followed her, Mr. Masri motioned to him and Helen hung back.
“I will have another fine camel for you when you are ready to take another wife.” Mr. Masri’s tone was one of amusement, and the tips of Helen’s ears burned.
Rhys leaned toward the trader, and the mare danced beneath Helen as she shamelessly strained to hear his reply. “Miss Corbyn assures me I’m not so much a fool as that.”
The trader laughed and clapped Rhys on the back in a show of masculine fellowship that crossed the barriers of culture and language. Shaking her head, Helen turned the mare down the drive as Mr. Masri called a farewell to Rhys. “Ma’a salaama, my friend. May you find all that you seek.”
Rhys’s horse soon drew alongside Helen’s, and she chanced a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He wore a poorly concealed grin that she felt compelled to correct.
“For the sake of clarity,” she began, “I never said you were not a fool. I merely said I didn’t think the trader would have taken you for one. There is a distinct difference.”
Rhys chuckled and shook his head. “Do you ever grow weary of being right?”
“No.”
Helen nudged the mare into a canter to the sound of his laughter behind her. A moment later, he called out. She ignored him to continue riding until she heard him say, “Miss Corbyn, it’s this way.”
——
The road toSelamun was narrow and winding and edged with thick clumps of river grass. It followed a sweeping curve in the Nile, bending to the river’s power as all things did. The river lapped at its edges as it pushed on toward the sea, and in the distance, workers toiled in the broad fields of a sugar cane plantation.
They rode in silence for some minutes, their teasing forgotten. Helen studied the man as he cantered alongside her. He sat tall and straight in the saddle, the scarf looped loosely about his neck and shoulders, the wide strap of his bag a dark slash across his chest. He’d been a proud caliph atop his camel; now, atop his horse, she imagined him a fierce warrior sheik.
With his pale eyes, whiskered jaw and explorer’s attire, she wondered how she’d not recognized him for her museum thief sooner. Her heart increased its pace at the recollection of that night, of the mystery and intrigue—and the thrill—of the unknown intruder who’d boldly pressed her to him.
She wasn’t a silly bit of fluff to mistake such an event for romance. But now she knew the man behind the mystery, and Rhys was so much more than a phantom thief. He was mysterious and intriguing and thrilling, yes, but he was also a gentleman with a devilish sense of humor and a quick wit, despite his linguistic failings. He was ordinary and mysterious, rough and polished, serious and spirited.
He was a bit autocratic, it was true, but she supposed that was to be expected from one with such fierce determination. And his never-flagging efforts on behalf of his sister spoke of a heart that loved deeply.
And he was a good man, despite the circumstances of their first meeting. Despite his own confession that he’d not lived a saint’s life. She could well believe it, but she’d come to realize the line between good and bad, right and wrong, wasn’t as clearly drawn as one might expect.
