I rushed away from the doorframe, my cheeks burning. Mortification made my blood simmer hot in my veins. When I first met Whit, I had found him an annoying flirt. Since then, I really had thought of him as a friend . . . No. I had to be honest with myself. A small part of me had been fighting against the attraction I had felt for him since our day in the market.
Whit had stood up for me. He hadn’t left my side in that saloon. We had faced my uncle together. Let her stay. He could never know how much those words meant to me. When everyone always told me no, his defense had felt like a warm welcome.
But he clearly only viewed me as a friend.
Which was for the best. I couldn’t forget that. And even our friendship had limits. There was a note from my mother I couldn’t bring up to him. A square card with a picture of a gate that I couldn’t ask him about. A distrust of his employer that he’d never share.
Whit wasn’t a confidant.
He worked for my uncle.
By the time I reached my cabin—the storage room, more like—I’d managed to compose myself. From here on out, I needed to remain focused on what laid ahead. I wanted to know what had happened to my parents. If I was going to snoop around the campsite, I couldn’t have anyone suspecting my motives or following me around. And ever since the magic had latched on to me, I was curious about Cleopatra. I’d seen her, and now I was heading toward her possible burial site. The desire to find her nearly overwhelmed me.
To do that, I couldn’t afford any distractions of my own.
I dragged out my canvas bag from underneath the bed and took inventory. I peered at the items scattered around, realizing that most of them were meant for camping. Tents and mosquito nets, rough bedding, and thin pillows. Next to the supplies lay a large leather bag. A quick peek inside showed several bottles of medicinal purpose, along with jars of vinegar and, curiously, cream of tartar.
A sharp rap on the door gave me pause as I wrangled the extra coverlets onto the narrow bed. It was probably my uncle, and my temper spiked as his words ran through me.
He wanted to use me as some sort of pawn in his game.
Tío Ricardo thought he could control me but I would never let that happen.
Another knock jarred me from my thoughts. I sighed and opened the door, scowling.
But it was not my uncle.
Whit regarded me in amusement, hands tucked into his pockets, an easy and familiar smile on his lips. He leaned against the doorframe, his chin dipped down, his face hovering so close to mine. If I hadn’t heard him speak the way he had about me to my uncle, I wouldn’t have believed it.
He peered over my shoulder. “Settling in, darling?”
And just like that, all good sense deserted me. I stared at him in impotent fury. His words rang loud in my ear. Her beauty doesn’t turn my head. “I’d advise caution against addressing a lady so familiarly. Some unfortunate girl might read into your words.”
He threw his head back and laughed.
“If any one of them mistook it for deeper feelings on my end, well, I’d call them a proper idiot.” He regarded me lazily under his half-lidded gaze. “Now, if I were to call a lady by her Christian name that would be an entirely different story.”
I stilled, the ground I stood on shifted under my feet. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not really.”
I lifted my eyes and met his blue ones. “You called me by my Christian name.”
He narrowed his gaze. “When?”
“When I was in mortal peril.”
Relief skittered across his face. Loosened those tight lines at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, well, that’s different.”
“Why?”
“You were in mortal peril.”
I rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. My scare in the river had left me shattered. “What do you want, Whit?”
He appeared startled to hear his first name. “Don’t call me that.”
“Lo siento, do you prefer Whitford?”
“Only your uncle calls me that.”
“Whit it is, then. Did you need something?”
He assessed me. “Do you have all the necessities? Toothbrush? Pillow? Blanket?”
“Yes, I managed to sneak some useful things on board.”
“A thrilling tale, no doubt.”
I recalled changing into the tunic next to the building, worried I’d be seen, terrified I wouldn’t make it on board. “It certainly had its moments.”
We fell silent, with only the sounds of the Nile disturbing the quiet. The soft light drifting into the cabin from the small window danced across his face. His grave expression stole my breath.
“I’m glad I made it to you in time,” he said softly.
“Me too.”
He straightened away from the door, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Good night, darling.”
*
I examined my wardrobe, considering what to wear. My options were severely limited; two walking dresses, a pair of Turkish trousers and a wrinkled cream blouse, one pair of shoes. I decided against the bicycle costume, and landed on the yellow muslin, warm enough for the cool evenings and ladylike enough for propriety’s sake. My hair hadn’t been brushed in days and the results were terrifying. Wild curls floated around my face, refusing to be tamed, each strand with a mind of its own. I pulled the upper half away from my face and secured it with a ribbon. The mirror revealed disastrous results; hair barely managed, my clothes wrinkled, and there were new hollows under my cheekbones.
I sighed. The best I could manage on my own.
Morning light poured in from the single window as I splashed cool water on my face before heading out to the saloon. Everyone sat around at the table and stilled at my approach. Isadora smiled over the rim of her mug while her father gave me a less than friendly perusal. Probably searching for weapons hidden in the folds of my skirt. Mr. Hayes shot him an annoyed look. Kareem poured coffee into waiting cups, and then he gestured to the remaining open seat. My uncle kept his face hidden behind the paper, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Buenos días,” I said.
Whit held up his coffee in an ironic salute before taking a long sip. His eyes were bloodshot, tired, and there was a definite droop in the line of his shoulders.
“Up all night?” I asked.
The corners of his lips twitched, and he arched a brow. There was a wicked gleam lurking in the depth of his eyes, and I knew he was barely restraining himself from saying something inappropriate. But he wouldn’t, not in present company. “I slept fine,” he said in a husky voice.
I blushed and tore my gaze away.
“I fear we haven’t been properly introduced,” Mr. Fincastle said in the same accent as Whit. I was struck again by his immense frame, all brawn and the thick mustache that covered a stern mouth. He’d killed the crocodile with only three shots fired, from above the water on a rocking boat.
“I am Se?orita Olivera,” I said. “That man hiding behind the paper is my uncle.”
Damn it, I really had meant to behave.
“Miss Olivera, a pleasure. You’re looking a bit more dry,” Mr. Fincastle said coolly.
Tío Ricardo lowered his reading material with a dramatic sigh. He set it aside none too gently and regarded me from across the table as I took my seat.