—Captives of the Hidden City, Desert Boy Book Four
Bahariya wasn’t quite what Sam had expected. Once they’d passed the rippling tan and gold sand dunes, what met her gaze was not an encampment of tents, but a sprawling town of mudbrick structures tucked between date groves.
At least they were finally there, she thought with relief, because every last inch of her ached and she had to consciously stop herself from licking her lips because they dried so quickly in the desert breeze it felt like they might crack open like overripe fruit.
Her body felt like it had taken a beating but her pride was faring the worst.
Edge must be almost as out of practice at riding a camel as she, but he sat as gracefully on the dusty cloth saddle as Daoud and Youssef while she felt her joints might need re-attaching.
She tried to rub her leg without being obvious and Edge glanced at her briefly, but as usual she could not tell what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all. It was like riding beside a living statue. She wished she could draw him just as he was—with the protective cotton scarf and his skin darkened by the sun he looked like he belonged here.
At least until he looked at you with those deep-water eyes. They’d always reminded her of moonlight reflecting off a lake, leaving you wondering if it was merely inches deep and full of nothing more than muck and algae or a crevasse stretching miles into the earth and filled with fantastical creatures like the Lake of Sorrow in the third Desert Boy book.
She wondered if Edge had ever come across the Desert Boy books, or if Poppy and Janet ever told him she was the illustrator of the novels that had become one the most successful novels in England. It was part of this silly descent into childish impulses since his arrival that she wanted him to know. He would probably not be impressed and he definitely wouldn’t understand how important the Desert Boy books were for her. She hardly dared admit it to herself. Other than Lucas and Chase, who were already fading away from her into their marriages, the books were the one firm anchor in her life. Which was ludicrous considering she didn’t even know who wrote them.
A trickle of perspiration ran down her cheek and she brushed at it, grateful for the faint coolness it brought with it. Out here in the emptiness of the desert everything felt insubstantial. Perhaps she could just keep on riding, aching joints and all, and never have to make a decision about her future.
‘Almost there.’ Edge guided his camel closer to hers and she scowled at his commiserating smile.
‘That sounds suspiciously like “I told you so, Sam”.’
‘I never strike an opponent when they’re down. You look like one nudge would topple you from that poor camel.’
‘Trust you to pity the camel, Edge.’
His smile widened, but his attention was drawn away by the crowd gathering as they entered the town. They were mostly women and children in plain cotton robes, eyes wide with curiosity. They stopped near a well between the buildings and Sam gathered her resolution to dismount, but before she could move Edge was beside her, holding out his hand.
‘It’s been years since you’ve ridden a camel let alone for so many hours, Sam. You’ll need help.’
He’d unwound his headscarf and his face and hair were dust-streaked, his temples and cheeks marked by dark rivulets of perspiration. She could only imagine what she looked like, she thought with a rush of embarrassment. But even unkempt and dusty he looked unfairly handsome. No, even more handsome than usual. He looked raw and unvarnished, like a statue before it was sanded into perfection.
‘Well? You can’t stay up there all day. If there is trouble awaiting us, we will need you to scare them off.’
It was an olive branch and she felt foolish at the magnitude of her relief.
‘How do you do that?’ she asked.
‘Do what?’
‘Laugh without laughing.’
The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.
‘Years of training. It wouldn’t do to encourage you.’
He unhooked her leg from the saddle and swung her down to the ground before she’d even adjusted her balance. She grabbed hold of his arms, steadying herself and thoroughly resenting that he was right—her legs were as stiff as logs and bursts of sparkling pain danced up from the soles of her feet. She managed to snap off her groan by gritting her teeth.
‘That bad?’ he murmured, his arm supporting her, his other hand splayed on her waist as she half-leaned her elbows against him.
‘Someone has put needles in my boots while I wasn’t watching,’ she replied, trying not to think of the hard surface of his chest, the dark, warm smell of his body so close to hers.
‘I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to come.’
‘You did not allow me, Edge. I’m not a child.’
‘No. You’re not.’ He let her go, turning to follow the others towards a series of large tents pitched beside the date groves. She bit back a curse and steadied herself against the camel instead. He was the only man who could ensure she acted like a child, blast him.
She’d promised herself she wouldn’t fall into her old behaviour around him. Any of her old behaviours. And yet here she was, either prickling like the hedgehog she used to call him or being aware of every nuance of his expressions.
She wasn’t a child any longer and her foolish infatuation was a thing of the past. She was now an experienced widow and could appreciate what a fine specimen of manhood he presented without making a fool of herself. And that was that, she assured herself as she hobbled after him to join Poppy and Janet.
They were escorted to a large tent set in the shade of palm trees and greeted with effusive warmth by the white-haired Sheikh and his wife Aziza. Sam’s Arabic had improved since she’d returned, but there were still times when her weary mind stopped making the effort to understand and this was just such a time. She surreptitiously worked away at the needles still tingling along her legs until she noticed everyone had turned to her.
‘So. You are the youngest Sinclair, yes?’ al-Walid said, slapping his knees. ‘You are very like your brothers.’
‘You remember them?’ Sam asked, not certain if this was a compliment.
‘Of course. There was trouble when they came here last. Remember?’ He turned to Edge.
‘Of course. A Bedawi tribe took offence at our exploring Senusret’s ruin. We had a worrisome moment until you and Poppy came to our rescue.
Al-Walid laughed.
‘A worrisome moment! You three were nearly skewered on a spit like lambs over a fire! I forgot you speak like a rock after sitting out in the coldest night. I named you well, Geb.’
‘Geb?’ Sam asked and al-Walid’s laughing eyes turned to her.
‘Geb. God of earth. You do not know the story?’
Sam shook her head, her curiosity sparked as much by Edge’s annoyed frown as by al-Walid’s enthusiasm.
‘Good. Now I have something to share by the fire tonight. But first—Aziza’s honey cakes!’ he announced as women entered the tent bearing trays.
‘You like?’ Aziza’s smile was confident which was hardly as surprising as Sam reached for her third helping of the date-filled cakes. Sam laughed and nodded, licking the sticky residue on her lips.
‘These are dangerous; it is impossible to eat only one!’
‘Truly