Chapter Ten
Three days out of Malta, Max was awake long before dawn, restless in the unfamiliar silence of the Mediterranean at slack water.
He climbed onto the open deck while most of the passengers slept, stood alone beneath the stretched canvas awning, and watched as the first bands of light rolled across the eastern horizon.
Even at this hour, Alexandria announced itself by smell: a windblown blend of hot stone, spice, and the mineral tang of ancient harbors.
The city itself rose from the sea as a blurry silhouette—mosques and minarets, domes ringed with scaffolding, the distant plume of a foundry’s chimney.
As the Constellation edged alongside the quay, Max could make out the bobbing lanterns of the dock men, their voices carrying in uneven bursts across the water.
Already, lines of camel carts moved up and down the embankment, the animals stoic as boulders while their drivers spat and cursed in a dozen dialects.
This segment of the journey was over, and he was glad of it.
The atmosphere between him and Eden had been deceptively calm since the evening when he’d kissed her, but the undercurrent of sexual tension was a constant, tiring distraction.
She’d been right to pull away, of course, and he cursed himself for having been so foolish.
He’d obviously misread the situation, which was unlike him, but then again, he’d never really known what she was truly thinking.
It wasn’t the first time he’d thought she cared more for him than she actually did.
From now on, he was determined to remain professional.
But that hadn’t stopped him from dreaming about her every night, waking so hard it hurt.
What would she do if she knew he stroked himself to even more fantasies of her?
He’d been too long without a woman. Perhaps he should remedy that once he reached Cairo.
An hour later, he found Eden and her companion waiting in the vestibule near the forward stairs, luggage stacked with military precision at their feet.
Mrs. Carlisle still looked pale and ill, but she’d made a fine effort to rally—her pale hair perfectly pinned, her face set against the indignities of foreign travel.
Eden, on the other hand, was so excited that the air around her fairly vibrated, her green eyes scanning the portside scene with the greedy attention of someone who had been waiting an eternity to take their first steps on a foreign shore.
“Ready?” Max asked, motioning for the porter.
Eden’s reply was a nod, the corners of her mouth tilting in a smile of anticipation. He liked seeing her happy. He liked it too much. Frowning, he looked away.
The disembarkation was chaos. Passengers bottlenecked at the gangway, everyone jockeying to be first ashore.
Max cut a path through the confusion, using both his elbows and the kind of authority that made lesser men step aside.
He led Eden and Mrs. Carlisle down the narrow planks to the stone wharf, their progress watched by a mob of local porters and children, the latter already angling for coins or sweets.
Customs awaited them at the far end—a roped-off section of the quay beneath a striped awning, guarded by clerks in faded uniforms and a single British overseer, sunburned and already sweating through his shirt.
Max handed over their documents, double-checking that Eden’s name and title were spelled correctly, then slipped a folded note to the officer in charge.
The man read it, grunted, and stamped their papers with a perfunctory thud. “Welcome to Egypt, my lady,” he said, not bothering to look up from his ledger.
“Thank you,” Eden replied, her accent clipped and perfect. She passed the declaration forms across the table.
The next obstacle was the baggage line. A porter trailed behind them with their personal trunks. The rest of their baggage would be delivered to their hotel later. At the head of the queue, a customs clerk in a stained waistcoat waved them forward.
“Inspection,” the man demanded, gesturing at their luggage.
Max opened the first trunk, revealing its ordered contents—books, writing paper, and several changes of linen. The clerk poked through it with a short, dirty stick, then moved on to the next, eyes lighting briefly at the silver-tipped walking cane Eden had brought from London.
“Special fee for this one,” the clerk said, holding it up. “Antique, yes?”
Mrs. Carlisle bristled, face coloring. “That’s Lady Eden’s property. She’s a lady of the peerage!”
The clerk grinned, showing brown teeth. “Lady pay, or cane stay.”
Before Mrs. Carlisle could say more, Max stepped forward, his voice cold as gunmetal.
“Put it down.” He didn’t raise his volume—he never needed to—but the clerk faltered, returned the cane to its place, and busied himself with the paperwork.
Max slipped a few coins onto the edge of the table and watched as the necessary forms were stamped with exaggerated care.
He handed the slip to Eden, who tucked it into her reticule without comment. Only then did Max allow himself to breathe, feeling the heat and dust settle into his skin. He hated the bribes and the show of power.
Beyond the customs shed, the broad-gauge railway carriage stood waiting at the wooden platform.
Lines of passengers clustered around two chalkboards, each listing the next trains to Cairo.
A brass band hammered out a martial anthem that might have been “Rule, Britannia!” It was hard to tell given the unsteady tempo and the sour notes.
Max secured their luggage with a porter and then led the way through the throng and up to the ticket office, where a man with a meticulously curled mustache sold them three places on the express.
“Leaves at noon,” the man said, eyes darting between Max and Eden. “Second compartment—very best. For British.”
Eden smiled, faint but genuine. “I suppose we’ll see about that,” she said, voice pitched for Max’s benefit.
He had always liked her sharp tongue. No, he mustn’t think of her tongue.
Max fished in his pocket for the tickets, passed one to Mrs. Carlisle, and tucked the remaining two into his breast pocket.
They had three hours to wait. Max suggested a walk, which Eden accepted without hesitation. The three of them strolled the length of the platform, careful to avoid the donkey carts and the shouting newsboys hawking papers in Arabic, French, and English.
At the far end, a battered sign advertised an “English Tea Room.” Max eyed it skeptically. “Tempted?”
Eden laughed, a short, soft sound. “I didn’t come to Egypt for weak tea.”
He found a bench in the shade, and they sat while Mrs. Carlisle fanned herself and continued to look miserable.
The chaos did not seem to be helping her anxiety.
The city buzzed with the kind of energy Max remembered from his first campaign—an endless churn of bodies, voices, and smells, all competing for space and advantage.
He caught Eden watching him, her gaze probing.
“You’re at home here,” she said.
He shrugged. “Nowhere’s home anymore, really. But I don’t mind the sun. Beats this time of year in London. It’s unbearable in the summer, though.”
They sat in silence a while, listening to the distant tolling of a bell and the clatter of hoofbeats on the road beyond the rail yard.
Eden nodded her head back the way they had come.
“Thank you,” she said. “For getting us through that mess with minimal fuss. I’m afraid that without you, they’d have robbed me blind.
I had no idea it was going to be like that.
” He could tell it pained her to admit it, so he resisted the urge to tell her that he’d told her so.
He gave a small shrug. “They do things differently here, that’s all. Once you know the game, it isn’t too hard to navigate your way through it.”
She gave him a small smile. “Well, I appreciate it anyway. I’m glad you’re with me.”
“I’m glad too,” he said lightly.
Ever since she’d come to his room during the storm, they had managed to find a tentative peace.
They’d successfully reverted to the friendship they’d once shared, and he was grateful for the easy camaraderie.
The emotional tension he’d dreaded after their kiss had not materialized, even though he thought about it all the time and suspected she did too.
Instead, there were jokes and intellectual sparring, and Max found himself relaxing into their old rhythm.
He might even venture to say that he was enjoying himself, which was a dangerous realization.
Still, he shuddered to think of what would have happened to her if she’d attempted to make this trip with someone who didn’t have her best interests at heart. They weren’t even to the difficult bits yet.
At last, Eden glanced at her pocket watch, then tucked it away. “We should head that way. Wouldn’t want to miss the train.”
Max rose, stretching the ache from his back, and offered her his arm. She took it, and together they made their way to the train.
Max guided Eden and Mrs. Carlisle through the crowd on the platform, their progress slowed by the mass of travelers and the unrelenting press of local children.
Eden had swapped her dark traveling suit for a lighter linen ensemble this morning, but she still looked hot, a red curl sticking to her forehead beneath her jaunty hat.
Max exchanged a few quick words with the conductor, then turned to Eden.
“Best get aboard,” he said, “before it fills up with officers.”
She nodded, and he offered her his hand.
For a heartbeat, her gloved fingers rested in his before she drew herself up and ascended the steps.
Mrs. Carlisle followed, her skirt catching on the iron rail, and Max unsnagged it before joining them inside.
The compartment was small but surprisingly elegant, its seats upholstered in deep green velvet.
Eden slid into the window seat, Mrs. Carlisle opposite, and Max settled beside her, enjoying the press of her against his side.
Outside, the platform teemed with last-minute arrivals. Max watched as a British colonel hustled his family into the next carriage.
Eden leaned toward the glass, pressing her palm lightly against its cool surface. “It’s flat,” she said at last, her tone unreadable. “I thought it would be all sand and desert.”
“It is, farther out,” Max replied. “But the Delta’s like this for miles—irrigation canals, date palms, sugarcane. Good land, if you can keep the water coming.”
Eden watched a donkey cart rattle past, its driver singing to himself in a language he didn’t know. “I wonder if they’re happier here than in England.”
He smiled. “Doubt it. Misery doesn’t know any geographic boundaries.”
Mrs. Carlisle coughed into her hand, then busied herself with a tattered romance novel, eyes darting to the window at every unfamiliar noise.
The brass band struck up again, and the whistle blew. The train lurched forward, and the city began to slide past—first the jumble of warehouses and palm-shaded villas, then the wide sweep of green fields, the distant ribbon of canal.
Eden stared out the window, her face reflected alongside the moving landscape. “How long until Cairo?” she asked, her voice subdued for some reason. He thought she was probably overwhelmed by it all, by the knowledge that she was finally here.
“Only four hours,” Max said. “If we’re lucky, and there are no problems.”
She nodded, her focus never wavering from the view. “I’d like to see the pyramids from the train, if that’s possible.”
“On a clear day,” Max said. “But sometimes the air’s so thick with dust that you can’t see your own hand.”
Eden smiled, turning toward him at last. “Then we’ll hope for a clear day.”
The train gathered speed, the wheels thrumming beneath their feet.
As Alexandria blurred into the shimmering horizon, Max allowed himself a rare moment of peace.
Whatever awaited them in Cairo—the heat, the danger, the uncertainty—felt almost manageable, so long as he could keep the train moving forward and the distance behind them growing ever greater.
He settled back in the seat, one eye on Eden, the other on the vanishing line of track, hoping that things went smoothly.