Chapter Sixteen
Max rose just after dawn. He’d been disappointed to find Eden gone when he’d awoken, but he knew she’d probably worried about Mrs. Carlisle finding her in his room.
Nerves clamored within him. The expedition wasn’t a lark.
It was a well-funded, meticulously planned undertaking, but things could still go wrong, a fact that had weighed on him more heavily with each passing hour.
The desert didn’t care for intellect or titles.
It cared only for preparation and resilience, and he was terrified that the woman he loved—the woman who had slept in his arms—was about to meet her match.
She’d done well enough on their short trip to the Giza Plateau, but that had been a day trip. Now they faced the deep emptiness of the Western Desert. He was prepared to halt the trip the minute he sensed it was too much for her, but he knew she’d never forgive him if he did.
With a sigh, he finished lacing his boots and grabbed the small bag of items he was taking with him, then crossed the sitting room to tap on Eden’s door. He’d decided to let her sleep until the last possible moment, knowing sleep would be a luxury soon.
“Yes,” she called, her voice husky, a sound that pulled him straight back to the ecstasy he’d found in her arms a few hours ago.
“It’s time,” he replied, his voice deliberately flat, trying to keep the memory of her warm and pliable body from overriding his focus.
She cleared her throat. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
While he waited, he poured a glass of cold water from the pitcher on the sideboard, his mind racing through supply lists. When the door clicked behind him, he turned, and the practiced composure he had struggled to maintain all morning evaporated. The glass nearly slipped from his hand.
Eden stood in the doorway, wearing... breeches. Not the baggy, Turkish-style pants some Oriental women wore, but tailored, soft buff-colored fabric that clung to her ridiculously long legs and gave Max a visceral, immediate jolt of desire.
“What in God’s name are you wearing?” he asked, the question leaving his throat in a strangled, disbelieving rush.
She walked toward him, utterly unconcerned.
“My friend Daphne, the one who was at the tavern? She designs clothing in her spare time and made these for me. They’re cotton twill and allow for a range of motion I don’t have in a tight riding habit.
” She shrugged, lifting her chin. “The journey will be hard enough; it only makes sense that I should be comfortable and efficient.”
He raked his hand through his hair, frustration warring with a blinding wave of desire.
He wanted to step behind her, pull those breeches down to her ankles, and take her from behind.
“I don’t dispute the practicality. But the crew, the local officials, the men here—they won’t appreciate seeing you like this, Eden.
It could cause more problems than it solves. ”
She ignored him and went to the mirror by the entranceway, quickly twisting her glorious auburn hair into an updo and hiding it all beneath a jaunty, wide-brimmed hat.
“Max,” she said, her voice calm and absolute, “we are traveling to a remote corner of the earth. I have no concern left for the local rules regarding hem lengths. I need to climb, dismount, and survive.” She met his eyes in the mirror.
“We’ll only be in the city for a short while.
Then we’ll be out in the desert with no one but a few trusted Bedouins. ”
He stared at her and knew he was arguing a lost cause. He also knew that her disregard for society was one of the many things that drew him to her. “The crew we hired won’t like it,” he warned one last time.
“They work for me,” she said sharply, her tone brooking no argument. “They have no say in what I wear. They are there to make our trip easier, not harder.”
He sighed, the sound a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration, and grabbed his bag. “Come. Before someone else wakes up and sees what you’re wearing.”
Max and Eden rode at the head of their small caravan, both mounted on camels that Max had selected for their strength and gentle temperament. The camels, with their slow, swaying gait, had great endurance but were taxing to ride, requiring the constant micro-adjustment of core muscles.
Behind them came a small procession of donkeys, laden with water skins and canvas bags.
The bulk of their supplies was carried by two more camels, their great humps piled high with shovels, picks, and crates of provisions.
The leader of their crew, Amir, led the way, his face a stern mask of concentration as he guided his mount through the city’s thinning outskirts.
A half-dozen other Bedouin men, hired by Amir for their local knowledge and resilience, followed on foot, their figures becoming one with the sand-colored landscape.
When they’d first seen Eden and her breeches, they’d all been visibly taken aback, but Amir had spoken to them quietly, and they’d seemed to come to an understanding. Max discerned that the exorbitant amount they were being paid offset their offense.
He caught them staring at her occasionally, and he sensed they thought her a bit mad and certainly unconventional, but he didn’t feel as though he needed to worry about them.
As they left Cairo, the cobbled streets turned to packed dirt, the cacophony giving way to the rhythmic padding of camel feet.
As they journeyed westward, the last of the green fields lining the Nile’s floodplain faded entirely.
The air, once thick with the smells of spices and fuel, now held the clean, dry scent of the Sahara.
Eden’s khaki breeches and loose linen shirt were already covered with a fine coating of sand.
He saw the way her eyes widened as the true scale of the Western Desert opened before them, an immense, empty sea of copper and yellow.
He wondered what she was thinking now. Was she questioning the reckless choice they had both made last night, or was she focusing wholly on their quest?
As for himself, he found it hard to concentrate on anything but her. Last night had left him feeling raw and exposed. He wished she’d say something to give him a little peace of mind about it all, but she’d been strangely silent this morning, and he didn’t want to be the one to bring it up.
The first few hours were marked by the gentle rocking of the camels.
The sun was not yet at its zenith, and a cool breeze whispered across the dunes.
The initial novelty of the caravan had not worn off, and Eden’s face still held a look of wonder.
It was a beautiful, terrible landscape, a place that could break a person just as easily as it could fill them with awe.
However, by midday, the sun was a white-hot orb in the sky, and its heat pressed down on them, heavy and suffocating.
The air shimmered over the dunes, distorting the landscape.
Max could tell Eden was tiring, fighting the urge to slump as the camel’s rhythmic sway became punishing.
Her linen shirt was now soaked with sweat, and a fine layer of dust clung to her skin, accentuating the tired lines around her mouth.
She hadn’t complained, but he could see the strain in the rigid set of her shoulders.
They stopped to rest in the sparse shade of a small rock formation. The Bedouins quietly saw to the animals and broke out water skins and dates. Max watched as Eden took a long, grateful drink from her flask, her throat working as she swallowed.
He approached her, his voice low. “How are you holding up?”
She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt behind. “The heat is... more considerable than I had anticipated.” She offered a wry smile. “My gloves feel quite superfluous now.” She had taken them off hours ago.
He knew she was trying to make light of it, but he could see the fatigue in her eyes. It was only the first day. The journey would take a week or more, and that was before they even began the work of the dig itself.
Amir approached them, offering a few small, sweet dates. “Eat, Lady Eden,” he said, a simple, firm command. “It will give you strength.”
She thanked him graciously, taking a bite of the fruit.
Max saw the genuine respect in Amir’s gaze; the foreman had been watching her quiet determination, her lack of complaint.
He’d probably feared she’d be clamoring to turn back by this time.
Max felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps she would prove stronger than he had feared.
Her strength was a quiet, stubborn flame, unlike the theatrical bravado he was more accustomed to.
Late in the afternoon, the sun began its slow descent, and the light turned a softer, more golden hue.
The air grew cooler, and Eden seemed to find her second wind.
The sheer, empty beauty of the desert returned, no longer harsh and unforgiving, but vast and serene.
The camels, sensing the end of the day’s march, picked up their pace.
They moved in perfect unison, a slow, methodical line against the backdrop of an impossibly beautiful sunset.
Max rode beside her, the conversation between them as light and easy as it had been the day before. But in the back of his mind, the question persisted. Would she be able to keep up this pace for days on end?
They arrived at the chosen campsite as dusk settled over the land. The men set up the tents, their movements a blur of practiced efficiency. The aroma of a cooking fire began to waft through the air, and Max and Eden sat on a thick rug, watching as the stars began to appear, one by one.
Max looked at Eden, covered in dust, her eyes bright with the profound awe of the endless night sky. They had made it through the first test. It was a good start.
“The hard part is over,” Eden murmured, tilting her head back, accepting the desert’s immensity.
Max shook his head, gazing out at the star-filled darkness. “No, Eden. You made it through the first day. The hard part is always still ahead.” He reached over and briefly pressed his hand to the dusty, resilient fabric on her knee. “But you did well. I’m proud of you.”
She smiled tiredly, but her emerald eyes glowed at his compliment. “Do you mean it? You’re not just saying that? Because there were times today when I doubted everything.”
“I mean it,” he assured her. “In fact, you’ve done better than a lot of the men I’ve led out here.”
She threw back her head and laughed, a deep throaty sound, and he knew he’d managed to say the right thing.
By the time Eden entered her tent that night, her limbs felt like lead, and her thighs and lower back were burning from the unfamiliar, relentless motion of the camel.
A fine layer of dust coated her skin, gritty and uncomfortable, clinging to the sweat that had long since dried.
She pushed aside the heavy canvas flap, the sound of the rustling fabric loud in the profound silence of the desert night.
It was a proper bell tent, large enough for her to stand upright, with a canvas floor that kept out the worst of the sand.
A cot-like bed was laid out on a thick wool blanket, its bedding rolled up neatly at the foot.
A single lantern hung from the central pole, casting a soft, golden glow that felt incredibly inviting after the darkness outside.
Her personal trunk sat in one corner, its brass fittings gleaming, and a basin of water and a clean towel sat beside it.
She peeled off her dusty clothes, struggling a bit with her corset, but the relief of the fresh air against her skin was nearly overwhelming.
The breeches she’d been so adamant about felt heavy and stiff now.
Dipping the cloth into the blessedly cold water, she scrubbed her face and body, removing the layers of sweat and grit.
It wasn’t a bath, but it revived her considerably.
She was glad she was alone for this ritual; in the small metal mirror, she saw a raw, unflattering reflection of a woman at her limit.
Slipping into her nightclothes, a simple cotton shift and her clean pair of breeches, she sank onto the cot.
The bed, while Spartan, was far more comfortable than she had dared to hope.
The exhaustion was so deep it felt rooted in her bones.
She had pushed herself all day, refusing to complain or show any sign of weakness.
But now, in the privacy of her tent, a profound sense of doubt began to creep in.
Was she truly capable of this? This was just the first day.
There were at least six more to go before they even reached the dig site.
The sheer scale of the desert was like nothing she had ever known.
She had studied the past, but she had never had to contend with its harsh reality.
She had assumed her passion would be enough.
But passion was no match for the sun, the sand, or the gnawing ache in her muscles.
She blew out the lantern and lay back, the darkness a thick, comforting blanket.
The cool night air slipped through the canvas walls, and she pulled the blanket up to her chin.
The stars outside were a blazing testament to the vastness of the universe, and in her small tent, she felt impossibly small.
The doubt was a sharp, cold knot in her stomach. She hadn’t known it would be this hard. And with the doubt came a sudden, aching longing for Max, so strong that it was all she could do not to cry out. After the passion they’d shared the previous night, sleeping alone felt like a betrayal.
She’d allowed herself to imagine that they’d share a tent, that she’d be able to fall asleep in his arms, using his strength as an anchor against the day’s hardships.
But he had his own tent several yards away, far enough for propriety’s sake.
She had been too afraid, too mindful of the crew, to ask for his company.
She sensed the men’s disapproval, their silent, judging stares, and realized how much she relied on Max to shield her from that, and against her own gnawing fear that he had been right all along. She was ill-equipped for this world. She had bitten off far more than she could chew.
As sleep finally began to claim her, pulling her down into the deep well of exhaustion, she wondered if tomorrow would be the day that broke her.