by Stacy Henrie
CHAPTER 8
When Syble and the Wandering Widows arrived at the site late the next morning, it had already been transformed from a vacant plot of ground into a camp teeming with people, activity, and noise. Eight tents stood to one side, their white canvas walls a bright contrast against the earthen tones. Locals in robed garments and turbaned hats unloaded boxes and baskets from the backs of camels and donkeys and deposited the items inside the various tents.
Syble climbed down from the saddle, then offered her arm to Florence once the older woman had also dismounted. Florence gave a low whistle as she slipped her arm into Syble’s, her eyes uncharacteristically wide as they took in the organized bustle. “It’s certainly a sight to behold, isn’t it?”
The near-compliment made Syble smile. “Nothing to fault then?”
“I didn’t say that,” Florence scoffed, but her lips twitched with a hidden smile. “I haven’t sampled the cook’s food yet or examined the cots we’ll be sleeping on. But…” She drew the word out long enough that Syble couldn’t help laughing. “Even a cynic like me knows when to be suitably impressed.”
The other three joined them as they approached the camp. “Where do you think we’ll find Marcus?” Ethel asked.
“Probably in the thick of the activity, overseeing everything,” Syble’s grandmother answered with an air of confidence.
Rose pointed at the nearest tent and waved her hand enthusiastically. “Look, Ethel. There he is.”
Florence stayed with Syble, their arms still linked together, while the other three hurried forward, blocking Syble’s view of Marcus. It was just as well. She’d managed to keep things light and friendly between them during dinner the night before. But there had still been moments when Marcus had smiled at her or when he’d chuckled at someone’s comment and Syble had felt as topsy-turvy inside as she had yesterday afternoon. So far, staying one step of ahead of her growing interest in him had proven to be harder than she’d thought, and that was before returning to the dig site—a place where, for good or bad, Marcus was especially himself.
She and Florence finally reached the tent the others had entered. Stepping inside, Syble saw they were gathered around a table, where Marcus stood. He was showing them the grid he’d already drawn up on a large piece of paper. Every line stood straight and precise, each square numbered just as he had described.
“As soon as everything is unloaded,” he explained, “we will begin marking off the squares using stakes and twine. It can be time-consuming but proves to be…”
Rather than listening, Syble found herself studying Marcus. He looked completely at ease here, as at home in the desert as he likely was back in England with his pot of tea and stack of books. He’d discarded his jacket at some point and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His muscled forearms provided ample proof that he didn’t always spend his days indoors. He wasn’t wearing a hat either, so his wayward black curls grazed his forehead each time he bent over the diagram on the table or straightened to look someone in the eye.
One lock in particular fell nearly to his glasses, prompting an irrational desire in Syble to brush it aside. She could then peer into those eyes, the color of the English countryside, while Marcus…
“Syble?” Florence nudged her in the ribs with a bony elbow. “Didn’t you hear the man?”
“What?” Syble snapped to attention, surreptitiously rubbing at her side. Only then did she realize all of them, including Marcus, stood watching her. Her face grew hot with belated embarrassment.
“Marcus is wondering if you have any questions, dear,” Rose said, ever patient. Unlike Florence, who rolled her eyes.
Syble glanced at her grandmother, who looked far too smug and happy. “Questions?” she repeated.
“About the dig.” Rose patted her hand.
Had she really missed hearing the details about the dig because she’d been lost in thought over Marcus Brandt? Syble gritted her teeth in frustration. What was the matter with her? Was she letting her concerns get the better of her that this group of women were hoping for a match between her and Marcus? Or was she socially so out of practice with mixed company since leaving London that she was becoming enthralled with a man she had once found greatly annoying?
No, this was a test. A chance to prove to herself and to the widows how resolved she was in joining their group and embracing their independent, adventurous lives. She wouldn’t allow herself to be swayed from that goal.
“Are you feeling well, Syble?” Marcus asked.
They all still stared at her as if she’d lost her senses. Given the riot of her thoughts, their worry might be partially well-founded.
Lifting her chin, she hoped she appeared more controlled than she felt. “I feel great. Marvelous, actually. This is all so…” She motioned at the tent and the diagram. “Exciting.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” But he didn’t look particularly glad. “Did you have any questions?”
“No.” Syble shook her head and fell back a step, suddenly anxious to escape the tent and everyone’s scrutiny. “No questions from me. Everything looks like it’s moving along nicely. If no one minds, I think I’ll look around for a bit.”
She turned, then rushed outside. A second later she recalled that she should have asked Marcus which squares on the diagram represented the spots they’d marked the day before.
Syble spun around, intent on returning to the tent and learning the answer to her question. She didn’t realize the man carrying the large crate had crossed between her and the tent entrance until she smacked into him. The movement threw her backwards, causing her shoes to slip out from under her. She landed flat on her back with a cry before her breath was jerked from her lungs. Still, her final moment of humiliation didn’t come until she heard the others hurrying from the tent, and tears of fear and pain stung her eyes.
* * *
Marcus’s stomach twisted with concern as he knelt beside Syble. The man holding the crate stood nearby, his expression a mixture of apology and helplessness. How badly had Syble been hurt? Marcus had seen the panicked glaze in her eyes and the paleness of her face right before she’d struck the ground. Thankfully there appeared to be no blood or twisted limbs. Before he could get a closer look, though, he was elbowed aside by the widows, who were all talking over each other.
“Syble?” Ethel said in a distraught voice. “Are you all right?”
Florence scowled. “Of course she isn’t all right. She was acting funny in the tent earlier, and now look at her. Probably has heatstroke.”
“She ran into that man, Florence,” Rose corrected. “She didn’t pass out.”
“Well, who’s to say the heatstroke isn’t the reason she didn’t notice him?” Florence retorted.
Adelle’s features showed equal worry as she gently removed Syble’s hat. “Is anything broken, my dear? Do you feel dizzy?”
“I…can’t…” Syble seemed to be trying to draw in great gulps of air.
Understanding washed over Marcus, along with a memory from his childhood. He’d been no more than four or five at the time, and his half brothers had come to England for one of their rare visits. They had all gone to the park, and his siblings were holding footraces. Marcus had wanted so badly to participate. Finally they’d given in to his pleas.
Marcus had run as fast as he could, his small legs pumping. He’d been so thrilled with his speed and his siblings’ shouts of encouragement that he hadn’t seen the tree until he’d run right into it. The next second he found himself flat on his back, unable to breathe. Thankfully his mother had seen the whole thing and had helped keep him calm.
“I believe Syble has had the wind knocked out of her.” He leaned in to be heard over the frantic chatter as he added, “She may still have difficulty breathing for a few moments longer.”
Her agitated gaze met his. “Yes,” she whispered. The presence of tears in her eyes surprised Marcus—almost as much as the measure of gratitude in them, directed at him.
“O
h dear.” Gran shook her head. “Do you think she’s suffered a concussion?”
Rose bent over Syble. “Are her eyes dilated?”
“I tell you, it’s the heat,” Florence complained. “Makes a sensible body do strange things.”
Adelle rolled her eyes. “She’s going to be fine, even if it is heatstroke or a concussion or having the wind knocked out of her.”
Syble’s features didn’t reflect the same confidence. Knowing how much he’d needed comfort that long-ago day as a boy, Marcus rested his hand on her shoulder in what he hoped would be a reassuring gesture.
“It will be easier to breathe very soon.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth across her sleeve. “In the meantime, simply breathe in and out, as evenly as you can. There you go.” He watched her as she followed his instructions. “That’s good.”
The sudden absence of conversation among the other women drew Marcus’s attention. He lifted his head, expecting to find their worried focus still fixed on Syble. Yet all four of them were watching him, and all too keenly. They’d didn’t appear to be concerned, though. If anything, they seemed almost delighted.
Marcus frowned in confusion. Syble’s words from the day before about their bizarre behavior flitted through his mind.
“Why don’t you carry Syble to her tent, Marcus?” Adelle suggested with an encouraging smile. “I think she needs to lie down.”
Florence glanced between them. “She is lying down.”
“Not in the dirt.” Adelle glowered at Florence. “While she’s recovering, a cot would be much more comfortable, and Marcus can carry her there.”
The oldest widow’s face changed from bewilderment to sudden understanding—and then to acquiescence. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
Gran and Rose exchanged nods. “Marcus has always been a true gentleman,” his grandmother said to no one in particular.
More than ready to flee the bewildering conversation, Marcus looked at Syble. “Shall I carry you to your tent?” He wished to help, but he also wanted her permission.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but Adelle beat her to it. “Of course she wants your help. She’ll feel much better once she’s inside a tent.”
Florence tugged on his sleeve. “But you need to hurry and get her out of the sun.”
What choice did he have, other than adhering to their requests? Hoping Syble wouldn’t object, Marcus carefully slipped his arms beneath her and hoisted her into the air.
She must have accepted their awkward situation, because she looped her arms around his neck and shut her eyes. Marcus headed in the direction of the sleeping tents.
“Don’t drop me,” she said in a hoarse voice. As far as protests went, it was a rather mild one coming from Syble. Could she be hurting worse than she had yet let on?
He cut a glance over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t dream of dropping you, not with our audience back there. I don’t doubt Adelle and the rest of them would have my head if I did such a thing.”
A laugh tumbled from her lips. It was much weaker than usual, but even the faint sound brought Marcus some relief. “I’m the one who’s had an accident,” she said quietly, “and yet they’re acting loopier than I am.”
Marcus laughed heartily at her observation. “Something peculiar is definitely afoot.” He sobered as he asked, “Are you in pain anywhere?”
“My heard hurts a little, but I think I’ll be fine.” After a long pause, she spoke again. “The scariest part was feeling like I couldn’t breathe.”
Instinctively he tightened his grasp on her, knowing all too well how frightening such an experience could be. He’d never held a woman this closely before. The now familiar smell of Syble’s orange-blossom soap or perfume filled his nose with its enticing scent. Strands of her hair softly grazed the side of his jaw too.
“I experienced something similar as a boy, and I can still remember the awful feeling of not being able to breathe right away.” He ducked his head and entered the tent.
“Is that how you knew what to do?” Syble asked. Nodding, he set her down on one of the cots. “What happened?”
Taking a seat on the opposite cot, Marcus relayed the story of running into the tree. Syble chuckled when he finished, but the sound held empathy. She looked less pale now.
“No wonder you didn’t seem too thrilled about racing yesterday.” Cocking her head, she gave him a long look. “What made you decide to race down that hill, anyway?”
Marcus shrugged, thinking back to that moment. “I suppose, now and again, I’ve been known to exhibit a bit of a competitive streak.” Particularly when it came to his brothers, though their age and experience had forever tipped the competition in their favor.
“Now and again?” Syble echoed with a sniff of amusement. “I think I saw that streak just about every day the last time we were here in Egypt.”
He did his best to conceal his smile as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “That’s because a certain young lady, who shall not be named, wouldn’t cease goading me at every turn.”
With an answering chuckle, Syble brushed some of her hair from her eyes, then studied her lace gloves. “Look at that. I’ve completely ruined this pair.”
She tried to free her hands of the gloves, but Marcus noticed her fingers trembling just enough to make the task more difficult. Apparently she was still shaken from her accident.
“Never mind,” Syble said after several failed attempts at removing the gloves. She lowered her arms to her sides. “I’ll have Nana help me with them later.”
Where were their grandmothers? Marcus wondered, cutting a glance at the tent entrance. None of the widows had come inside to see if he’d fulfilled his assignment. In their absence, Syble had no one else to assist her except for him. And it was clear how much she wanted to take off the soiled gloves.
He climbed off the other cot and crouched beside hers. “Allow me.” Marcus held out his hand. Syble stared at it blankly, while her previously pale cheeks turned pink. “May I help you with your gloves?” he clarified.
“Oh…”
Still, she hesitated, as if he had asked to kiss her hand instead of remove her gloves.
Not that Marcus would be opposed to kissing her hand. He imagined it to be as soft to the touch as her hair must be…
“All right.” She finally placed her hand against his palm.
Willing himself to concentrate on his task and not his jumbled thoughts, Marcus loosened each fingertip with a gentle tug. Then he slowly rolled the lacy fabric off Syble’s hand, leaving her fingers uncovered.
The feel of those fingers resting lightly across his own derailed his focus. He’d held Esme’s hand often, but never when she wasn’t wearing gloves. Syble’s bare fingers felt every bit as soft as he’d anticipated. They were decidedly feminine, yet he sensed strength in them too.
As Syble pulled her hand free and offered him the other, she stammered out, “Th-thank you.”
Marcus fought to keep an even expression as he worked on the second glove. Never once, during the river cruise eight years ago or the past three days, could he recall Syble ever stumbling over her words. Did that mean he affected her as much as he was beginning to see she did him?
The possibility left him feeling anything but cheered or satisfied. If he allowed himself to develop feelings for Syble, or her for him, it would be a repeat of his experience with Esme. He hadn’t been the exciting, spontaneous gentleman Esme had clearly longed for, and it would be no different with Syble. Besides, Marcus couldn’t afford any distractions right now—not when he was so close to a professional breakthrough. He just needed to wrap up this dig and return as soon as possible to his tomb, so he could finally make the discovery that would bring him acclaim as an archaeologist. That was his plan, and he wouldn’t deviate from it.
He removed her other glove more quickly than the first, and this time Marcus released her hand the instant he’d finished. “There you go.” He rose to his feet, hopeful his tone s
ounded less formal to her than it did to him. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Yes. Thank you for your help.” She didn’t offer any other comment, a rarity for Syble. But her eyes watched him with a measure of confusion and possible hurt in their blue depths.
It’s better this way, he told himself as he stepped toward the front of the tent. Out loud, he told her, “Feel free to rest here as long as you need to.”
He didn’t wait for her response before he slipped outside. Gran and her friends waited a short distance away, but all four snapped to attention as Marcus approached.
“How is she?” Adelle asked.
Marcus cut a glance back at the tent. The brush of Syble’s fingers against his skin still lingered on his palm. “She seems to be in better spirits.” Or she had been, up until he’d let down his guard.
“Are you all right, Marcus?” Gran studied him with evident concern.
Forcing a smile, he nodded. “I need to return to my other responsibilities. You may all look around if you’d like. In another hour or two, lunch will be served.”
“That sounds wonderful,” his grandmother said, offering him a smile in return. But he caught a glimmer of disappointment in her gaze and noticed its reflection on the faces of the other widows, though he wasn’t sure of the source.
Regret dogged him as well when he walked away. Was he disappointed at not being able to explore this new awareness of Syble? Or was he upset about being distracted by it in the first place? This time he didn’t have the answer.
* * *
Syble squeezed her eyes shut and breathed in and out as slowly as she could as she lay on the cot. Her racing heartbeat had nothing to do with her earlier mishap—and everything to do with Marcus.
Being carried by him into the tent had been unnecessary but still appreciated. And Nana’s suggestion that he do so had all but solidified Syble’s suspicions about the widows wanting them to spend time together. Still, Syble had been too occupied with restoring breath to her lungs and wondering how long her back and head would ache to pay much attention to Marcus’s close proximity.
