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“You look remarkably refreshed for someone sleeping in a tent.”

“I’ve had lots of practice.” She dimpled at me. “You know, you’re a sly one. So many secrets.”

“Oh?”

“You never say his name.”

The chatter among us seemed to dim. I took care to keep my face neutral, despite the betraying flush that bloomed in my cheeks. “Whose?”

She arched a honey brow. “Mr. Hayes, of course.”

“He just doesn’t come up in conversation all that much,” I said after a beat.

“I don’t think that’s it.”

I shifted to face her fully, bringing my legs around so they were inches from her voluminous skirt. She took an idle sip from her mug, laughter lurking in her pale eyes. Her amusement grated me. I didn’t like to think my feelings were that obvious, especially because they irked me to begin with. “What do you think it is?”

“Have you seen the way he looks at you? So… so possessive.”

“He’s getting married,” I said in a flat voice. “Nothing can come from his looking.”

“A pity,” she said. “He isn’t boring when so many men are.”

“And you are more than what you seem, Isadora,” I said, purposefully letting my gaze drift to her neat appearance. But I knew she hid a weapon somewhere on her.

“So are you,” she said.

A loud commotion came from the direction of the boat docked on the far side of Philae.

“Dios, what now?” Tío Ricardo snarled, yanking me from my reverie.

Whit sat across from me, looking over the records in his journal. At my uncle’s outburst, he glanced up and met my gaze, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

I looked in the direction my uncle was presently glaring to find a group of people rowing up to the sandbank. One of the men looked vaguely familiar. My uncle routinely despaired of the tourists crowding the river. The island of Philae, though more out of the way than other attractions found in Thebes, was a prime destination. There was a reason it was called the Jewel of the Nile.

“A group of women travelers.” Mr. Fincastle shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare with one hand, while the other hovered above his revolver. “And several gentlemen. Definitely American.”

“Definitely not welcome,” my uncle muttered.

My ears perked up. Could one of them be my mother’s confidant?

The tourists were unaware of their unwelcome, and gaily approached us, talking loudly among themselves. Tío Ricardo sent a pleading look in thedirection of Whit, who grinned hugely, snapping his journal closed and then bounding to his feet. He met the group before they reached our campsite.

Whit paraded his charm and several young ladies in their party glowed with pleasure. I shook my head ruefully. TheMr. Hayesmask he wore for everyone else was on full display. When I glanced over again, it was to find Whit watching me. My gaze flickered pointedly to one of the pretty ladies and I raised my brows.

He lifted an insouciant shoulder and I laughed, if only to hide the ache tearing at my heart. Whit still wouldn’t talk about the years he spent in the military, nor would he say much else about his family, but an easy camaraderie existed between us. He sought my company whenever there was any free time. I counted on him to bring me dinner when the hour grew late and I still hadn’t finished a particular sketch, and I always made sure his coffee was hot in the morning. It wasn’t everything, but at least we had a few smalls things between us that felt real.

I stood, brushing the sand off my linen skirt, and walked toward the temple as was my usual habit after breakfast. As I walked past, Tío Ricardo lifted his head in my direction.

“Inez, are you almost done?”

I fought to keep my tone pleasant. Every day, it had been harder and harder to do. I lived in terror of him discovering my secret. I barely checked my grief, my anger, around him. “The painting of the antechamber is complete, and I’ve finished the detailed sketch of the treasury and have already laid down the base paint. From here, it’s adding in details.”

“Good,” he said.

“Ricardo!” Whit called.

My uncle groaned into his teacup. With an exasperated sigh, he stood and dragged himself to the group of tourists. They eyed him in awed fascination, the archaeologist in his element: thick hair tousled, serviceable trousers, and knee-high scuffed boots, his face lined, tanned, and weathered from the hot sun. He made quite a picture, surrounded by ancient monuments, and I understood why more than one lady began fanning herself.