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I lifted my eyes and met his blue ones. “You called me by my Christian name.”

He narrowed his gaze. “When?”

“When I was in mortal peril.”

Relief skittered across his face. Loosened those tight lines at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, well, that’s different.”

“Why?”

“You were in mortal peril.”

I rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. My scare in the river had left me shattered. “What do you want, Whit?”

He appeared startled to hear his first name. “Don’t call me that.”

“Lo siento, do you prefer Whitford?”

“Only your uncle calls me that.”

“Whit it is, then. Did you need something?”

He assessed me. “Do you have all the necessities? Toothbrush? Pillow? Blanket?”

“Yes, I managed to sneak some useful things on board.”

“A thrilling tale, no doubt.”

I recalled changing into the tunic next to the building, worried I’d be seen, terrified I wouldn’t make it on board. “It certainly had its moments.”

We fell silent, with only the sounds of the Nile disturbing the quiet. The soft light drifting into the cabin from the small window danced across his face. His grave expression stole my breath.

“I’m glad I made it to you in time,” he said softly.

“Me too.”

He straightened away from the door, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Good night, darling.”

I examined my wardrobe, considering what to wear. My options were severely limited: two walking dresses, a pair of Turkish trousers and a wrinkled cream blouse, one pair of shoes. I decided against the bicycle costume, and landed on the yellow muslin, warm enough for the cool evenings and ladylike enough for propriety’s sake. My hair hadn’t been brushed in days and the results were terrifying. Wild curls floated around my face, refusing to be tamed, each strand with a mind of its own. I pulled the upper half away from my face and secured it with a ribbon. The mirror revealed disastrous results: hair barely managed, clothes wrinkled, and new hollows under my cheekbones.

I sighed. The best I could manage on my own.

Morning light poured in from the single window as I splashed cool water on my face before heading out to the saloon. Everyone sat around at the table and stilled at my approach. Isadora smiled over the rim of her mug while her father gave me a less than friendly perusal. Probably searching for weapons hidden in the folds of my skirt. Whit shot him an annoyed look. Kareem poured coffee into waiting cups, and then he gestured to the remaining open seat. My uncle kept his face hidden behind the paper, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Buenos días,” I said.

Whit held up his coffee in an ironic salute before taking a long sip. His eyes were bloodshot, tired, and there was a definite droop in the line of his shoulders.

“Up all night?” I asked.

The corners of his lips twitched, and he arched a brow. There was a wicked gleam lurking in the depth of his eyes, and I knew he was barely restraining himself from saying something inappropriate. But he wouldn’t, not in present company. “I slept fine,” he said in a husky voice.

I blushed and tore my gaze away.

“I fear we haven’t been properly introduced,” Mr. Fincastle said in the same accent as Whit. I was struck again by his immense frame, all brawn, and the thick mustache that covered a stern mouth.

“I am Señorita Olivera,” I said. “That man hiding behind the paper is my uncle.”

Damn it, I really had meant to behave.