Daphne cut in, as Eden knew she would, leaning forward with sudden urgency, clearly concerned. “Whywouldn’tyou? Is it the money? The company? Or do you always turn down easy work?”
Max looked at Daphne, giving her a half-smile. “Your friend has never made things easy for me.” His gaze returned to Eden. “Do you have any idea how hard it would be for me to keep you safe in Egypt? Trust me, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
Eden swallowed hard, choking down fifteen years of anger, fifteen years of heartache. She’d done nothing but prepare for this trip for years. How dare he speak to her that way to her? She wasn’t stupid. It might be difficult, yes. But not impossible.
“This is pointless,” she said, shoving to her feet. “Come, Daphne.”
Max caught her arm before she was fully upright. His touch sent electricity through her. That spark between them was as strong as ever.
She tried not to feel it. She couldn’t let herself feel it.
“Don’t,” he said. “Let me walk you out. It’s dangerous.”
She gestured for the footmen they’d brought with them, who’d been standing at a respectable distance, and they immediately moved toward them. “As you can see, we’ll be fine. I’m not as foolish as you obviously think I am.”
She gave him a last, lingering look, trying to commit this older version of him to memory, so that she could re-examine it later. The golden hair, those sky-blue eyes, a few scars on his handsome face that were so at odds with his fallen-angel beauty.
He held her gaze for a few seconds, then released her arm and returned his focus to his mug, seeming to dismiss her as easily as he had when her father had refused his suit.
She swallowed a lump in her throat and turned away. She and Daphne left the tavern, moving through the rough crowd with the footmen at their heels. She said nothing, her spine so stiff she thought she might snap in half.
Once outside, she climbed into the waiting carriage, and Daphne followed.
“He didn’t follow us, did he?” Eden asked as they pulled away, refusing to look back.
“No,” Daphne said, shaking her head, her lovely face filled with sympathy. “He didn’t.”
Chapter Three
Eden hoped she never had to venture down to the reeking docks again. When the carriage arrived back at her townhouse, she let out a sigh of relief. The windows were darkened except for the gentle flicker of lamps the servants had left burning, but her home had never felt so welcoming. Daphne ushered her inside, and Eden inhaled a deep breath of candlewax and lemon oil, but neither spoke until the door clicked shut behind them.
Eden went straight to the drawing room and collapsed onto the settee, feeling absolutely exhausted from the night’s adventures.
“I need a drink,” Daphne declared decisively. “And I think you do too.” She went to the sideboard and poured each of them a glass of brandy, then sat down beside Eden, her expression curious. “I have to ask. Has that man always been so... virile?”
Eden lifted the glass and took a sip before answering, trying to compose herself. “He’s always been handsome, if that’s what you mean. But he was only two and twenty when I last saw him. He certainly didn’t look like...that.” The rugged outline of his face and the breadth of his shoulders lingered in her mind. It had been silly of her to expect him to look the same, but she’d still found it unsettling to find him so—Daphne had the right of it—virile.
“How Lucas could recommend such a man for your expedition is beyond me,” Daphne mused, incredulous. “He looks more brigand than scholar.”
“He’s both,” Eden replied. “He studied history at Oxford, but then he joined the army and was sent to Africa. From what I gather, he was there for that awful Anglo-Zulu War. The papers were full of it, and it’s clear he saw some action. He must have been a very good soldier to have come back with his life and his wits intact.”
“His wits? That’s debatable.” Daphne’s gaze sharpened. “Eden, how could you have possibly been involved with such a man? He doesn’t seem like your type.”
The words stung, though Eden knew they were not meant to. But she’d always known that he was too handsome for her. Even when he’d professed to care for her, she’d questioned it. She’d always been a frumpy bluestocking, and he’d always been too gorgeous for words. But they’d been friends since they were children, and he’d seemed to see some sort of beauty in her long limbs, flat chest, and red hair. When she was with him, she never worried about suppressing every single natural inclination as her mother said she should. With Max, she’d always been free to be herself.
