But he spoke with a crisp English accent, and he fought for them, too. I opened my mouth to ask but he cut me off.
“It’s a long story, and worse, it’s a boring one.” He looked at me curiously, and I fidgeted under his scrutiny. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What were you expecting?”
Leo smiled. “I pictured a demure English lady with loads of money, I’m afraid. Covered in gemstones and gleaming pearls. Wearing a pastel dress.”
“Oh,” I said. “How strange.”
“Not really,” he said, frowning slightly. “I just described his former betrothed.” His expression cleared. “Don’t mistake me—I’m happy he married you instead. It’s just that I never thought he’d actually cut them off.”
“Cut who off?”
“His parents,” Leo explained. Then he reached for my hand and kissed it, before tugging Whit off to the side. They exchanged whispers back and forth, Leo gesturing wildly. Whit stood with his arms crossed, attention fixed on his boots. Whatever his friend was telling him, he didn’t like it in the slightest. My curiosity nearly overwhelmed me, but I forced myself to not interfere. Leo’s parting words swam in my mind.
I knew Whit hadn’t wanted to marry the woman his parents had chosen for him, and subconsciously, I knew that his parents would be displeased with his marriage to me. But I hadn’t realized Whit would be cutting his parents out of his life. I had been raised to value familial bonds that were governed by loyalty, and yet my time in Egypt had taught me that the human heart was quick to change. I couldn’t trust or depend on my mother, despite her being my mother.
Finally, Leo turned to go; the chaplain was waiting for him by one of the pews. Leo called over his shoulder, “You owe me, Somerset.”
Whit nodded and watched him leave, expression carefully blank. Then he glanced at me, the lines around his eyes softening. He walked toward me, holding out his hand. I took it, feeling the familiar calluses and rough palm. We trailed after Leo and the chaplain, unease making my breath hitch oddly. There was so much about him I still didn’t know, didn’t understand. I hoped I hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my life. Then Whit tucked a strand of my curly hair behind my ear, and the tension seeped out of me. I remembered everything I loved about him. He made me laugh, and he was loyal. He would honor his promise to me. I was sure of it. I’d made the right decision.
We were married.
Married.
CAPÍTULO CUATRO
Scores of people crowded Shepheard’s terrace, dining out in the cool open air, their conversation reaching us where we stood at the bottom of the hotel steps. Night had settled over Cairo, the stars glimmering like the ones I’d seen painted on the ceiling of the tombs we’d found in Philae. The air had turned crisp while we weregetting married—a jolt went through me—and the breeze swept through the street, coming from the Nile River. It was a perfect winter evening in Egypt, the temperature cool enough for my heavy black dress. Whit’s gaze flickered over the swell of well-heeled travelers deep into their cups, his lips flattening.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We’ll have to somehow sneak inside without bumping into Ricardo. He won’t appreciate seeing us together, and we’ve been gone for hours now.”
“He ought to be recovering in bed.”
Whit slanted me an amused look. “You’re more like your uncle than you think.”
I placed a hand on my hip. “How so?”
“Would you let an injury stop you?”
“It depends on the injury. He was shot, after all.” I pulled at my bottom lip. “But probably not,” I admitted.
“It must run in the family,” he said with a laugh. “He told me that he was going to try to make it for dinner. Ten to one he’s by the front desk right now, swaying on his feet and trying to hold a conversation. Bandage and all.”
Whit and I walked side by side through the front doors, taking advantage of the swelling crowd in the lobby. But not two steps inside, I spotted my uncle. He stood scowling at several gentlemen, waving one of his hands around, clearly frustrated. He must have been in tremendous pain but somehow managed to still appear intimidating. I nudged Whit’s side, hard, and loudly cleared my throat.
He let out a grunt. “A whisper would have sufficed.”
“Look.”
“I saw him before you did. I was just less dramatic.”
“He looks upset.”
“Well, he is bleeding all over the Turkish rug.”
I gasped. Sure enough, blood stained my uncle’s cotton shirt, spreading outward in a gruesome fashion. He should be in bed, and someone ought to bring him a bowl of soup or, at the very least, change his soiled bandage. But no, his voice boomed, ricocheting loudly, and he seemed unaware that he had reopened his wound. My uncle excelled at starting arguments. I took an instinctive step forward, but Whit yanked me behind one of the immense granite pillars, fashioned after the famous ones in Karnak.
