“Yeah, darling.” He didn’t have to be asked, sliding a hand under her elbow, another around her waist to steady her, taking her the next fifty paces. Jess was used to the casual endearments, which seemed to be his way of referring to any woman, but the first time he’d touched her like this she’d turned on him like a savage animal. When she’d yanked the knife from under her robes, she would have skewered him if he hadn’t been far more agile. After she calmed down, she made herself bear his touch, because she knew it wouldn’t be the last time she’d need help to move, as fast as she was declining.
Dying or not, though, she wouldn’t tolerate Mel anywhere near her. Harry had either warned him, or she repulsed the other Aussie, because he never drew close. And of course Dawud would never touch her.
Sand and more sand. In the distance, to the left and right, were more dunes. One’s steep slope escalated to two hundred feet.
They’d traveled past even higher dunes, ones that would equal a fifty-story building. But this one held her attention because of her certainty about the stars and what had been here three hundred years ago.
It was ironic that the constellation named for the woman confined to Hades half of the year, shut away from the light, had marked the right location. Had Lord Mason thought of that when he did it, or had it merely been astounding coincidence, after he’d created the tomb?
Squeezing Harry’s arm, she stopped about sixty feet away from the foot of that dune. “This is the place. Get the shovels.” She could be brusque without offending him, she knew. Talking drained her energy, and she’d conserved as much as possible toward this end.
“Right-o. You’re okay here?”
She nodded.
As he left her, she settled next to the spot where they were going to dig. Though she was grateful for the consideration when Harry brought her a folded chair and helped her into it, the burning warmth of the sand had felt good. The night always closed in too fast.
Even before she shivered, he was wrapping her up in the blanket he’d brought.
“Thank you, Harry.”
He nodded, touched her chin briefly, giving her a thorough look. “Woman of your age and condition is a pretty tough bird to be here, Miss Anna. You sit tight. We’ll have it dug up in no time.”
She’d not told them her real name, of course. To the bank, the embassy, and all her fake papers, she was Anna Wyatt, not Jessica Tyson, and she’d been able to believably record her age as fifty-two. There was no better disguise for a twenty-nine-year-old fugitive than a wasting illness.
“If it’s there,” Mel observed dryly.
“If it’s there,” she agreed before Harry could quell him. “But it will be. If nothing else, I’m a smart crazy person, Mel.” His lips twisted at that. Even Dawud gave an uncertain smile, standing a few feet away from this unlikely group of infidels. She hoped they did find it tonight. The young man wanted to go home and missed his family. He also was wary, rightly so, of the two