In the nile's emerald depths, ch 11

-XXX-

On their way back, they drifted uneasily beside one another. At least, Leora was uneasy. Her partner appeared relaxed, near blissful, stealing glances. Leora's arms were crossed against the chill of the night. Her eyes stared straight ahead, or either on the ground to watch for stones (as she was liable to trip). Imhotep's arms were loose at his sides. She looked at them, occasionally, from the corners of her eyes. They were nice features.

A thought occurred to her just as they were reaching the outskirts of the camp. All was dark, illuminated only by the wealth of moonlight. She stopped, taking a moment to gather her words.

"We can…communicate," she said slowly. "But I speak no Egyptian, and I doubt you speak English. How can that be?"

"I do not know, nor do I particular wish to find out. It may be an effect of the spell. This English, it is from the England you spoke of?"

"Yes, very good," she approved. "What if it is Egyptian? My uncle will suspect-"

"We shall figure it out," soothed the High Priest. "Later. In the morn. But for now, you are tired. You need rest. I am just thankful that we may speak, that there are no further barriers between us."

They had reached the campsite, and walked through the field of oatmeal-coloured canvas toward her tent. She hung back slightly, allowing Imhotep to lead. He did so effortlessly, without notice, or without realizing Leora making note of it. "He knows where we sleep. Just how much has he been watching?" The thought should have bothered her bit more than it did, however, she was tired and no longer felt threatened by his presence in her life.

Upon reaching the tentflap, Leora stopped. "Where will you stay?" she asked, eyes concerned.

"Out here." He gestured. "I will stay outside until morning. Then, we will see your uncle."

She shook her head, correcting, "No, first we'll find you some clothes. That skirt-thing won't be appropriate. Then we'll see uncle."

He frowned, but comprehended her meaning. "Very well. In the morning, then. When shall you rise?"

"Five. We eat breakfast at six. But I'll slip out so we can dress you."

When she left, he had stationed himself beside one of the stakes, sitting gracefully and observing the fresh new world around him.

Before she could find sleep Leora mused over his experience thus far. He'd been thrust into a new life, a different world, tormented by the sight of his not-wife, alone, chased by Horace's men, and now made to wait, uncertain of his future. She ought to be little more sympathetic. "In the morning," she promised silently. "In the morning, we'll start again."

She wanted to give him a chance. He was, honestly, quite intriguing. Murders aside, he seemed gentle. And, if what he had implied was true, those men were not to be missed.

Sighing into her pillow, Leora embraced sleep. Outside, a guardian awaited her, eyes and ears keen in her sleep, on the watch for any chance of danger. For the first time in seven long days, Leora Rainier found peace.

-XXX-

Somehow, she managed to escape Madam before dawn to take the High Priest to the vehicles that served as a base for their storeroom. Wooden crates and boxes piled beneath a few dusty green canvases. Using a discarded crowbar, they pried open five boxes in two of the trucks. Their finds consisted of canned fish, lamp oil, blankets, several containers of ammunition, an entire cargo box of tea. None of these things were helpful in the least, unless Leora could take the time to transform the woolen blankets into a suit set. Finally, after nearly forty-five minutes, she found their small stock of clothes. It took more searching to find something that might fit Imhotep's frame.

A simple cream-coloured workshirt, starched and rough, and a pair of heavy pants in a coffee tone fit him well enough-the pants a little big, the shirt a little tight. She sent him on the hunt for boots to fit while she browsed for belts. It didn't take much longer, and he appeared to be all that a modern man ought. He looked like a worker, which didn't suit his powerful stance. But perhaps, if they played their cards right, they might convince Horace of some nobility in the once-High Priest.

They decided on a very simple story-a young fellow, visiting the Nile, touring the world, gets abducted by some vagabonds (whom he will have also witnessed stealing Horace's mummy, and killing the workers). He will have escaped after nearly a month of capture. Early this morning, while on a walk ("I was getting restless, Uncle Horace,"), Leora discovered him, dirty and hungry and lost. He would dressed and brought before the camp's leader.

As for a name, Leora wracked her brain for something clean, British. Swayed by his good looks, she decided on "Clark," after the movie star she'd seen last in England. "Red Dust," risqué by her mother's standards. She'd snuck out with friends to see it. They'd all been enamored with Clark Gable.

For the last name, she selected something classic, clean. Preston-which, if she remembered correctly, meant something along the lines "priest town."

Clark Preston. Perfect.

Imhotep did not particularly care for his new name, but he agreed to use it for the sake of his admittance into her life. Especially when she told him, blushingly that, "Clark Preston looked quite nice in trousers."

He promptly decided he would wear nothing but if he could make colour rise in her cheeks everytime.

They approached Horace's tent. Madam was already inside, in hysterics over Leora missing. The pair entered quietly, slipping inside. Two of Horace's flunky-like archeologists stood toward the back, looking quite out of place. They stared, silent, at the High Priest and Leora. Madam was hunched over a table, a small glass of port at her elbow. Horace was bent over her, saying words of comfort, positive that his niece was fine, just grand-

"Leora," he said abruptly. "Where the devil have you been?"

Madam lifted her head, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

The young woman in question quite suddenly realized that her hand was being held by Imhoteps. She glanced down, then up. He didn't look at her, having eyes only for Horace.

"I went out for a walk," she began, stuttering slightly. "this morning. Oh, I'm sorry, Uncle Horace, but I was just getting sick in that tent. But I was out, walking along the hills, so-so I could see the ruins, you know. And then I came across this figure, in the sand-"

And so began their tale. By the end, all were quite sympathetic to Clark, who spoke perfectly enunciated English, thankyouverymuch, and was positively an Englishman. Madam clucked in French, patting the back of his hand as he spoke of his kidnapping. Horace insisted on pouring him a stout glass of port, and damnit, finding that boy some bread. One of the flunkies inquired after his origins, asking if he were one of the "Liverpool or Manchester Prestons?" He wisely answered "no" to both.

With that, Clark Preston was accepted as a member of their party. He had no money, nowhere to go, but clearly was of class and belonged in their world. Besides, he was British; of civility and culture, a countryman. They couldn't abandon him. They wouldn'tve, though they had no true choice in the matter. So, he would be kept.

No other decisions would be made, only that he would be given a tent, a set of clothes. Where he would be sent, what he would do, would be determined at a later date. Leora was given charge of him, as though he was some sort of pet. Since she found him, all deemed it fair.

They'd done it. From across the tent, Imhotep caught Leora's eye. A small smile was blooming on her face. She was proud, of him and of their combined efforts. The challenge had been met-now, they only needed to maintain the ruse.

After finishing breakfast, they left Horace's tent. He'd long sent out men to set up another tent, between his and Leora's, for their guest. Inside was a cot, a small table, one of the Persian rugs from Horace's own tent, and all other necessary comforts. Imhotep proclaimed it quite nice indeed.

Leora sat on the bed as he rifled through the clothes set out for him. It seemed like the flunkies had each contributed something, though neither were near his size, they had handkerchiefs and shoes that fit well enough. One or two of the workers had donated undershirts. Horace promised that on their next supply run, someone would take him out for more fitted clothing. She had the impression that he disliked so many layers, in the heat, and would rather were his traditional grab. But, he would get used to it soon enough. She had picked up the practice of wearing pants quite easily. He would do fine.

"Do they approve?" he asked quietly while Leora folded the clothes she'd left on the table. Imhotep sat on the bed. He'd been rather thoughtful since they'd left Horace's tent.

"Of you? Yes, I should think so."

He fell silent again. She finished folding and moved on to the small self that had been delivered only twenty minutes ago. On its top sat a carafe and bowl, beads of sweat already accumulating on the carafe's surface. A shaving kit resided on one of the shelves, as well as several towels. On the bottom there were five or so volumes from her own collection, delivered at her request. They were mostly history texts. Hopefully, something to catch him up on the times. She wondered if he could read them.

"I just…want to stay with you."

She turned, surprised. "You are, for now. Once the expedition is over, I don't know what will happen, if Horace will keep you on. But we can't worry about that yet-it's weeks off."

Unhappy, he tugged at the hems of his sleeves. "I want to stay," he said again. "But I don't know if I can. I don't know this world. And I don't know you."

Leora stared. "But, after all…all this? What do you mean, exactly? Are you….leaving?"

"Perhaps I should. I thought I knew my wife. But I don't know you."

Her heart was in her mouth, pounding painfully. She wasn't upset, rather, confused. He'd just said he was going to stay with her as long as he could. They were making plans-albeit small ones-and together. How could this be?

"Oh," she finally said, softly. "I thought-I thought maybe we were going to…right." Tone brusque, she straightened. "Very well then. Tomorrow we'll talk to uncle about getting you transportation to Cario. You can set out….find your fortune."

She didn't dare meet his eyes, but looked to the books, running shaking fingers along the spines. "Don't let him notice," she begged the powers that be. It just wouldn't be fair. Then again, none of it was fair.

Still looking at the books, Leora said casually, "You might want to look through these. They'll help you figure out the last couple thousand years."

"Thank you," he replied. She started. He was closer, having crossed the room. Looking back, she saw that he was less than a foot from her, standing.

"Right," she said, eyes flying to the opposite direction, desperate to avoid him. "I should-"

That was when he pulled her up to face him, and kissed her gently. Leora melted against him instantly. One possessive hand wandered up to her waist. Her clumsy fingers found the back of his skull, smooth and dry. For what felt like a millisecond, they stood together like that, but Leora knew it was far longer. The sensation she felt from the ends of her dark hair to the tips of her toes (which were curled in delight at the toes of her boots) was spine-tickling. When they took breath, she pushed closer, claiming his mouth in a much-less gentle kiss.

This wasn't a goodbye kiss. Not by any means.

THE END

-XXX-

Whoa. Uh, I guess this is the end. It seriously snuck up on me.

I'm glad to have given this a shot. It's been a lovely journey. I hope you're enjoyed reading as much as I've had writing. Feel free to review (hint, anyone), and browse my other stuffins. Thank you!