Warrior (38 page)

“Warriors such as us don’t need magic,” he said. He turned and clasped her in his arms, looked down into her dusty, tired face, so lovely he ached. “We make our own.”

Winter’s Benefit

The bullet whizzed past Thalia’s ear and plunged into the snow behind her, sending up a spray of ice. She crouched behind the fence of the sheep enclosure, then, when the Russians’ shots momentarily stopped, she rose up slightly, took aim and fired. Someone cursed in Russian, and she smiled to herself.

“Get him in the hand?” Gabriel asked, hunkered beside her. At her nod, he grinned. “There’s a lass.”

“Last I checked, I was your wife, not a lass.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “You’re both.” Another round of shots rang out, splintering the wood at the top of the fence. Fortunately, the sheep inside the pen crowded together, bleating in annoyance, far away from the threat. While Thalia reloaded, Gabriel fired on the band of five Russians who’d come for the ruby. A yelp sounded.

“Shoulder?” Thalia asked when Gabriel bent back down to load more ammunition. When he nodded, they shared a smile. Fighting with her husband by her side under the icy azure sky, in the diamond snow—she loved her life. She loved him. More each day.

She made herself ignore the sharp winds that tried their best to find some bit of unprotected skin. Her fur-lined del and thick woolen hat ensured that she stayed relatively insulated, but gave her enough freedom of movement so that when fools like these Russians came around, seeking the tribe’s ruby, she had no trouble defending the gem. Treasure hunters were infrequent, but showed up often enough so that she and Gabriel stayed busy.

“I forgot to ask,” Gabriel said, between salvos. “Everything all right with Oyuun?”

“She’s convinced that her niece is going to enter the nadaam next year. Thank you,” she added, when he fired on an advancing Russian, who then had the good sense to run back to his companions as they huddled behind an empty ger.

Gabriel’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Will she?”

“If she does, she won’t be the only female in the tournament. I’ve heard from three others that girls from surrounding tribes are already training.”

“The nadaam is in October,” he pointed out.

More shots. She rolled her eyes. “This is growing tiresome, and I’m getting cold.”

“Ready, then.” Gabriel counted to three, and they charged the Russians. Not expecting a frontal attack, the would-be thieves were unprepared. Thalia, using some of the Shaolin kung fu taught to her by Lan Shun, kicked one man in the chest and struck another with a blow to the stomach. They both collapsed into the snow, groaning.

Gabriel took a more traditional approach with his fists, sending them crashing into jaws and ribcages. “You sure none of these sods is Sergei?” he panted as he easily avoided one of the Russian’s punches.

She glanced around quickly. “Sorry. He’s not here.”

Gathering up a fistful of one man’s coat, Gabriel slammed a punch into the Russian’s face and the man groaned before lapsing into unconsciousness. “Damn.”

“Enough! Enough!” the Russians shouted in terror. “We yield!” They covered themselves with their arms for protection.

“Leave, then,” Gabriel said, using the small amount of Russian he’d learned from Thalia.

“And tell no one about the ruby,” Thalia added, “or they’ll suffer a similar fate.”

With whimpers and moans, the Russians agreed, then stumbled toward their horses, dragging their insensate comrade, before clumsily getting back into the saddles. Thalia and Gabriel held hands as they watched the Russians ride away. Once the thwarted thieves disappeared over the horizon, Gabriel turned to her. She caught her breath at the sight of him. How he permeated the space of the steppe with his bold presence, and how she marveled every time she saw him in all his golden masculinity. With his broad shoulders filling his del, his fair hair now a bit longer, and carnal smile meant for Thalia alone, her husband was a vision of rugged virility that never ceased to stir her.

“Let’s get you inside and warm,” he rumbled.

They walked back to their ger. She smiled to herself when she saw sturdy horses grazing on the crimson flowers that poked through their frozen blanket. The kettle had long since been returned to China, but its magic still flowed strong in the people who had kept it for centuries.

A cheerful column of smoke rose up from their ger. They entered the tent and shut the door fast behind them. It took Thalia’s eyes a moment to adjust to the soft light inside the tent after the dazzling brightness of outside. While she waited for her eyes to acclimate, she felt her heavy del removed by unseen hands, her hat plucked from her head. And a warm kiss on the tip of her chilled nose.

“Go warm up,” Gabriel instructed her. Thalia nodded and moved to the stove that blazed at the center of the ger. She sighed when the fire’s heat began to thaw her numb fingers.

“They do hold the nadaam in October,” she said, continuing their earlier conversation, as if the fight with the Russians had been a minor interruption. “Which means we’ll be with the tribe, guarding the ruby, for months more.”

“Your father said we might be called back to England before then.”

She nodded with a concerned frown. “Something is brewing. The Heirs now have the Primal Source, but no one knows how or when they will use it, so we must be ready. But, until then, we must stay with the tribe. Are you content with that?”

“Hm, let’s see,” Gabriel mused. He began leading her toward their sleeping pallet. “Months of endless, freezing cold. Nothing but mutton and dried cheese to eat. Cantankerous horses and grumpy sheep. Oh, and fighting off any idiot who wants the ruby for himself. Does that content me?”

They reached the sleeping pallet, and Gabriel sank down, drawing Thalia with him. He pulled off her boots and then his own, then started to work at the fastenings of her tunic. Just the brushing of his fingers over her covered skin sent Thalia’s pulse speeding, more so than the skirmish minutes earlier.

Although she was desperate for his touch, she covered his hand with her own, stilling him. “Does it?” she asked, looking into his topaz eyes, seeing her world and her heart reflected there. “I don’t want you to have regrets.”

He did not hesitate in his reply. “None. I’m never so happy as I am when we’re out on the steppe together, battling side by side. Although,” he added, that wicked smile curving his delicious mouth just before he brought it down onto her own lips, “this cold weather makes me damned fond of keeping warm with you.”

His hand stroked down her neck, grazing the chain and locket she wore at her throat. It had been a gift from her father on her wedding day. Thalia knew, without even looking, that if she were to open the locket she would see the magical representations of those she loved most. Her father. Batu. And especially Gabriel. Forever close to her heart.

Don’t miss the rest of
The Blades of the Rose series,
coming this fall!

In October, let SCOUNDREL whisk you away to the
shores of Greece…

The Blades of the Rose are sworn to protect the Sources
of magic in the world. But the work is dangerous—and
they can’t always protect their own…

READY FOR ACTION

London Harcourt’s father is bent on subjugating the world’s magic to British rule. But since London is a mere female, he hasn’t bothered to tell her so. He’s said only that he’s leading a voyage to the Greek Isles. No matter, after a smothering marriage and three years of straitlaced widowhood, London jumps at the opportunity—unfortunately, right into the arms of Bennett Day…

RISKING IT ALL

Bennett is a ladies’ man, when he’s not dodging lethal attacks to protect the powers of the ancients from men like London’s father. Sometimes, he’s a ladies’ man even when he is dodging them. But the minute he sees London he knows she will require his full attention. The woman is lovely, brilliant, and the only known speaker of a dialect of ancient Greek that holds the key to calling down the wrath of the gods. Bennett will be risking his life again—but around London, what really worries him is the danger to his heart…

“Save those slurs for your grandmother,” said a deep, masculine voice to the vendor. He spoke Greek with an English accent.

London turned to the voice. And nearly lost her own.

She knew she was still, in many ways, a sheltered woman. Her society in England was limited to a select few families and assorted hangers-on, her father’s business associates, their retainers and servants. At events and parties, she often saw the same people again and again. And yet, she knew with absolute clarity, that men who looked like the one standing beside her were a rare and altogether miraculous phenomenon.

There were taller men, to be sure, but it was difficult to consider this a flaw when presented with this man’s lean muscularity. He wonderfully filled out the shoulders of his English coat, not bulky, but definitively capable. She understood at once that his arms, his long legs, held a leashed strength that even his negligent pose could not disguise. He called to mind the boxers that her brother, Jonas, had admired in his youth. The stranger was bareheaded, which was odd in this heat, but it allowed her to see that his hair was dark with just the faintest curl, ever so slightly mussed, as if he’d recently come from bed. She suddenly imagined herself tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.

And if that thought didn’t make her blush all the harder, then his face was the coup de grace. What wicked promises must he have made, and made good on, with such a face. A sharp, clean jaw, a mouth of impossible sensuality. A naughty, thoroughly masculine smile tugged at the corners of that mouth. Crystalline eyes full of intelligent humor, the color intensely blue. Even the small bump on the bridge of his nose—had it been broken?—merely added to the overall impression of profound male beauty. He was clean-shaven, too, so that there could be no mistaking how outrageously handsome this stranger was.

She may as well get on the boat back to England immediately. Surely nothing she could ever see in Greece could eclipse the marvel of this man.

“Who are you?” the vendor shouted in Greek to the newcomer. “You defend this woman and her lies?”

“I don’t care what she said,” the Englishman answered calmly, also in Greek. “Keep insulting her and I’ll jam my fist into your throat.” The vendor goggled at him, but wisely kept silent. Whoever this man was, he certainly looked capable of throwing a good punch.

Yet gently, he put a hand on London’s waist and began to guide her away. Stunned by the strange turn of events, she let him steer her from the booth.

“All right?” he asked her in English. A concerned, warm smile gilded his features. “That apoplectic huckster didn’t hurt you, did he?”

London shook her head, still somewhat dazed by what had just happened, but more so by the attractiveness of the man walking at her side. She felt the warmth of his hand at her back and knew it was improper, but she couldn’t move away or even regret the impertinence. “His insults weren’t very creative.”

He chuckled at this and the sound curled like fragrant smoke low in her belly. “I’ll go back and show him how it’s done.”

“Oh, no,” she answered at once. “I think you educated him enough for one day.”

Even as he smiled at her, he sent hard warning glances at whomever stared at her. “So what had his fez in a pinch?”

She held up and unfolded her hand, which still held the shard of pottery. “We were disputing this, but, gracious, I forgot I still had it. Maybe I should give it back.”

He plucked the piece of pottery from her hand. As he did this, the tips of his fingers brushed her bare palm. A hot current sparked to life where he touched. She could not prevent the shiver of awareness that ran through her body. She met his gaze, and sank into their cool aquatic depths as he stared back. This felt stronger than attraction. Something that resounded through the innermost recesses of herself, in deep, liquid notes, like a melody or song one might sing to bring the world into being. And it seemed he felt it, too, in the slight breath he drew in, the straightening of his posture. Breaking away from his gaze, London snatched her glove from Sally, who trailed behind them with a look of severe disapproval. London tugged on the glove.

He cleared his throat, then gave her back the pottery. “Keep it. Consider it his tribute.”

She put it into her reticule, though it felt strange to take something she did not pay for.

“Thank you for coming to my aid,” she said as they continued to walk. “I admit that getting into arguments with vendors in Monastiraki wasn’t at the top of my list of Greek adventures.”

“The best part about adventures is that you can’t plan them.”

She laughed. “Spoken like a true adventurer.”

“Done my share.” He grinned. “Ambushing bandits by the Khaznah temple in the cliffs of Petra. Climbing volcanoes in the steam-shrouded interior of Iceland.”

“Sounds wonderful,” admitted London with a candor that surprised herself. She felt, oddly, that she could trust this English stranger with her most prized secrets. “Even what happened back there at that booth was marvelous, in its way. I don’t want to get into a fight, but it’s such a delight to finally be out here, in the world, truly experiencing things.”

“Including hot, dusty, crowded Athens.”

“Especially hot, dusty, crowded Athens.”

“My, my,” he murmured, looking down at her with approval. “A swashbuckling lady. Such a rare treasure.”

Wryly, she asked, “Treasure, or aberration?”

He stopped walking and gazed at her with an intensity that caught in her chest. “Treasure. Most definitely.”

Again, he left her stunned. She was nearly certain that any man would find a woman’s desire for experience and adventure to be at best ridiculous, at worst, offensive. Yet here was this stranger who not only didn’t dismiss her feelings, but actually approved and, yes, admired them. What a city of wonders was this Athens! Although, London suspected, it was not the city so much as the man standing in front of her that proved wondrous.

“So tell me, fellow adventurer,” she said, finding her voice, “from whence do you come? What exotic port of call?” She smiled. “Dover? Plymouth? Southampton?”

A glint of wariness cooled his eyes. “I don’t see why it matters.”

Strange, the abrupt change in him. “I thought that’s what one did when meeting a fellow countryman abroad,” she said. “Find out where they come from. If you know the same people.” When he continued to look at her guardedly, she demonstrated, “‘Oh, you’re from Manchester? Do you know Jane?’”

The chill in his blue eyes thawed, and he smiled. “Of course, Jane! Makes the worst meat pies. Dresses like a Anglican bishop.”

“So you do know her!”

They shared a laugh, two English strangers in the chaos of an Athenian market, and London felt within her a swell of happiness rising like a spring tide. As if in silent agreement, they continued to stroll together in a companionable silence. With a long-limbed, loose stride, he walked beside her. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his simple, well-cut waistcoat, the picture of a healthy young man completely comfortable with himself. And why shouldn’t he be? No man had been so favored by Nature’s hand. She realized that he hadn’t told her where he was from, but she wouldn’t press the issue, enjoying the glamour of the unknown.

His presence beside her was tangible, a continuous pulse of uncivilized living energy, as though being escorted by a large and untamed mountain cat that vacillated between eating her and dragging her off to its lair.