“Tell me something,” the captain said.
Thalia tried to make her mind focus. “What?”
“Tell me about your first pet,” he said. “You had one, I’d wager. A cat, perhaps.”
“No…,” Thalia murmured. “It was…a dog.”
Her brain kept trying to bring her back to the dead man on the hill, but Captain Huntley wouldn’t allow it as his voice interrupted her thoughts.
“A dog then. Was he small? A little lap dog?”
Thalia heard herself laugh. “No, God, no. Thief was huge. Paws the size of wagon wheels.” Her thoughts shifted away from death and toward the animal that had been her constant companion for years. “He was…some kind of mastiff. No one knew what he was, maybe part bear. The least subtle dog you ever met. Bashed into everything. Could knock you over with just a wag of his tail.” She laughed again, remembering.
“That’s why he was called Thief,” the captain deduced.
She smiled at him. “Yes. Exactly.” She finally drew in a breath. Her vision cleared. And she became aware that the captain was practically cradling her against the hard breadth of his chest while her hands had managed to grip his jacket, holding him as tightly as one might hold a vow. She pried her fingers loose and tried to move away from him, but, given the strength of his arms, it was no simple task.
“I’m perfectly well,” she said, and hated the slight tremor in her voice.
“You are, at that,” the captain answered easily, “but you’ve also killed someone, which you don’t have much experience with. Give yourself some time.”
“Do you?” She was breathing better now. And she was loathe to believe it was because of him, his reassuring presence, but she had a bad feeling that that was the very reason.
“Do I what?”
“Have much experience killing people?”
“I didn’t become a captain by knitting socks,” he said, and Thalia had no answer to that. He loosened his hold on her, taking her by her shoulders. “Come on, let’s try and get you on your feet.”
“I can stand on my own,” she said immediately.
His mouth quirked. “Indulge me.”
So she allowed herself to be raised up, trying to bear as much of her own weight as she could. The ground wobbled slightly, but not for long. The captain stepped away, which made her sorry. At last, everything had righted itself. Even so, she could not look at the form of the fallen man’s body as it slumped on the hillside.
Captain Huntley stared at her for a few moments, as if waiting for her to crumple to the ground again, but then he seemed satisfied. He turned to Batu.
“Speak English?” he demanded.
“Russian, too,” Batu answered.
The captain gave a clipped nod. “Good.” He pointed at Thalia. “Keep an eye on her. I’ll return in five minutes.”
“Where are you going?” Batu asked.
“I hobbled my horse on the other side of this valley,” was the reply. “I’ll get her and then I’m coming back.”
Thalia stopped as she was reaching down to retrieve her rifle. “Back?”
“Yes, back.” He took up his hat and set it on his head, the broad brim shading his face. She felt, rather than saw, his eyes on her, the interplay of determination and, oddly, humor. “You aren’t taking another step on this journey of yours without me. Someone’s got to knit the socks.”
Captain Huntley’s Mysterious Disappearance
He didn’t expect her to wait for him, but when Huntley came back into the valley, riding his horse, there she was, her servant nearby. Huntley had expected a long chase across the rolling steppes of Mongolia—it seemed like her contrary nature to do something along those lines—and maybe had been perversely looking forward to it, but she had stayed. Another surprise from the continually surprising Thalia Burgess. The bigger surprise, and one he hadn’t welcomed at all, was how much he’d enjoyed holding her, how good she had felt in his arms. The woman had been in shock, for God’s sake, and there he had been, stealing her touch like a randy schoolboy. Sometimes, he thought disgustedly, he just wanted to punch his own face in.
When Huntley returned, she did not look up from repacking the horses. Some of the baggage had fallen from the horses during the skirmish. They had been frightened by the gunfire, unused to the sound, but they hadn’t been the only ones.
He watched Thalia as she worked, how she stayed with her task and forcibly kept her gaze from straying toward the dead man on the hill and the other body nearby. She wasn’t a killer. Drawing blood had marked her, stunned her. Though she’d handled herself with admirable calm and nerve during the fight—he was still shaking his head with respect at her marksmanship, to take down a man galloping up a hill with one shot—it was in the aftermath that the facts had been laid bare. Her innocence was gone. She was left on the barren plain of guilt and horror.
So he’d done for her what he had done for his men, what he’d had to do for himself, so many years ago: showed the way back from that bleak place. One time, he’d made a trembling private, covered with the enemy’s blood, tell him all the bawdy limericks he knew, until the boy had tears in his eyes from laughter. There was another, a lance corporal, who’d had to hold down his best friend while the surgeon cut off an infected leg. The lance corporal hadn’t been able to sleep for days, hearing the screams of his friend whenever he closed his eyes in the quiet of night. Huntley had sat with him one night and told him to describe each variety of apple grown on his father’s farm in Essex, each tree and leaf, until the lad had slipped off to sleep.
None of them had he commanded to look at him, none of them had he held, but that was something both for Thalia and himself. Seeing guns pointed at her made him need reassurance that she was whole and well. The world for her might one day return to normal, but, he hoped, she would never grow thick-skinned when it came to killing, the way he’d had to in order to survive. He didn’t want her to become like him.
That didn’t seem to be the case, not yet. She was still riding close to the border of shock. The best way to get her fully back to herself was not to coddle her too much. He knew that much about her.
“Don’t fiddle with those packs for much longer,” he said from atop his horse. “Your friends might come back to finish what they started.”
She turned her remarkable green eyes to him as she finished tying down the bags, and that strange, unwelcome flash of heat shot through him. He pushed it down, tried to make himself ignore it, but he recalled the lush late summer color of her eyes when he’d held her after the skirmish. He’d learned then that he had been wrong: she didn’t wear cosmetics. The gem-like brilliance of her eyes and the rosy color in her cheeks were hers through nature and not art. On top of everything else he was discovering about her, about his response to her, it wasn’t a comforting thought.
“How did you know?” she asked. She walked toward her horse and stared at him over the saddle.
Huntley found himself momentarily thrown, and wondered if one of her other unusual qualities included mind reading. That was an even less comforting thought, and he struggled to think only of sunshine-filled meadows and kittens playing with dandelion puffs. “Know what?” he stalled.
“About…about…” She gestured toward the bodies of the men but still could not look at them.
“The ambush?” He shrugged, dismissive. “I knew they were following you just after Urga.”
She recovered enough to glare at him. “You knew all the way back then?” she demanded. “And you didn’t do anything until now? Why the hell not?”
Huntley had never before met a respectable woman who cursed. Despite her unconventional attire and her ability with a rifle, Thalia Burgess was a respectable woman, and to hear such language come from her edible-looking mouth was something of a thrill for Huntley, not unlike going to a prayer meeting and finding it full of unrepentant strumpets.
“I needed to see what they wanted before I made any moves,” he said. “And there were five armed men against myself. The best chance was to take them by surprise.”
“But it wasn’t five against one,” she protested. “It was five against three.”
“I never count on an untested ally.”
She shook her head, muttering something about soldiers, then swung up into the saddle with a fluidity that caused another unwanted flare of interest to spark inside him. Gone was the awkward, confined miss he’d met the day before. This other Thalia Burgess had grace and confidence in her movement, even in her long robe and heavy boots. She walked her horse beside his until they were side by side. Her leg brushed against his, and his grip on the reins tightened, causing his horse to move and bump their legs again. His night with Felicia seemed very long ago, now. In his mind, he called himself many colorful names that would shock even a sailor.
“I thought they were you,” she said grudgingly. “That is why I was unprepared when they appeared.”
“You wouldn’t know I was coming.” It wasn’t a boast, merely a statement of fact. Huntley had learned years ago how to track and follow without being detected, something else that had come in useful more times than he could recall. Somehow, despite his abilities, Huntley couldn’t manage to avoid touching this one woman. He guided his horse so that there was a decent distance between himself and Thalia Burgess—for now.
“I’m not certain whether that is supposed to comfort or terrify me,” she replied. “But I do thank you for coming to our aid. If you hadn’t been there…” She could not hide the shudder that moved through her slender body, the body he remembered pressed against his own.
“I recognized them,” Huntley said. “The dark-haired bloke and the other one, the blond toff.”
That sharpened her attention. “From Southampton?”
“It was the toff that stabbed Morris.”
A look of fury hardened her features, an impressive sight. She was a woman who gave herself fully to her passions. “Henry Lamb. I should have killed him, too,” she growled.
“That’s the trouble with bloodlust,” Huntley remarked. “It’s a thirst that’s never quenched.”
She finally looked at the man on the hill and the other cooling corpse, still lying on the ground where he had fallen from Huntley’s shot.
“Should I bury them?” Huntley asked.
Thalia shook her head and turned away. “Bodies of the deceased aren’t interred in Mongolia. They’re taken to a hillside and left to nature, returned to the earth and heavens that created them. It’s called ‘sky burial.’”
That explained why Huntley had seen human remains out in the open in Urga. “All the same, I’d rather have my bones covered,” he said. “I’d be right sore if I knew some jackal was running around with one of my ribs in his mouth.”
“If I’m around for that unfortunate event,” she answered, “I’ll be sure to keep the dogs away.”
Before he could reply, she set her heels to her horse. Batu followed right behind her, and, after checking to make sure that none of the attackers were returning, Huntley also kicked his horse into a canter. He came over the rise and saw Thalia and her servant continuing to ride west. She rode well, straight and tall, standing in the stirrups as the Mongols did.
Huntley trailed after them, keeping his gaze alert and attuned should the Englishmen and their giant slab of a Mongol decide to finish their business within the day. Even as he watched for trouble, and as his eyes kept traveling to the slim back and shoulders of Thalia Burgess, the trim span of her waist bound with a silken sash, he could not help but marvel at the landscape. He had had no idea what to expect when he learned he would be traveling to Mongolia; all his mind had come up with was a gray, featureless plain. But what he now saw changed that. He rode a spread of grass and sky so wide and open that he could believe that he was sailing across a stretch of green ocean, an endless banner of azure sky above. And the dark blue robe of Thalia Burgess riding ahead of him was the star by which he set his course.
He was no sailor. He was a soldier. Escort and guardian for a reluctant Thalia Burgess, a woman he hadn’t known existed until yesterday, and who now occupied a goodly portion of his thoughts. His life was a strange one, all right. It didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should. Bloody wonderful to have a mission again, a purpose beyond Inwood’s promises of work and wife in a country that hadn’t been his home for fifteen years. He forced away thoughts of the letter, still residing in his pocket.
He nudged his horse, and the mare responded instantly, ready to gallop across the steppes with almost no encouragement. Within seconds, he had ridden abreast of Thalia. She glanced at him over her shoulder, her dark hair catching the wind and light, but said nothing.
“You’re going to have to tell me what this is about,” he said after they had ridden together for a few minutes. “Who your attackers are, why Morris was killed, where we’re headed, what’s at stake. All of it. I can’t do my job properly unless I know everything.”
“You don’t have a job,” she reminded him and tried to push her horse farther ahead.
“Everything that happened back in that valley says I do.” He didn’t have to see her face to know that she was scowling. The curse words she muttered in Mongolian were also something of a giveaway. Huntley’s mare sped up without urging, as if goaded by the lead Thalia’s horse had, until the two were again side by side. “Like me or don’t, Miss Burgess, it doesn’t matter to me. But either way, I’m protecting you until we see this through.”
Her jaw tightened. Then released. He already knew what she was thinking. Damned strange. He’d never been particularly attuned to any woman’s mind before.
“Losing me won’t work,” he added, and by the way she clenched her teeth he knew that he had been correct. With a jolt, he felt himself slipping inside of her, her mind, her body, and it bound him to her, suddenly, powerfully, in a way he’d never experienced with another woman. A tight knitting of self to self. He’d killed for her, and he’d do it again, kill anyone who tried to harm her. Even Morris’s mission meant less than keeping her safe. The revelation stunned him.
“I’ve lived in Mongolia since I was a small child,” she said. “I know this country better than you, Captain. It wouldn’t be difficult to elude you.”
He tried to collect himself. “Doesn’t matter where we are,” he answered. “A trail is a trail. And you’ll leave one.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
Huntley almost laughed, but wisely checked the impulse since it would only rile her further. “I once tracked down the notorious brigand Ali Jai Khan to his gang’s secret hiding place in the Aravali Mountains of Rajasthan, and that bloke knew how to disguise his trail.” He realized too late that discussing brigands with ladies was probably unwise, but he kept forgetting that Thalia Burgess was a lady. On further reflection, after the hem of her robe flipped back in the breeze, revealing a long, shapely leg in trousers, he was very much aware that she was a woman. The term “lady,” however, which brought to mind images of painted china and cramped rooms full of overstuffed furniture, didn’t seem to apply.
And, far from being horrified at his anecdote, Thalia Burgess seemed reluctantly impressed. “I wouldn’t mind learning how to track,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her above the sounds of the horses’ hooves and rushing wind.
“I may show you, someday,” he answered. He didn’t know if he ever would, but the prospect seemed almost pleasant. He tried to steer his thoughts back toward the matter at hand, and not to the idea of spending long hours crawling on forest floors with her, just them alone, in the cool damp seclusion of the woods. “So you may as well face facts: I’m sticking with you. Tell me everything. Better for all of us if you do.”
“I wish I could,” she said after a pause, and there was real regret in her voice. He found that he liked to hear her speak. She had an unusual accent, not fully English, tinged with a husky, almost Russian flavor. It sounded of long nights under fur blankets.
But despite her remarkable voice, Huntley felt his patience begin to fray. “Look, Miss Burgess,” he growled, “whoever or whatever you’re protecting—”
“Is far more important than your sense of obligation,” she finished. She turned and looked at him directly. “I take my own responsibilities very seriously, Captain. And one of them is maintaining my silence.”
Huntley didn’t respond, nor did she expect him to. They rode on without speaking, but he was a patient man. When he’d tracked Ali Jai Khan, he and his men had had to lie in wait for days, barely moving, making no noise, even when it rained for an entire day and they’d been lying in mud and mosquitoes, until the time for the bandit’s capture was exactly right. It had been hell, but worth it. The situation he was in now would be a paradise by comparison. Though that might not be true, either. He was a soldier, she was a gentleman’s daughter, they were on a dangerous journey together, and no matter what his body wanted, he was going to force himself to keep his hands, and other parts, off of her. There were things he needed to know, things that didn’t involve the taste of her mouth or the feel of her skin.