Warrior:. Zoe Archer
but there was no missing the discipline of his bearing, nor his physicality. He was no bookish scholar, but a man who made his way through the world with action. Few men who weren’t Blades had the same presence. Thalia tried to make herself ignore it, but now that she was within touching distance, the task was impossible. She could smell the dust of the road on him, the scent of wind and leather. A man’s scent.
Forcing herself to concentrate, she said, “You could have killed Anthony Morris, yourself, and could be trying to lead us into a trap.” Both she and her father glanced at the kestrel on his perch, but the bird seemed untroubled. It wasn’t enough of a sign, though.
“I’m tired of your hounding,” Captain Huntley answered, his voice a low rumble and his eyes amber fire. He was obviously not a man used to being questioned. Too bad.
“If you know anything of what is at stake,” Thalia shot back, “you would understand my need for caution.”
“I don’t know what’s at stake,” the captain growled. “But here’s further proof.” He reached for his pocket, and Thalia’s hand tightened on her revolver, moving to cock it. Captain Huntley looked over Thalia’s shoulder with a shuttered expression, and she followed his gaze to her father, who now had the rifle trained on the captain’s head. As if used to having large guns pointed at him, Captain Huntley calmly reached into his pocket then held out his hand. What she saw there made her gasp.
It was the Compass.
“Morris gave this to me,” the captain continued. “I was to give it to you and say, ‘North is eternal.’” He handed it to her father.
Thalia stared at the Compass in her father’s hand as she felt the gears of a global machine begin to turn.
Everything Captain Huntley had said was true. Their enemy was on the move.
She and her father managed to remember their manners enough to offer Captain Huntley a seat and some English tea. She handed the captain a cup of the steaming beverage, which he took with large, work-rough hands. Their fingers brushed against each other. The sensation of his touch ran through her like wild horses. He breathed in quickly as her skin went sensitive and alive, feeling everything at once, but mostly him.
They stared at each other, manners forgotten. A blaze there, in his golden eyes, and an answering flare within her. Hot and sudden, like wildfire on the steppe after a dry season.
He broke the contact first, pretending to study his cup as he took a sip of tea. Thalia tried, but failed, not to watch the shape of his mouth on the painted rim of the cup. How might those lips feel against her skin? She knew better than this, she chided herself, and as soon as Captain Huntley had finished his tea, she would show him the door and never see the man again.
Though he seemed to have other ideas.
“I can’t pretend to know what any of those messages mean,” he said to her father. He glanced down at her father’s braced and bandaged leg. “But it’s clear that you need some help. Let me give it.”
“I thank you, Captain,” Franklin answered, “but no. We can manage on our own.”
Batu had found a small folding camp chair, and now the captain sat in it, but the chair did a poor job of containing him. He kept stretching out his legs and trying to fit himself into the seat that had, in the past, comfortably held Thalia, and nearly every other man who had come into their ger, but it was like trying to put a waistcoat on a tiger.
He looked at her father, then at Thalia, sitting nearby. She struggled to ignore the leap her stomach gave when she felt his golden scrutiny.
“I doubt that,” the captain said bluntly. “You need me.”
Thalia ground her teeth together at his presumption. How like a military man to step in where he knew nothing and didn’t belong, and start issuing orders.
“Rest assured,” her father replied, “that we do not. You did your duty to Anthony Morris with honor, but now you have discharged that duty and can return home to England.”
That prospect did not seem to elate Captain Huntley. He worked the clean square line of his jaw as he contemplated the fragile china in his hand. “Sir—” he began.
“Thank you, Captain,” Thalia said, cutting him off, and he didn’t care for that one bit. A flare of anger gleamed in his eyes as he looked at her. “We do appreciate your offer of help, but this is personal business.”
“Personal enough to get a man killed?”
Thalia stood. She didn’t care if she was being rude, violating every principle of Mongol and English hospitality, but she had to get rid of the tenacious, irritating captain immediately. It had nothing to do with her reaction toward this man. It was purely a matter of protection. She walked to the door and held it open.
“Thank you,” she said again in a clipped, frosty voice. “Everything you have done has been extraordinary, but you can go no further in your task. My father and I are perfectly capable of managing the situation on our own.”
Her father kept his expression carefully neutral, providing neither assistance nor resistance.
After a moment, a wry smile curved in the corner of Captain Huntley’s mouth, and he set his teacup down on the table with a sharp clack. He unfolded himself from the chair with surprising grace, then picked up his pack and shouldered it. With a slight clicking of his heels, he bowed to her father with a murmured, “Sir.” Her father, not much inclined to ceremony, took the captain’s hand and shook it.
“You stood up for Tony, which I wish I could have done,” Franklin said. “And your honor does you credit. Godspeed to you, Captain, and good luck.”
The captain offered no similar reply, but shook Franklin’s hand gravely. He then strode to the door, stopping in front of Thalia. She kept her gaze trained on the space just over his shoulder, trying to avoid that sharp jolt of sensation that came from looking into his eyes. “I’ve sailed half way ’round the world,” he said quietly, his voice like whiskey, rough and warm, “including chugging through the Bay of Bengal on the leakiest, rustiest, and least seaworthy freighter that ever insulted the ocean, which, after the luxuries of the first steamship, did little for my constitution. I’ve taken the most damnable journey through China, and most of my coin is now lining the pockets of every single government agent between here and Peking.”
“I am sorry about that,” Thalia said, and meant it. “We haven’t much money, ourselves, but surely we can spare some for your return.”
He looked coldly at her. “I don’t want sympathy, and I don’t want your coin.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Tell me what Morris’s message means.”
She shook her head. “That is one thing I cannot give you, Captain. It would imperil not only you, but many others as well.”
Though her answer clearly didn’t satisfy him, he pressed for no more. He gave Thalia a small bow, but there was an intangible something that was deeply ironic about the gesture. He stared at the ground for a moment, and Thalia followed his gaze to the tops of her muddy, heavy boots, which stuck out from the hem of the dress. Yes, she was a genuine elegant English rose. Thalia drew herself up to her full height and resisted the urge to twitch the gown’s fabric over the boots. Their gazes met and held. Dangerous, she thought. He might not be a Blade, but he was a man, and not any man, but one who could inflict serious damage on her, if she let him. She could see that plainly. Oh, God, she was glad he was leaving. She would have had to be on her guard constantly, had he stayed.
“Miss Burgess,” he rumbled.
“Captain,” she said coolly.
With a nod, he placed his hat upon his head and walked out into the dusk. He never hesitated, instead moving straight and steadily through the still-crowded lanes. Without any urging on his part, the throngs parted to let him pass. Rather than watch him disappear into the mass, which she felt