Warrior:. Zoe Archer
tangling in a man’s fingers. Her cheeks were so full of lively color, her green eyes so vivid and brilliant, she must wear some of the womanly paint that ladies always claimed they never used but often did. And then there were those boots, spattered with mud and soft from use, though the dress’s hem was clean. A strange tangle of contradictions.
Besides the way she looked, he had also been struck by her manner. He remembered the officers’ wives, even Felicia, complaining about the heat or their servants, and trying so hard to be genteel and pleasant and proper in the middle of “heathen backwaters,” as they called them. Thalia Burgess had said nothing derogatory about Mongolia, never apologized, and didn’t yell at her native servants.
He and Thalia Burgess had stood close to each other, within touching distance. His body had reacted immediately to her nearness as he saw that she was tall for a woman and prodigiously pretty. She wasn’t a smooth and oval-faced porcelain doll, but had high, clear cheekbones, a strong chin, and an equally strong, straight nose. A full, rosy mouth. Even her annoying mistrust of him couldn’t shake his interest.
Damn it, he needed to get a hold of himself, and he needed to do it now. Which meant he couldn’t think about Thalia Burgess any longer.
Think about the message, he told himself. It was important, whatever it meant, and Franklin Burgess was going to do something about it. And when he did, Huntley would be right there, giving the stubborn man and his even more stubborn daughter the help they needed. He couldn’t just turn around and head back to England, to Leeds, which probably had more than its fair share of textile merchants. He was needed here, halfway around the bloody world, picking apart dangerous enigmas that had already cost one man his life. Despite Burgess’s insisting that Huntley had performed his duty to Anthony Morris, there was too much unresolved in Urga.
To keep his fingers from freezing off, Huntley counted the number of bullets in his kit, and reviewed his preparations from the night before, including taking his guns apart and cleaning them thoroughly. All routines he’d done more times than he could remember.
It didn’t seem likely that the task at hand, whatever it was, would be done in the chaotic maze of the city. Broken leg or no, Burgess would be traveling, and when he did, Huntley would be shadowing him. He’d be remiss in his duty if he let Burgess venture out into danger without reliable protection.
With that in mind, Huntley now waited near Burgess’s compound, eyes adjusted to the dark, trying to calm an impatient horse, freezing his goddamned rump off, and looking for signs of activity from the tents.
Finally, there was movement. The door to Burgess’s tent opened and a man in native dress came out. Huntley recognized him as Burgess’s Mongol servant. The servant walked quickly to where several horses were tethered and began saddling two of them. As he did this, another man came out of the tent. Huntley didn’t recognize him; he was taller than the servant, but he wore native dress, also, and carried saddlebags. It couldn’t be Burgess, since this man walked easily and confidently, not a crutch in sight. His long, dark hair was pulled back, and he wore a small wool hat. In the quiet of the morning, Huntley heard the man speak softly to the other in Mongolian, and realized with a start that it wasn’t a man, but a woman, and no ordinary woman, but Thalia Burgess.
She moved much more comfortably now than she had the day before, striding around the yard that surrounded the tent, confident and intent. She made several trips to and from the tent, easily carrying bags and equipment, as the servant finished saddling the horses. The final time she emerged from the tent, she carried a rifle, the same heavy old Beattie that Burgess had pointed at Huntley yesterday. She put the rifle in a scabbard hung on her saddle. The servant took an ancient muzzleloader and also hung it from his saddle. Thalia Burgess and the servant loaded the horses together, hardly speaking, working quickly. They put most of the bags onto a third, unsaddled horse, keeping the smaller items for the horses they planned on riding. It was clear they had packed for a journey before.
As they were finishing, Burgess himself came out of the tent, a crutch propped under one arm and using the other to lean on a Mongol woman beside him. His daughter gave her reins to the male servant before stepping forward, just in front of her father. Burgess handed her something, and she stared at the object in her hands for a moment. Burgess then wrapped one arm around his daughter’s straight shoulders and held her tightly as her arms came up to clasp him. She pressed her face against his shoulder, and he struggled with his crutch as he caressed the back of her head with a loving and protective hand. It was the embrace any parent, regardless of nationality or race, gives his child before he or she sets off on a dangerous journey. The servants watched, emotion plain in their faces. The female servant dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. Feeling like an interloper, Huntley almost looked away from the intimate family scene.
He reminded himself that whatever that message meant, it surely was something important if Burgess was willing to let his daughter embark on the mission, since he could not. That meant that Huntley was going to be stuck with her for some time now. May the Archangel Michael descend from the skies and kick Huntley straight in the rocks.
After finally breaking away from her father’s embrace, Thalia put the object her father had given her into her pocket. She then moved without hesitation toward one of the saddled horses, taking back the reins. She put her booted foot into the stirrup and swung herself up into the saddle with a fluid ease that would make any cavalryman proud. The male servant also mounted up. Burgess raised his hand in a farewell as his daughter and servant wheeled their horses about and kicked them into a canter. They disappeared into the remaining night.
Huntley waited until Burgess and the female servant went back inside before mounting up on his own horse. The mare responded eagerly to the press of his heels into her flanks, leaping into her gallop and ready to run. Mongol horses needed movement, needed freedom. For Huntley, the feeling was mutual. He wasn’t familiar with this city, and knew nothing of this country; however, despite all this and the darkness, he could find Thalia Burgess’s trail.
She may have been one of the more confounding women he’d ever known, but, whether she wanted his help or not, he was sticking with her. No matter where the journey took them.
“We’re being followed.”
Batu turned in his saddle and looked around, but aside from the rolling hills full of gently browning grass and the huge expanse of blue sky, they seemed to be alone as they rode west from Urga. The sun had risen several hours ago, and they had slowed their horses to a brisk trot to conserve the animals’ energy.
“I see no one, Thalia guai,” Batu said.
“He’s too skilled to let us see him,” Thalia answered. She kept her eyes moving across the landscape, touching the undulating hills, the scattered rocky outcroppings, the shadows of clouds slipping over the steppe, blown on dry winds from the northwest. She breathed in deeply, felt the crisp autumn air fill her and cleanse away the dirt of Urga. God, it was good to be out of the city!
“Who?”
“Captain Huntley.”
“The man with the golden hair and golden eyes? He seemed fierce.”
Thalia gave a clipped nod, remembering darkly not only the captain’s extraordinary appearance and manner, but his immediate effect on her, as well. “He’s been following us since we left Urga,” she explained. She tried to tell herself that what she was feeling was irritation. She had not the time nor energy to worry about an annoyingly persistent soldier. And she had even less room for her own unwanted reaction to him. “It seems he did not take my father’s refusal of help to heart. The captain is determined to sneak after us and force his assistance on us.”
She briefly entertained the idea that perhaps her father had sent Captain Huntley after them to ensure that she and Batu were protected on their mission, but just as quickly rejected the idea. As much as Franklin Burgess didn’t like it, the safety and secrecy of the Blades came first.
“Are you sure?” Batu looked around again. “We seem quite alone.”
“I am sure.” Thalia patted the neck of her horse in encouragement. They had only just begun their voyage, and