by Zoë Archer
“Because the women are much smarter than the men,” Thalia answered. She shook out the full skirts that hung limply to the ground. Without a crinoline to support the fabric, the dress looked like a deflated circus tent. Thalia remembered that she hadn’t a single pair of the dainty shoes she had worn with the dress, and even if she did, her heels would now hang off the back. She shoved her feet back into her Mongolian boots. There wasn’t much time left.
She started for the door, but then remembered her mother’s hand mirror, and pulled it from the small box of jewelry and other mementos left to her after her mother had died. Thalia scanned her reflection critically. Englishwomen kept their hair up, so Thalia took her mass of heavy, dark hair and hastily pulled it into a bun that almost immediately began to slide loose. She found a few pins in the box that managed to tame her hair, but just barely. She hadn’t any cosmetics, so there would be no way to hide the telltale flush of color in her cheeks, or the gleaming brightness of her jade green eyes, all of which came from years on horseback beneath the expansive Mongolian sky. She recalled that Englishmen liked their women pale and delicate. Thalia failed on both counts.
What did it matter? Her primary concern was making sure that the inquisitive stranger was not an Heir, or anyone else who might cause her and her father harm. Fashion could go hang.
Thalia ran back to her father’s ger, cursing as the narrow dress bit into her sides. Their other servant, Batu, followed her inside, and he made a choking noise when he observed her dress. She gave him a fierce scowl that would have sent lesser men running for cover, but Batu had known her since she was a child, and only chuckled to himself as he moved to put away the books scattered throughout the ger.
When Franklin saw her enter, his eyebrows rose.
“You look…”
“Hilarious,” Thalia supplied.
“Well, yes,” her father agreed. “But I was also going to say ‘lovely’.”
Thalia went to one of the painted chests and pulled out her father’s seldom-used revolver, then checked to ensure it was loaded. “I can’t very well be both.”
Before her father could answer, there was a knock at the wooden door to the tent. Her father called out, “Enter.” The door began to swing open.
Thalia tucked the hand holding the revolver behind her back. She stood behind her father’s chair and braced herself, wondering what kind of man would step across the threshold and if she would have to use a gun on another human being for the first time in her life.
The man ducked to make it through the door, then immediately removed his hat, uncovering a head of close-cropped, wheat-colored hair. He was not precisely handsome, but he possessed an air of command and confidence that shifted everything to his favor. His face was lean and rugged, his features bold and cleanly defined; there was nothing of the drawing room about him, nothing refined or elegant. He was clean-shaven, allowing the hard planes of his face to show clearly. He was not an aristocrat and looked as though he had fought for everything he ever had in his life, rather than expecting it to be given to him. Even in the filtered light inside the ger, Thalia could see the gleaming gold of his eyes, their sharp intelligence that missed nothing as they scanned the inside of the tent and finally fell on her and her father.
“Franklin Burgess?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” her father answered, guarded. “My daughter, Thalia.”
She remembered enough to sketch a curtsy as she felt the heat of the stranger’s gaze on her. An uncharacteristic flush rose in her cheeks.
“And you are…?” her father prompted.
“Captain Gabriel Huntley,” came the reply, and now it made sense that the man who had such sure bearing would be an officer. “Of the Thirty-third Regiment.” Thalia was not certain she could relax just yet, since it was not unheard of for the Heirs to find members in the ranks of the military. She quickly took stock of the width of the captain’s shoulders, how even standing still he seemed to radiate energy and the capacity for lethal movement. Captain Huntley would be a fine addition to the Heirs.
There was something magnetic about him, though, something that charged the very air inside the ger, and she felt herself acutely aware of him. His sculpted face, the brawn of his body, the way he carried his gear, all of it, felt overwhelmingly masculine. How ironic, how dreadful, it would be, if the only man to have attracted her attention in years turned out to be her enemy. Sergei, her old suitor, had wound up being her enemy, but in a very different way.
“You are out of uniform, Captain Huntley,” her father pointed out.
For the first time since his entrance, the captain’s steady concentration broke as he glanced down at his dusty civilian traveling clothes. “I’m here in an unofficial capacity.” He had a gravelly voice with a hint of an accent Thalia could not place. It was different from the cultured tones of her father’s friends, rougher, but with a low music that danced up the curves of her back.
“And what capacity is that?” she asked. Thalia realized too late that a proper Englishwoman would not speak so boldly, nor ask a question out of turn, but, hell, if Captain Huntley was an Heir, niceties did not really matter.
His eyes flew back to her, and she met his look levelly, even as a low tremor pulsed inside her. God, there it was again, that strange something that he provoked in her, now made a hundred times stronger when their gazes connected. She watched him assess her, refusing to back down from the unconcealed measuring. She wondered if he felt that peculiar awareness too, if their held look made his stomach flutter. Thalia doubted it. She was no beauty—too tall, her features too strong, and there was the added handicap of this dreadful dress. Besides, he didn’t quite seem like the kind of man who fluttered anything.
Yet…maybe she was wrong. Even though he was on the other side of the ger, Thalia could feel him looking at her, taking her in, with an intensity that bordered on unnerving. And intriguing.
Regardless of her scanty knowledge of society, Thalia did know that gentlemen did not look at ladies in such a fashion. Strange. Officers usually came from the ranks of the upper classes. He should know better. But then, so should she.
“As a messenger,” he answered, still holding Thalia’s gaze, “from Anthony Morris.”
That name got her attention, as well as her father’s.
“What about Morris?” he demanded. “If he has a message for me, he should be here, himself.”
The captain broke away from looking intently at Thalia as he regarded her father. He suddenly appeared a bit tired, and also sad.
“Mr. Morris is dead, sir.”
Thalia gasped, and her father cried out in shock and horror. Tony Morris was one of her father’s closest friends. Thalia put her hand on her father’s shoulder and gave him a supportive squeeze as he removed his glasses and covered his eyes. Tony was like a younger brother to her father, and Thalia considered him family. To know that he was dead—her hands shook. It couldn’t be true, could it? He was so bright and good and…God, her throat burned from unshed tears for her friend. She swallowed hard and glanced up from her grief. Such scenes were to be conducted in private, away from the eyes of strangers.
The captain ducked his head respectfully as he studied his hands, which were gripped tightly on his hat. Through the fog of her sorrow, Thalia understood that the captain had done this before. Given bad news to the friends and families of those that had died. What a dreadful responsibility, one she wouldn’t wish on anyone.
She tried to speak, but her words caught on shards of loss. She gulped and tried again. “How did it happen?”
The captain cleared his throat and looked at Franklin. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding looking at her. “This might not be suitable for…young ladies.”
Even in her grief, Thalia had to suppress a snort. Clearly, this man knew nothing of her. Fortunately, her father, voice rough with emotion about Tony Morris’s death, said, “Please speak candidly in front of Thalia. She has a remarkably strong constitution.”
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br /> Captain Huntley’s gaze flicked back at her for a brief moment, then stayed fixed on her father. She saw with amazement that this strapping military man was uncomfortable, and, stranger still, it was her that was making him uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because of the nature of his news, unsuitable as it was for young ladies. Or perhaps it was because he’d felt something between them, as well, something instant and potent. She did not want to consider it, not when she was reeling from the pain of Tony Morris’s death.
After clearing his throat again, the captain said, “He was killed, sir. In Southampton.”
“So close!” Franklin exclaimed. “On our very doorstep.”
“I don’t know ’bout doorsteps, sir, but he was attacked in an alley by a group of men.” Captain Huntley paused as Thalia’s father cursed. “They’d badly outnumbered him, but he fought bravely until the end.”
“How do you know all this?” Thalia asked. If Tony’s death had been reported in the papers, surely someone other than the captain would be standing in their ger right now, Bennett Day or Catullus Graves. How Thalia longed to see one of their numbers, to share her family’s grief with them instead of this man who disquieted her with his very presence.
Captain Huntley again let his eyes rest on her briefly. She fought down her immediate physical response, trying to focus on what he was saying. “I was there, miss, when it happened. Passing by when I heard the sounds of Morris’s being attacked, and joined in to help him.” He grimaced. “But there were too many, and when my back was turned, he was stabbed by one of them—a blond man who talked like a nob, I mean, a gentleman.”
“Henry Lamb?” Franklin asked, looking up at Thalia. She shrugged. Her father turned his attention back to the captain and his voice grew sharp, “You say you were merely ‘passing by,’ and heard the scuffle and just ‘joined in to help.’ Sounds damned suspicious to me.” Thalia had to agree with her father. What sort of man passed by a fight and came to the aid of the victim, throwing himself into the fray for the sake of a stranger? Hardly anyone.
Captain Huntley tightened his jaw, angry. “Suspicious or not, sir, that’s what happened. Morris even saved my life just before the end. So when he gave me the message to deliver to you, in person, I couldn’t say no.”
“You came all the way from Southampton to Urga to fulfill a dying man’s request, a man you had never met before,” Thalia repeated, disbelief plain in her voice.
The captain did not even bother answering her. “It couldn’t be written down, Morris said,” he continued, addressing her father and infuriating Thalia in the process. She didn’t care for being ignored. “I’ve had it in my head for nearly three months, and it makes no sense to me, so I’ll pass it on to you. Perhaps you can understand it, sir, because, as much as I’ve tried, I can’t.”
“Please,” her father said, holding his hand out and gesturing for Captain Huntley to proceed.
“The message is this: ‘The sons are ascendant. Seek the woman who feeds the tortoise.’”
He glanced at both Thalia and her father to see their reactions, and could not contain his surprise when her father cursed again and Thalia gripped a nearby table for support. She felt dizzy. It was beginning. “You know what that means?” the captain asked.
Franklin nodded as his hands curled and uncurled into fists, while Thalia caught her lower lip between her teeth and gnawed pensively on it.
She knew it was bound to happen, but they had never known when. That time was now at hand. If what Captain Huntley said was true, they would have to move quickly. But that was presuming he was speaking the truth.
“We don’t know if we can trust you, Captain,” Thalia said. She stepped around her father’s chair and, despite the tight discomfort of the dress, walked straight up to Captain Huntley, pausing only a few feet away from him. He stiffened slightly at her approach. His gaze flicked down to the revolver in her hand, and he raised an eyebrow.
“A nice welcome for a tired traveler,” he drawled.
“Hopefully,” she answered, “I won’t have to use it.”
“Hopefully, I won’t have to take it from you,” he corrected.
She deliberately eyed him from the tips of his heavy, worn boots to the top of his sandy head—a long journey that, unfortunately, brought her an even greater awareness of his size and strength. He may have been out of uniform, 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 h
is 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.”