Warrior by Zoe Archer

encampments. It could only be Captain Huntley, and though he had been very good at remaining quiet, keeping his horse from kicking up too much telltale dust, she had known he was there.
    She had been all too aware of him since he stepped into her father’s ger. He was big and commanding and unapologetic about both of those qualities, and though Thalia had always been at ease in the presence of men, there was something about Captain Huntley, something so specifically masculine, that she could not feel comfortable around him. His golden eyes, his whiskey voice, his very physical nature that the tent could barely contain—these things combined like a drug in her body, a drug on which she could not become dependent. She could never trust such an opiate as Captain Huntley. Her swift and strong reaction to him was unnerving. The very fact that he did bother her bothered her even more, until she felt as though she was chasing her own ghost, grabbing at something that would always slip from her grasp.
    In a few more minutes, it would no longer matter. She would confront Captain Huntley and insist that he return to England. Truthfully, it didn’t matter where he went, Brazil or the Maldives or anywhere else, so long as he wasn’t following her in Mongolia. And then her interest in him would disappear, as it must.
    She and Batu crested the rise, then rode down into the small valley where she planned on watering and resting the horses. Water was always scarce, even far north of the vast Gobi desert. It would not benefit her and Batu to push the horses, despite the time concerns, since thirsty horses tired quickly. Better to lose a few minutes here and there than to face a larger obstacle later on.
    The valley that contained the stream was shaped like a cup, surrounded on all sides by low, rocky hills. A few larch trees dotted the valley, most of them clustered near the water’s edge. As they approached the stream, she and Batu dismounted and led the horses to the water. The animals gratefully dipped their muzzles into the cold, fresh stream, and Thalia crouched near the bank, cupping her hands to take her own drink. She closed her eyes, tasting the sweet and bracing water. Its purity was never in doubt. To pollute a lake or stream was a great sin for a Mongol, and all nomads took great care to preserve the cleanliness of the water, since it was so precious. Drinking deeply from the stream, Thalia remembered the sludge and rubbish floating in the Thames, the children and women walking up and down its muddy banks, looking for anything of value that had been discarded and then churned up. She had heard tales, too, of a noxious fog that rose up from the Thames, blanketing London with a thick yellow haze that made it impossible to see or breathe. She had no idea how anyone could live like that, why Londoners never saw the direct relationship between clean water and the health of themselves and their city.
    As if her thoughts had conjured up another Englishman, Thalia heard the rattle of rocks kicked up from the ground behind her. It had to be the captain. She rose, preparing to be very polite but exceedingly firm in her assertions that she and her servant would proceed alone. As she turned, the polite refusal vanished as her blood chilled.
    Henry Lamb stood twenty feet away. Impeccably groomed and blond, he smiled without warmth. He was accompanied by an unsmiling Jonas Edgeworth, his black hair gleaming with tonic, his moustache clipped and severe. They were both attired in the most expensive expedition clothing that Bond Street could provide, as well as armed with revolvers on their hips. Nearby stood three Mongols of dubious appearance holding the reins of a half dozen saddled and packed horses. One of the Mongols was exceedingly big—a barrel-chested man with powerful arms and a rapacious look. His del was threadbare, and he wore a battered European hat, with a wicked hunting knife hanging from his belt. He could probably tear a