Releasing Henry. Sarah Hegger
Читать онлайн книгу.
bulged along the length of his arms as he spread sweet sand over his chest. Strong ridges cut across his abdomen. Two lines of muscle dipped inside his hipbones and disappeared beneath his loincloth. His legs were long and powerful.
An odd prickling sensation spread over her skin. She tightened her stomach against the tingle of excitement.
Nasira had lectured her about these sensations, warned her that a pure woman did not look upon a man who was not her husband and feel these things. Nasira was far behind in Cairo, and Alya did not want to look away, or stop the sensation. It climbed from her belly to her breasts, tightening her nipples to points.
Henry dampened a cloth in water and wiped the sweet sand off. Water glistened along every fascinating ridge, snaked in droplets over his belly and thighs.
Lust. She lusted for the English with the beautiful eyes, and the man’s body.
She closed her eyes and forced them to remain that way. This would never do. His blue eyes held some manner of sorcery.
Chapter 5
Henry sat beside Newt as they shared a meal before the caravan got underway. With the sunset came the cool of the desert evening and he wrapped his kaffiyeh tightly around his head to keep the wind off him.
Bahir prowled the outskirts of the small oasis. He stopped, cocked his head, tense and alert.
“What’s up with him?” Newt jerked his chin at Bahir, who slid like a wraith between the date palms, his attention intent on the dark expanse of nothing all around them.
Henry’s nape prickled. He sensed it too. It ran like ants across his skin, tightened his belly, and made him uneasy. He rose, his hand reaching for the sword that no longer rested at his hip. “I am not sure.”
Wind whispered and hissed through the palms, the deep silence pressing in on them from all sides.
A wild dog yipped.
Bahir whirled and shouted. “Arm yourselves!”
“Bedamned!” Newt whirled. “What is happening?”
“There are no blasted wild dogs this close to Cairo.” With no sword, Henry ran for Alya. “Give no quarter.”
Swords flashing, the escort clambered to their feet,
Rising out of the sand like smoke, the attackers swarmed out of the desert. Desert nomads. Fast, deadly and merciless.
Alya stood beside her camel. Alone.
Bahir engaged three men, and cut down two almost immediately.
Henry reached her before Bahir. “Have you a dagger?”
“Aye.” Eyes huge, she looked fearful but calm.
“Use it.”
Shrouded in dark clothing and difficult to see, men surged around them. The nomads knew the desert well. Knew how to use it to their advantage.
A figure lunged out of the shadows.
Alya screamed.
Henry ducked the sword. He rammed his shoulder into the man’s gut, driving them both to the ground.
Hard-packed sand jarred his knees and elbows.
The nomad twisted beneath him and got his hands about Henry’s throat.
Henry tossed sand in his eyes, grabbed his turban and pounded his head into the sand until the man’s grip about his neck relaxed.
Another two headed for Alya, making no sound on the soft sand.
“Henry!” Newt yelled. A sword winged through the air toward him.
Henry snatched it and swung. Steel bit into flesh and the first man dropped. The other bastard skidded to a stop. His blade swaying like a cobra.
In his hand, the pommel fit like a gauntlet. Henry curled his fingers about it. Another man converged on them from the right.
The first attacked. Henry swung double-handed, striking blade against blade. Sparks flew. He found the bind, twisted and wrenched the sword from the nomad’s hand.
Dancing back, he dodged the blow from his right. Cutting up, his metal bit into cloth and then stuck in the man’s chest.
Henry shoved with his boot, and the man dropped to the ground.
Years and years of training took over. Dodge, cut, thrust, parry, strike. Weight balanced on the balls of his feet, searching constantly for the next attack.
Behind him, Alya. Before him they came in a steady flow, one man after another. Metal clanged against metal, grunts and hoarse cries, the stench of sweat, the sharp coppery tang of blood. Battle. His blood surged in response.
His breath tired first. Rasping through his chest as he danced with his sword. The fatigue spread to his arms. Still their attackers came out of the darkness. His footwork grew sloppy. His responses slower. Henry shook sweat out his eyes.
Then, Bahir was beside him. Carving that deadly curved sword of his through nomads. Shoulder to shoulder they fought, until Newt joined them. Henry drew on his last reserves, his arms shaking with the effort to raise the sword.
The attackers dwindled to a trickle.
And then they were gone.
In the aftermath, the silence rang like a bell.
Henry dropped his hands to his knees and tried to catch his breath. Breath seared through his chest, his heart pounding so hard it drummed in his ears.
“They are gone,” Alya whispered.
Bodies littered the oasis, crumpled over like cloth poppets. Camels brayed their alarm. Their handlers clucked and soothed, speaking to them in harsh guttural grunts.
“Bastard dogs.” Bahir spat. He strode to the nearest body, grabbed its head and lifted, only to drop it back to the floor. “Find one of them alive.”
Metal whispered against leather as Newt sheathed his weapon.
Henry straightened, his body aching like an oldster.
“That was close.” Newt hauled his headscarf off and wiped his brow. “You fight like an old woman.”
Henry wanted to brain the little turd, but Newt spoke true. He had fought like a sodding farmer. Three years of herding goats had cost him his speed and his endurance. Thick spit and sand coated his mouth and he snatched the waterskin Newt held out to him. He rinsed his mouth and spat.
But Alya was safe. Behind him she moved in a silky swish of cloth and the scent of jasmine oil.
“An old woman who taught you how to fight.” He punched Newt on the shoulder, nearly crying with the effort it took. But a man had his pride after all.
A strangled cry arose from where Bahir dragged some hapless fighter up and threw him against a boulder.
Only then did Henry allow himself to look at Alya.
Her gaze moved across the oasis constantly. Beneath her covering, he could not tell what expression she wore but she held her shoulders tense. She raised her head when she caught him looking. Something fierce flashed in the green-brown depths of her eyes. “My thanks, Hen-er-ree.”
She knew his name. It surged through him hot and sweet. Not trusting his voice, he nodded, tightened his grip on his pommel, and followed Newt.
Bahir had the injured man pinned to a boulder. His kaffiyeh lay in the sand at their feet. Through the grit, sweat and blood a young, clearly terrified, boy stared up at them.
So fast that Henry barely caught a word of it, they spoke in the language of the desert tribes.
At the end of which, Bahir shoved the boy away. The nomad stumbled and fell, righted himself and ran out into the night.
“Should