“But—”
“Oh,” Atisheh interrupted her, “I know I am not responsible. But, when one has dedicated one’s life to defending a man and all that he loves, it hurts to see him murdered, even if it happened beyond the reach of my sword.”
Ilsa nodded. “Understandable, that.”
Another chuckle.
“What is it?”
“The back of my neck heats as if my aunt had just slapped me.”
Ilsa looked a question at her.
“She had a habit of doing that when I would complain of how hard a lot in life I had or when I failed at some task she’d set for me. Which occurred, judging from the number of slaps I received, far too often for her liking.”
“Sounds as if you miss her a great deal.”
“Every single day.” Atisheh chuckled again, and waggled her head. “Though I have little desire to relive those stinging slaps.”
They rode the rest of the way to the city gates in a reflective, friendly silence. A mob of people were at the gate, most of them waiting for loved ones trying to get out of the city. The press of people was loud.
A richly dressed man Ilsa took to be the captain of the gate was standing on the rampart. He was looking down at them and shouting some query Ilsa couldn’t comprehend.
Atisheh must have understood him despite the crowd noise. Rather than shout back, she simply gave an exaggerated nod.
The man barked a command.
Men with long batons emerged from the gatehouse and started to push the crowd back from the gate with their staves. A few minutes of shouting and shoving opened a narrow passage to the gate and emptied the mouth of the gate itself.
Isla would have said something about the lack of care the men showed for the well-being of the people shoved aside, but her baby-sensitive stomach roiled at the smell of all those sweating people and their varied diets crammed together in so small a space.
The pair of riders approached the crowd, which Ilsa thought remained far calmer than any equivalent crowd of Germans would have been under similar circumstances. A small group of men escaped the cordon to one side of the gate, forming a knot in front of it. Atisheh rode slowly through them, seeming unconcerned by their presence.
Ilsa, not so sanguine about their presence, watched them closely. One of the men seemed to reach up at Atisheh as she passed into the shadow of the gate. She opened her mouth to shout a warning but the man withdrew his hand so quickly Ilsa doubted the evidence of her own eyes. By the time she managed to urge Flower up next to Atisheh, they were through the gate, past the crowds, and nearly home. Ilsa was going to say something then, but the city was too quiet, the silence oppressive in a way the heat alone could not explain. She wanted to mention that man, but opened her mouth only to clamp it closed as a light breeze assaulted her nostrils with a new stink. Instead she spent several minutes struggling to keep her lunch in its proper place, unable to answer when the Mission House guards challenged them.
Atisheh glanced at Ilsa and, no doubt observing how green her companion was, answered for them both.
John and Monique walked up as she dismounted in the inner court. He was dusty and looked worn out from the day’s work. Probably smelled a bit, too. Still, she loved the way he walked, broad shoulders and narrow hips moving in a way that never failed to catch her attention. Sure, most accomplished swordsmen had similar moves, but they also had the bandy legs of the born horsemen. She preferred her man’s straight legs.
“Hey, how are you?” he asked them both, leaning over for a kiss.
She pecked him on the cheek. He did smell: his own brand of healthy sweat and horse, which she didn’t find at all offensive.
“I am well, Mr. Ennis, Monique,” Atisheh said, nodding at the pair from the saddle.
Taking Atisheh’s horse by the bridle, Monique looked up at the warrior, thick curls bouncing. “Staying?”
“I must return,” Atisheh said.
“Thank you for escorting my wife, Atisheh,” John said.
“It was nothing. A pleasure,” the harem guard answered.
John nodded and looked at Ilsa. “Shall we?”
“Of course.”
As she and her husband walked Flower to the stable, Ilsa reflected how odd her pregnancy was. She remembered her mother claiming she’d been sick all the time whilst pregnant with Ilsa, but hadn’t mentioned what, in particular, had made her throw up. For her own part, Ilsa didn’t vomit very often, and then it was usually as a result of some everyday smell seeming ten times as powerful as it had been before her pregnancy.
And then, there’s the fact that when I’m around John, I’m randy as a stoat—not that I wasn’t before! Speaking of which…
Glancing over her shoulder to see the guards attending to their duty and looking out over the city, and Monique and Atisheh deep in conversation, she gave John’s muscular bottom a squeeze.
Surprise made him hop. He grinned down at her and placed his hand on her posterior as well.
So, so randy.
Chapter 32
Gwalior Fort
Aurangzeb’s camp
The Red Tent
“Carvalho, you are to proceed north once you have rested and the remainder of the artillery train has caught up,” Aurangzeb said. The heavy guns had a hard time keeping up with the army, and were only going to find it more difficult the longer the campaign continued.
“As you command, Sultan Al’Azam.” Carvalho’s answer was quick despite the expression of surprise that flashed across his face. And, among his officers, Carvalho had the most justification for that surprise: Aurangzeb’s artillery corps commander had lost more men at Burhanpur than anyone else, so he was naturally more concerned about committing to another siege, and certainly more so than the light cavalry commanders standing to either side of the ferenghi captain.
“The men here, they will not resist us?” Sidi Miftah Habash Khan inquired, gesturing at the massive defenses of Gwalior
