Page 10 of Company of Thieves
“I don’t like horses,” she said, squaring her shoulders, and marching past him. “I’ll walk. I like walking. I’m a very good walker.”
He sighed, cast his eyes upward to see if any deity who happened to be looking might notice what he was called upon to put up with, and pressed his heels to Sampson’s flanks, bending to the side and scooping up Hallie before pulling her up to sit sideways on his lap.
She screamed, struggled, and went over backward off the side of Sampson, who, being very well trained, stopped. Alan leaped down and helped Hallie to her feet.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, annoyance riding him. Damn the woman, if she made him miss the raid with her demands, he would not be answerable for his actions.
“No. I told you, I don’t like horses.” She brushed off her backside and, giving Sampson a wide berth, started forward again.
He sighed to himself a second time, mounted his horse, and, with a gesture toward Zand, rode forward a few steps. Zand grabbed Hallie by her waist, ignoring her squawk of protest, and flung her up onto Alan’s lap. Once again, she started fighting him, her arms and legs flailing, and this time she not only went over the side; she took Alan with her.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” he snarled when he managed to disentangle himself from her, and got to his feet.
She hastily scrambled to her own, her face red with exertion and emotion. “I told you a bazillion times now! I don’t like horses.”
“This foolishness ends now,” he said, his patience frayed, and his temper—lauded in the court of William VI for its evenness and inability to be ruffled—well and truly lost. He grabbed her by the back of her tunic and shoved her toward Sampson, who turned to look at what all the fuss was about.
“Ack!” Hallie screamed, and turned, trying to climb him like he was some sort of a ladder.
“Woman!” he roared, giving in to Akbar’s notorious black temper. “Cease this outrageous action!”
“I’m not outrageous! I don’t like horses,” she snarled back at him, fighting when he struggled to turn her around to face the horse. He managed to get her facing the right direction, but then she seemed to turn to stone. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. When he gave her another shove forward, intending to read her a lecture, she pressed herself back into him, her body taut, her arms rigid, her expression as frozen as the rest of her body.
He was about to toss her over the saddle and mount behind her when he caught a glimpse of something in her green eyes, an emotion that reached deep inside him.
She was afraid. No, not afraid, terrified.
Instantly, the soft side of his emotions, the same one that always comforted his sisters when they were upset or anxious or frightened, came to the fore, giving him the patience that Prince Akbar allowed few to see.
He could no more bully a frightened woman than he could walk to the moon. He eyed Sampson and then said softly in Hallie’s ear, “You truly are afraid of horses?”
She nodded, the movement stiff. “They’re ... so big. And they bite. And kick. And do other things.”
“Sampson is a very well-behaved horse. I trained him myself. He will not hurt you. If you stroke him, you will see just how nice his manners are.”
She shook her head and tried to flatten herself against his body. “Nuh-uh. He’ll do something. Theyalldo something whenever I get near them.”
He had a feeling that if she could, she would merge into him. The impatience and irritation he had felt a few moments ago faded completely. He sighed to himself about what he thought of as his overactive protective streak, but did his best nonetheless to calm Hallie.
“I will show you,” he said softly, and, putting one arm around her waist to keep her from bolting, tried to edge her forward to the horse.
“Nope. Not happening.” Hallie refused to budge. “The words ‘over my dead body’ come all too strongly to my mind.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” He picked her up and carried her the four steps to the horse. She was as unmoving as a statue, but he took her hand in his, and forced her to pet the elegant lines of Sampson’s neck. “There, you see how he arches his neck? He likes to be stroked there.”
She made an unintelligible noise in her throat. “He’s just gathering his strength to stomple me into the ground.”
“I don’t believe ‘stomple’ is an actual word,” he said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. He continued to force her to stroke Sampson’s neck, letting her get used to the feel of the horse.
“It is when it comes to the things horses want to do to me.”
“Now we will let him smell you. It is traditional to greet a horse by blowing in his nose, so that he may learn your scent, but since I suspect you might hyperventilate if I were to ask you to do so, we’ll just let him smell you, so that he is aware of who you are, and that you are on his back.”
“Oh, holy hand grenades, are you insane? Get near his mouth? The bitey end?” She moaned, her fingers digging into his arm that he still kept around her waist. He had to admit that if he were a less conscientious man, he might enjoy the sensation of having her pressed so tightly against him, as well as indulge the urge to breathe deeply of the scent rising from her hair, that of orange blossoms and exotic spices.
“Yes. You will see that Sampson is a gentleman. Not all horses are so, but he has, as I mentioned, very good manners.” He lifted her bodily again, this time moving around to the front of the horse.
She began to pant when Sampson politely snuffled her torso, checking her for treats, before quickly losing interest. “He’s going to bite,” she whispered, not moving a single muscle.
