Page 19 of Company of Thieves
“I wasn’t. I happen to prefer women who fit nicely into my hands than those who overflow.”
I seethed at him, positively seethed as he laid a couple of long gauntlets on the bunk, digging around until he pulled out a scabbard and a narrow box.
“My breasts are not a subject of jokes,” I said stiffly, wanting to both yell and cry. I hated it when I was emotional like this, and wondered if I was hormonal.
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Take them that seriously, do you?”
“Considering I had one removed due to a cancer scare, yes, I do.” The words were out before I realized it. I rubbed my arms, looking away from him, asking myself what the hell I was doing telling him something so personal. It was a fact that only a few people knew.
I felt his gaze on me. “I meant no insult,” he finally said, and I looked back expecting to see ... I don’t know what. False sympathy? A glint of humor? What I saw instead was earnest regard. “Although I am confused. When I saw you in my tent, you appeared to possess both ... er ... attributes.”
“One was surgically reconstructed. It’s quite common where I come from. They even managed to save my nipple, which was nice.” I shook my head at myself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you. The only person here who knows is my brother.”
He was silent for another moment, then rose to his feet. “I see I was wrong about you.”
I stopped mentally yelling at myself, and frowned. “About what? That my breasts are worthy of your hands? Because let me tell you—”
“I was wrong in thinking you did not have it within you to fight. You have already fought and won a most valiant battle.”
A sudden moment of epiphany struck me. “You know someone who has cancer.”
“Had. My mother. It affected her elsewhere, but she, too, fought well.” His gaze dropped to the narrow wooden box he held.
I moved before I realized what I was doing, putting my hand on his. “I’m sorry. My mother died of breast cancer when Jack and I were very young, so I know what it’s like.”
He handed me the armor. “Leila is my sister. These belong to her, but I don’t think she would mind you using them while you train.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“There is clothing in the chest, as well. I suggest you utilize it lest you ruin what you are wearing. When you are ready, I will be in the forward hold.”
He left without saying anything more, leaving me feeling oddly deflated.
“You are not looking for a man. Just concentrate on what’s important, and stop thinking about his butt. And chest. And holy horticulture, his mouth,” I reminded myself while I took off my tunic and pants, sorting through the unfamiliar clothes bundled at the bottom until I found a pair of tight-fitting gold leggings, the material soft and slightly clingy when I pulled them on. Leila must be a little bit shorter than me, but I figured that Alan would just have to cope with seeing a bit of ankle. The tunic was a shorter version than the one the men wore, this one falling to midthigh.
There were also a couple of what looked like floor-length tunic-dresses, but those I ignored, pulling out an item wadded up into the bottom. There was a small red pillbox hat, the sort I mentally connected with Jacqueline Kennedy, but attached to it was a long swath of white material. I realized that it was very similar to the turbans that the male Moghuls wore, and promptly plopped it onto my head, wrapping the white cloth around in a fashion that I hoped emulated their headwear.
I found Alan standing in the hold, which was mostly empty, although he stood talking to Zand next to three dirty bales of hay that were stacked on top of one another. They stopped talking when they saw me, Zand blinking at me for a moment before he pulled the tail of his turban across his mouth. He made me a little bow, but before I could say anything, he hustled out of the hold.
Alan watched me with an indescribable expression. “What ... uh ... what have you done with the lay?”
“The what, now?”
“The scarf women wear instead of the turban,” he said, staring at my head. “It is called a lay.”
“Oh. I have a Muslim friend who said hers was called a shayla, but she didn’t wear it on top of her head. Is this not right? I tried to make mine look like yours.”
“It’s not meant to duplicate a turban.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, stopping him when he untangled the cloth from the top of my head and was about to fix it. “Women in the Moghul culture don’t cover their faces, do they? Because while I respect everyone’s right to do what they like with their body, I am not of that mind-set.”
“You surprise me,” he said in obvious amusement. “No, our women do not feel the need to hide themselves from view. The lay is used by women just as men use the turban: as protection in environments where it’s desirable to keep sand out of our noses and mouths. It goes around your face like this, with a tail that hangs down your shoulder, which you may pull across your face and tuck in when desired. My sister likes it because she says she has to wash her hair less often, but she doesn’t wear it often now.”
He did a little draping of the soft cloth, then stepped back and eyed the armor.
I ran a hand down the leather of it, doing a turn for him. “Does it look OK?”
“I am more concerned about the fit,” he murmured, tightening the straps on the sides. “I was wrong about the ... er ... front. It seems to sit well there.”
