When he could focus on her face, he saw that she looked panicked still, even as she worked.
“Eve,” he said, looking for words to console her. All that came out was, “Are they dead?”
She made an affirming sound and nodded.
“Terence?”
“I had no idea,” she shook her head. “I never thought...”
“I didn’t pay close enough attention,” Michel said.
“Shhh,” she soothed. She garnered up a smile and touched his cheek.
“You killed him,” he said stupidly. “He almost got me.”
“Michel,” she said. Her face showed emotion, though her voice stayed steady. “You are mine to protect, just as I am yours.”
Ganbold lay there looking up at the sky through the canopy of trees. He didn’t know where his mind hovered, but he couldn’t move. Pain beat a distant throb in his body. He heard voices: one of the woman, another of the Frenchman. He heard the wind. Everything felt far away. His mind and body were no longer working together. He was a warrior. There was no shame in being beaten by another warrior. He had done all he could to win his way back into his tribe by finding the woman and bringing her home. He had failed at that. Now he felt his life seeping into the dirt beneath him.
He thought of the shepherd’s daughter. He felt her call, her voice, one of a thousand who called to him, in a thousand different languages. There was anger in her voice, as with many other voices, but as he began to understand better, the anger resolved, and the tones all began to match. He felt something aligning within him, in a way that promised soon there would be sense to it all.
He saw the light-haired woman come before him. She thought he was dead already, but Ganbold knew he was not yet. Or maybe he already passed to the other realm, and he saw her with something other than eyes. The woman reached forward to put her hand on his chest. She whispered the prayer of the ancestors over him, to hasten his return to them.
He wished for her to know that he thanked her for the kindness.
Then there was a glow that welcomed him.
Ganbold. Warrior. Hunter.
ChapterThirty-One
Eve took it slow going back. Michel was able-bodied enough to walk, though he was bleeding and in pain. When they finally came upon the resting guards, she called out. Seeing her struggling with Michel, they rushed to help.
Michel was dazed from receiving a few good strikes to the head. He bled from his flank where Terence had gotten him. The men got him on his horse, and Eve directed them back to Kashgar. Michel grimaced as they rode, arm tucked into his side, struggling to stay conscious.
They arrived in Kashgar within the hour. Many of the others remained, having not yet departed in their own direction. Eve gave quick explanations. They helped get him off the horse, into the yurt, and onto the bed. The men who had been closest to them hovered about. She felt their guilt at not having been there, but she had no time to soothe anyone else. Eve gave them tasks. She needed water, towels, herbs, and other supplies. She needed to alert Renault. Once they all knew what their duties were, she shooed everyone out.
Michel sat on the bed with his legs bent and his arms resting on his knees. He watched her with a faraway look on his face, blood still seeping through his shirt. She turned to her box of medicines and chose the tea leaves. A mixture to ease the pain and help him rest. She put the kettle on the fire.
“Eve,” he muttered, his words insistent yet disconnected. “Are you safe now?”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “I am safe.”
“Terence?”
“The boy’s loyalty was misplaced.” She poured hot water over the tea leaves. “He chose the wrong master.”
“You killed him,” Michel said, voice detached. “You are a warrior.”
Eve came to him then and touched his cheek. She leaned in and touched her lips to his. “Hush,” she said before going back to the steeping concoction.
One by one, the men returned with the things she had requested. She laid out her supplies, towels, and bandages. She kneeled before Michel as he continued to watch her with glazed eyes. “Eve,” he said, bringing his hands up to touch her.
She smiled, but it lacked humor. “No,” she said softly. “Now we take care of you.”
She undid his breastplate. When she inspected it, she saw the deep cuts that had been left in it, and she shivered thinking about the fight. She had watched her brothers spar. She had heard stories from wars. She had never seen a fight to the death like that before. It was…terrible, and she wished none of it had happened. She wished, too, that she had not had to take the life of Terence. The sadness of his death rested in her. She felt no guilt, however. If it had to be Terence or Michel,well, Michel had earned her loyalty long ago. She eased his tattered, bloody shirt open and over his shoulders. He grimaced.
She cataloged the wounds across his chest. She had a needling desire to press against him, to feel his muscles and strength against her cheek, her body. She wanted to feel his protection and cry out her own heartache. She couldn’t. It was her turn to take care of him. The blood ran freely from his side, onto his pants, onto the bed. She pressed a towel against it.
