Page 12 of Company of Thieves
THREE
Hallie shrieked whenthe horse moved, just as Alan knew she would.
What he didn’t expect was the way she clutched with both hands on his arm, a stream of mumbled words issuing from her mouth. He thought at first she was cursing, but was surprised to realize she was talking to Sampson. “Oh my god, I’m going to die. We’re all going to die. Oh my god, horse, this is fast, this is really fast, and Akbar is here, you know that, right? You know he’s here? It’s not just me, so don’t even think of doing those sorts of rearing-up moves that will end up with me stompled under your feet, because the prince dude is here. He’s right here, horse. You are here, aren’t you?” Her voice suddenly rose in panic.
He chuckled again into her ear. “I am right here. The arm around you that you are currently gouging with your fingernails belongs to me, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She loosened her hold on his arm. “I ... oh, god, why is he doing that? Why are his ears moving?”
“He’s listening to you talk. He’s a very smart horse, in addition to being well trained.”
“Hi, horsey,” she said in a wavering voice. “Please don’t kill me. Your boss here ... uh ... what am I supposed to call you? You’re a prince, right? Are you a Your Highness sort of prince—whoa! Don’t make him bend like that!”
“We have to turn a little to the north. Just relax, and move with Sampson.”
“Ha ha ha ha ha,” she said in a stilted, completely humorless laugh. “Oh, ha.”
“You may call me Alan,” he said before he knew what his mouth was going to say. He held his breath for a moment, wondering if she’d react to the name.
“Alan? Why Alan? I thought you were Akbar.”
“I am. My mother, who was English, called me Alan.”
“Oh. That’s a nice name. Would it be racist of me if I said I liked it better than Akbar? Oh, god, it is racist, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I will Akbar you if you like.”
“And I will Alan you if you like,” he said, once again without thinking.
She froze. “Was that an innuendo?”
“Yes,” he said with a sigh, wondering what had gotten into him. It must be all the time in the sun hunting the revolutionaries. “Yes, it was, and not a very graceful one at that. I apologize for it.”
“That’s OK,” she said, shifting against him.
His mouth was near enough to her ear that he caught another whiff of the orange-spice smell of her hair. To his discomfort, he hardened, the sensation of her in his arms, and the movement of her ass against his groin, leaving him far more aware of her than he would have liked.
It didn’t help that after a few minutes she began to shift and move against him in a manner that ensured his erection remained firmly in place. In fact, he thought with martyred exaggeration even as he moved his head slightly so he could sniff her hair better, his rod was probably hard enough that it could be used to crush rocks.
“Stop moving,” he commanded her at one point when she wriggled in a particularly enticing manner, one that left him gritting his teeth over the need to take her to the nearest bed and relieve his poor, tormented rod in her heated depths.
She muttered something, and tried to readjust her position yet again. He tightened his arm around her to keep her still, but she continued to wriggle, at one point her legs swinging forward.
Sampson had clearly had enough, too. He gave a little warning buck at Hallie’s gymnastics, resulting in her screaming and throwing herself off the side, where she landed with a thump in the sand.
Sampson stopped, blowing and tossing his head in annoyance.
Alan counted to ten, found it didn’t help, and dismounted, pulling Hallie up to her feet. His voice was tight when he asked, “What the hell is the matter with you, woman? I realize you don’t like Sampson, but these antics have worn thin. You are in no danger riding with me. If you don’t stop acting like a deranged person, I’ll toss you over his back and you can ride like a sack of corn.”
Her face was grimy, red, and embarrassed. She looked at the others who rode past, Alan having gestured them on. “It’s not my fault. Your saddle hurts.”
“Hurts?” He frowned, wondering how he was going to hang on to his sanity long enough to get her back to Octavia. “How does it hurt?”
She gestured toward her abdomen. “It just ... hurts.”
He stared at her, trying to understand what she was saying. How could one woman cause him to be so amused one moment and so annoyed the next?
