Guarding the Princess

by Loreth Anne White

  Alive.

  Vital.

  More so than she’d ever felt in her entire life. More than she’d felt in New York.

  She thought of Haroun and immediately her head began to hurt.

  Dalilah leaned forward around the rock, checking to see if Brandt was almost finished. Her breath caught in her throat.

  He was still under the waterfall, naked. And clearly physically aroused.

  Her pulse began to race. Unable to tear her gaze away, Dalilah watched Brandt reaching for the shampoo. He squeezed some into his hand and worked up a soapy mass of bubbles with which he washed his hair, his biceps flexing his lion tattoo as he washed his hair and lathered the soap down his arms. Then his hands worked over his washboard abs, going lower to soap the dark blond hair between his legs. The size of his arousal was startling, his bare thighs deeply tanned, rock-solid.

  A wild white heat seared into her belly and a desperate desire rose in Dalilah to straddle him, fill herself with him, press her breasts and belly against that solid, lean torso.

  He stilled suddenly, as if he sensed he was being watched.

  Slowly, his head turned, and he caught her eyes. Panic sliced through Dalilah. She couldn’t swallow, breathe. Couldn’t hear, could barely see as her vision narrowed onto him.

  He held dead still, his eyes pale slits as he met her gaze for several long, slow beats. Then slowly he turned, continued washing.

  She let out a whoosh of air and sat back against the rock, her cheeks flame-hot, her hands shaking. What had just happened here?

  Embarrassment shot through her.

  When he returned he was dressed. He held out his hand for the gun and said, “Your stuff is dry. Go change back there. Call me when you’re done and I’ll give you a dry splint.” His voice was hard, ice-cold. Emotionless.

  She opened her mouth to speak, mortified by what had transpired between them. By the raw need awakened in her own body.

  “Brandt, I…” Her voice came out hoarse, then caught in her own throat.

  He turned away, hefting the pack up onto his shoulders before she could manage to finish her words.

  “Sun goes off like a light switch around six-thirty—we’re running out of time.” He shrugged the pack onto his back, buckled it up tight. “We need to get up onto that plateau and find a place to hole up for the night before dark, or we won’t live till dawn.” Then he met her gaze, paused. “And you won’t live to see that wedding of yours.”

  Dalilah swallowed. It was a harsh reminder, a snipe at her—or himself. She wasn’t sure, but it made her feel small and humiliated. And angry. She wasn’t the only one turned on here. And he had no idea what it felt to feel that kind of sexual attraction and to have never been able to act on it.

  Chapter 11

  The sky was a riot of violent pinks and the evening sun was sinking fast in a giant orange ball to the horizon. Already Brandt could feel the cool fingers of the coming night in the air as they traveled along the rim of the cliff. He began to move faster over the scrubby, rocky ground hoping he hadn’t made a mistake, praying the old airstrip was here somewhere.

  Relief washed through him when he caught sight of what used to be a wooden arch that marked the entrance to the airfield. The old customs building—essentially a one-room square—stood in ruins in the middle of empty scrubland not far from the old archway. As they neared, Brandt saw that burned and blackened rafters were all that remained of the thatched roof. Coppery-orange streaks from mud and rain stained the sides of the once-whitewashed walls. Windows and doors were long gone. But it had been built from brick and the four walls stood solid. It would keep them safe from night predators.

  As they reached the ruins, the sun slipped below the horizon and the sky turned a soft pearly gray. They’d made it just in time. The paving around the building had crumbled into chunks as tough roots pushed through. Alongside the building were parts of an old bench where people had once waited for bush planes, supplies and guests arriving for safari.

  Brandt could still read part of a sign that had been painted onto one wall—Welcome to… The rest of the phrase had fallen off in a chunk of plaster.

  “Welcome to the airport hotel,” he said wryly.

  “What is this place?” Dalilah asked, turning in a slow circle.

  “Abandoned airstrip. This building was once a customs office.” He jerked his chin to the surrounding bush. “Lots of dead wood out there—we’ll be able to keep a fire going all night, keep predators at bay.”

  “Customs? Out here?”

  He dumped his pack inside the doorway. Dirt had blown into the building and small rocks, crumbling brick and plaster, dead leaves, insect husks littered the pocked concrete floor. “They put customs posts in places that saw a lot of tourists flying in,” Brandt said, unsheathing his panga. He made sure his voice remained cool and distant.

  “There’s a safari outfit not far from here called Masholo, but mostly this airstrip was used to service guests coming from Zimbabwe, until that market dried up. Masholo also built their own private airstrip.”

  He left Dalilah standing next to the hut while he strode off into the scrub, and with his panga he lopped off a branch with leaves. He used the branch to start sweeping out the interior of the building, checking for spiders and scorpions while there was still enough light. “We’ll clean this up, build a fire there, and there.” He pointed to each doorway. “Smoke will be vented straight out the top, and we can get some good rest until dawn. I could see no sign of Amal coming over the plain, not tonight. Our only worry should be wildlife, and there’s enough wood out here to keep the curious at bay.”

  “Here, I can do that,” she reached to take the branch from him.

  But he moved away. “It’s fine—relax.”

  “Brandt!” She snatched it from him, skin connecting. Both stilled. Their eyes met—the knowledge of what had happened on the cliff, still unarticulated, simmered intimately between them. Both had an edge of anger to them.

  Anger suited Brandt. Anger was the only emotion he knew how to handle right now.

  He let go of the branch and let her have at it.

  He went to collect wood while the princess swept out the interior with a stick broom—ironic in some fairy-tale way to be sure, but Brandt was not in the mood to be sardonic.

  After stacking wood into small pyres inside the crumbling doorways, he went to gather more logs and branches, which he piled within reach just outside the window.

  “Here’s the rifle,” he said, propping the gun against the interior wall. “It’s loaded and good to go if you need it.”

  She stopped sweeping. “Why, where are you going?”

  Avoiding her eyes, ignoring the concern that had entered her voice, Brandt said, “To get some hay for insulation. With these clear skies temps could drop below freezing tonight. You’ll feel it through the concrete.”

  Hiking out to an area of long, dried grass, Brandt lopped off enough thatch to make a giant bushel which he hefted back to the ruined building. He laid the straw on the floor in a corner of the room, sealing in the warmth of the sun trapped inside by the concrete. He laid out the sleeping bag on top.

  “Take a load off.” He nodded to the bag.

  Dalilah hesitated, then lowered herself slowly to the bed in the corner. She sat with her back against the wall, knees propped up, watching him.

  When the sky turned charcoal-gray—too dark to see telltale smoke from afar, Brandt lit the fires.

  Orange flames crackled to life, instantly throwing out warmth and casting a dancing glow on the walls. It made the room feel safe, comforting. A little too intimate. Up through the rafters the Milky Way flickered slowly to life and the occasional bat fluttered overhead.

  The chirrup of settling birds grew to a cacophonous crescendo, backed by whistles and rustles, the beat of wings in the dark and the stirring whooop yeee whooops of hyenas beginning to move for the night hunt.

  Brandt placed two old bricks and some stones at
the edge of the fire, and he raked some of the coals between them. Filling the kettle with enough for one cup, he set it atop the rocks.

  He opened the bag of biltong, offered it to Dalilah without meeting her eyes.

  “Brandt.”

  He glanced up. Her eyes were inky bright and there was a look of need in her features. She wanted to explain, talk. He didn’t. He just wanted this over.

  “What is it?”

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “What? Now?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should have told me before I lit the fires.”

  Her cheeks flushed.

  “Look, you can’t afford to be all ladylike and coy out here, Dalilah. If you need to take care of business you take care of it.” Irritated, he jumped back to his feet and put the headlamp on. He handed her the other lamp. “Put it on.”

  While she adjusted the Petzl, he swung himself easily out through the old window, clicked on his light, then helped her through. The scent of her freshly shampooed hair washed over him before he could put her to the ground and the image of her naked in the mountain pool sliced back into his head and firmly imprinted itself in his mind.

  “Go behind those trees,” he said as he walked her down to a clump of acacia, their twin beams flickering over grass. “I’ll stand guard and wait right here.”

  Dalilah went alone behind the clump. Shadows lunged and darted as she moved, as if dark hands of night were clawing at her, hungry. She hesitated as she heard a scurry of nails over rock, then a rustle through the grass. Heart thumping, she turned in a slow circle, and tiny green pairs of eyes glinted back at her.

  “Brandt—there’s something out there!”

  “Just duikers. Hurry up. Watch for snakes and scorpions.”

  Dalilah struggled with one hand to undo her pants and balance as she squatted. She’d barely had to go all day—dehydration seemed to be taking care of that. She scrunched her eyes, forcing herself to relax enough to relieve herself, but having trouble, knowing he was listening, the lack of privacy.

  This man was getting to know her more intimately than she’d dared allow any other man. Once she was done, Dalilah did up her pants and inhaled deeply, pressing her hand to her stomach as she gathered herself.

  She came out from behind the tree.

  “See?” Was that a glint of his teeth, a grin in the dark? “It gets easier each time.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Dalilah retorted, cutting slightly ahead of him, reasserting some personal space and dignity as she aimed for the warm, flickering light of their little ruined building. But he was right. It was a little easier each time.

  This man was pushing her into new spaces, bit by bit, minute by minute, tilting her paradigm of the world, forcing her to let go of the reins she seemed to have been holding too tight over too many years.

  Did that constitute true freedom—not caring what others thought? Doing things you wanted, not what others expected of you? Or was that just selfish?

  The kettle was boiling by the time they were settled back into the building. Brandt poured water over a tea bag and handed her the sack of dried meat.

  “It’s all we have right now.”

  She declined, but accepted the mug gratefully.

  The stars turned bright and a moon started to rise. But a bitter cold also began to press down.

  “You need some protein, Dalilah,” he said, poking at the flames. “We could be out here for days.”

  Silence.

  He glanced at her. “I’m serious. My job is to ensure your survival—and you need proper fuel. The only way to get it out here right now is to eat that biltong.”

  She snatched angrily at the bag, took out a dried twisted cord of meat encrusted with spices. She ripped at it with her teeth, chewed.

  He was watching her intently.

  “Don’t worry—I’m going to swallow it. I’m hungry, not stupid.”

  Brandt snorted and turned to stare into the flames as she chewed.

  “Ethical choice?” he said after a while.

  “You mean vegetarianism?”

  He grunted.

  She nodded. “Pretty much. I used to hunt once—my father made all us kids learn to shoot, kill. Live off the desert the old way,” she said. “He wanted a royal family who was still in touch with our Bedouin roots, with the citizens of Al Na’Jar.”

  “Omair told me he’d learned to hunt and shoot with his father.”

  She glanced up sharply. “He did?”

  “Never told me his sister did, too.”

  “You were close to Omair?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Did he also tell you we used sight hounds to hunt—salukis? My brother Zakir uses the salukis now because he’s blind.” A sad, wistful softness entered her voice, which made Brandt look up again.

  “Those dogs are his eyes,” she said. “So is his wife.”

  Brandt threw another log on the fire. Sparks shot up to the blackened rafters.

  “The lessons with your dad clearly paid off with that leopard. You’re a fine shot. Especially with one hand, under that kind of pressure.”

  She was silent for a long while, cradling the mug of tea with her good hand as she sipped. “That cat was so beautiful. Probably as afraid as I was—just protecting her cub and herself. I made myself her enemy by sitting in that tree.”

  Every minute more he spent with Dalilah, the deeper Brandt was being drawn in, and she was doing it again now, burrowing under his skin, into his chest, probing a way to his heart. He really needed this to be over.

  He jabbed irritably at the fire. “It’s an acknowledged survival trait, Dalilah, being able to see beauty even when your own life is under threat—it stops you from giving up, despairing.”

  “I didn’t like the killing as a kid,” she countered crisply. “I don’t like the idea of killing animals for consumption now. And I don’t like handing it off to big agribusiness that denudes the environment, either. So if I can help it, I don’t foster it.”

  “Is that how you got involved with ClearWater, solar power, sustainable farming?”

  She puffed out a lungful of air. “I suppose. I’m from the Sahara—I understand how precious a commodity water is to most of Africa.” Her eyes went distant. “I guess my father taught us well on some level. There were some real values that came out of the desert forays he forced us on.”

  Respect for Dalilah deepened, but at the same time Brandt couldn’t understand why, if this ethic was so ingrained in her, she wanted to give it all up for a restrained life trapped behind palace walls with Sheik Hassan of Sa’ud. And this dichotomy in her personality niggled at him because he’d glimpsed sadness, resignation, in her eyes when he’d confronted her on her choices. And in spite of her engagement to another man, she was clearly attracted to him—there was something developing between them, even against both their wills. That told Brandt she wasn’t fully committed on some level. Because when you truly loved someone, in that first heady blush when you decide to marry and spend a life together, you have eyes for only that person. At least, that’s the way it had been for him.

  But it wasn’t his concern, he thought, turning to poke at the flames.

  “I’m impressed you maintained your shooting skill,” he said. “For someone who hasn’t used a gun since you were what, five, six?”

  “I shoot for relaxation.”

  His brow crooked up. “Relaxation?”

  “At a range, clay-pigeon shoots. That part of shooting—the sporting aspect—I did enjoy as a kid. I liked the focus, controlling my breathing, getting into the zone.” She gave a soft laugh. “I was better than my brothers at it. They were after the kill and got too pumped up. I had far more control.” She paused. “I always wanted to do better than my brothers.”

  He grinned in spite of himself, then laughed. “Your brothers are not an easy act to follow, let alone trump.”

  She smiled, a little rueful, and stared into
the flames for a while, mug in hand. “My whole life has been a struggle to get out from under their shadow, to prove myself, to carve my own niche in the world…” Her voice faded. Brandt could see that look of sadness entering her features again, of resignation. It puzzled him.

  He shook himself, grabbed a stick of biltong, ripped off a shred with his teeth, chewed in silence. Flames crackled and popped.

  She broke the silence. “In winter I do biathlons and practice my shooting that way. I travel to a ski resort in Norway, usually. Sometimes Canada.”

  “Does Haroun travel with you?”

  Her eyes shot to him, the sudden tension in her body unmistakable. Brandt’s curiosity deepened in spite of himself.

  “Well, does he go with you? Does he ski?”

  “No.”

  “He doesn’t ski? Or doesn’t travel with you?”

  She fiddled with her bootlace, her complexion looking drained. “You know, I’m really exhausted. I…I need to sleep, if you don’t mind. I can keep watch for you later if you like.”

  “Go ahead. Get in the bag. It’s high-tech stuff—will keep you warm.”

  She hesitated. “Would you mind helping me with my laces?”

  Brandt put his mental walls back up and quickly untied her boots. She snuggled down into the sleeping bag and closed her eyes, resting her head on the rolled-up sarong.

  Brandt fed the fire, listening to the hoot of owls. And when her breathing changed, he watched her sleep—freshly washed hair fanning around her exotic face, glimmering ebony in the coppery firelight, her skin smooth, lips slightly parted.

  Quietly, Brandt lifted the camera, stealing something small for himself as he clicked.

  Her eyes flared open.

  “What are you doing?” she said, edging up.

  “Do you mind?” he said, gesturing to the camera.

  She sat up sharply “What—why?”

  He held the camera to his eye again, adjusted the lens. “The image is perfect.”

  “Brandt, no!”

  He lowered the camera.

  “I… Please, don’t.”