Guarding the Princess

by Loreth Anne White

  He reached the door, began kicking out the coals, throwing sand over the remains of the fire.

  She was on her knees struggling to roll up the sleeping bag with one hand. He grabbed it from her.

  “They’re over the river,” he said, breathing hard as he rolled the bag. He stuffed the rest of their gear into the pack. “Give me your feet.”

  Quickly he trussed up her laces, then he tied the sleeping-bag roll to the pack. “They’re heading south, cutting back along the river. When they hit our camp, they’ll track back to our jeep. Once they find that, they’ll come fast toward the cliff following our prints. Looks like they have two vehicles and horses.”

  He hefted the pack onto his shoulders.

  “Our only consolation is that when they do hit the cliff wall they’ll be forced to drive about forty kilometers farther north through some tricky terrain if they want to get up on the plateau. If we move away directly perpendicular to the rift, they won’t cut across our tracks, which means they’ll have to drive that forty kilometers all the way back to this point before they find our sign again.”

  He started out the door.

  “Brandt.”

  He stopped, met her gaze.

  “I’m scared.”

  He hesitated. “I know.” He grasped her hand. “Come, I’ve got you.” He paused. “And know this, I will die before I let anyone touch a hair on your head.”

  Her eyes filled with tears “Brandt—I could love you.”

  Emotion sucker punched him so hard his eyes pricked with tears. He swallowed, controlling himself. He wanted to say so much, and couldn’t. “We need to go,” he whispered. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  They left the small customs building at a fast trot, fueled by the knowledge Amal was right on their tracks. The sun burst suddenly over the plateau—fierce and fiery orange—rays of heat instant. The air was dry.

  It was going to be a killer day.

  Chapter 13

  Brandt moved faster and faster as the sun climbed higher and burned down hotter. Dalilah half ran, half stumbled behind him. She was already desperately thirsty, and blisters from yesterday were rubbing raw in her oversize boots.

  Humiliation, desperation, burned through her chest. She’d opened up, made herself so vulnerable, told him she was falling in love with him, while confirming at the same that she was going to marry Haroun. How stupid could she possibly be? What on earth had she hoped to achieve?

  Had she thought he’d miraculously rescue her from having to make her own decisions? From her own desires? From her obligations?

  All she’d done was make it tougher on him, and on herself, and she’d made herself a wanton fool in his eyes.

  “Faster, Dalilah!” he yelled from ahead of her.

  “Dammit, I’m going as fast as I can!”

  He marched harder, his stride wider. She had to start running full tilt to keep up.

  She stumbled, hitting the ground with such a hard thud that it forced him to spin round. The look on his face was ferocious, eyes icy cold. He unsheathed his panga, grabbed a nearby branch and hacked it from the tree. He lopped off the pieces of frayed wood on the end, then he thrust the stick at her.

  “Use it to keep balance.” He was breathing hard, body glistening with sweat, the sun shining gold on his hair.

  “You have to stay focused and move. We need to find a vehicle now, before those guys get over the cliff, or we’re both as good as dead, because we’ll be outgunned and outmanned.”

  About another mile out and Dalilah could no longer breathe. She bent over, bracing her good hand on her knees, hyperventilating as she strained to catch her breath, drenched in sweat.

  “I said keep up, stay right behind me!”

  “I’m trying,” she snapped.

  He stopped, wiped sweat from his brow, frustration burning in his features.

  “My boots are too big. You have a longer stride. You’re fitter, trained.” Emotion filled her eyes, her fear of Amal, her desperation over what was happening between them, her physical inability to match his pace—it was all overwhelming her.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, she said, “And don’t think I’m whining. I’m not—I’m just saying it like it is. Those are the facts in front of you—so deal with it!”

  “Deal with it?”

  She lifted her head, met his eyes. “Yeah—deal with it.”

  “The fact you’ve signed your life away to a man you have no desire to sleep with? Deal with the fact I’m trying to save you—that you’ve saved yourself—for that? So your brothers can benefit?”

  Slowly, angrily, she pushed herself back to an upright position, dizziness swirling. “You really are an ass.”

  He snorted. “I’m a simple guy. I boil things down to the basics, and those are the basics.” He paused. “Aren’t they? I’m saving you from Amal’s murderous animals for what? So you can marry some other tyrant?”

  “Haroun is not like that! I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

  “Then why did you tell me?”

  Dalilah’s pulse pounded.

  He muttered a curse and thrust the water pouch at her. She swigged, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shoved it back at him.

  “I don’t expect you to understand!”

  “You’re right, I don’t.”

  “And why the hell not?”

  “I thought you said—” He stared at her. “Look, drop it. Now is not the time.”

  She looked daggers at him, her cheeks hot.

  He glanced at the sun, then his watch, irritability and tension rolling off his body. “You ready?”

  “I need to rest another minute. I can’t go on like this.” She began to sit down on a rock, but his hand shot out and he grabbed her good arm, yanking her away from the rock. Shock, rage, sliced through Dalilah and she shook him off. “What the—”

  He jerked his chin to where she’d been about to sit. A scorpion, translucent brown, scuttled, sideways, tail curved high in warning. She stared at it, then started to tremble, her head pounding in pain as she fought the emotion threatening to suddenly overwhelm her.

  He was watching her intently.

  “Okay,” he said. “Sit. Five minutes—that’s it.” His tone was softer, but underlying it she heard the frustration, the urgency. Amal was gaining. Her life was unraveling.

  He fiddled with his GPS while she rested on the rock. Sun pressed down relentlessly, no shade anywhere for respite.

  Brandt hooked the GPS back onto his belt, then as if he couldn’t hold it in, “It’s just—” He stopped himself.

  “Just what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Say it, Brandt. You owe it to me.”

  He glanced away, struggling with something. Then he said, “You just don’t seem the type to go through with an arranged marriage, Dalilah.”

  “Oh, and what type might that be?”

  He rubbed his brow. He seemed to be fighting the need to go there, but it was eating at him nevertheless.

  “You’re liberated, strong, independent…Jesus, Dalilah, you have more assets than…” He swallowed. “All those things you forced on me about yourself—your job, being an investment consultant, buying your own penthouse, having good friends, doing volunteer work that satisfies you. You shoot like an ace. You’re strong…and goddamn beautiful.” His voice hitched, going thick. “You’re desirable enough to make a man weep.”

  Her eyes gleamed.

  “And no matter how you package it to me, or to yourself, you’re throwing it away because some man signed you over to an Arabian prince when you were five.”

  “Not some man, Brandt. My father. A king.”

  “Doesn’t change what it is.”

  “It does. I’m a royal. I have obligations. This is bigger than just who I want to sleep with.”

  His eyes darkened, a muscle working on his brow.

  “You know what,” she said suddenly. “I lied—I did
expect you to understand, because of the importance you said you placed in a promise. Because of the way you spoke about loyalty and honor.” She held her arm up. “And that is what my ring is about—loyalty, honor, duty.”

  He stared at her, then the ring.

  A vulture circled up high, casting a shadow. Brandt rubbed the back of his neck.

  “It’s the double standard,” he said quietly. “That’s what irks the hell out of me. Your brothers got to marry whoever they wanted. Omair was the king of one-night stands before he took a bride. Yet you—you can’t enjoy those same freedoms and choices. You’re sold like a pawn for their benefit.”

  “And what about my benefit?”

  “Really?”

  She glared at him, her pulse racing. Then she said, very quietly. “You know, I wavered once, several years ago. I had met a guy that I liked. A lot. And one night…it led to a kiss, and I wondered if I could go through with this. Then, the very next morning, I got news of the coup in Al Na’Jar—my mother and father had just been murdered in their own beds—their throats slit by their own guards. And on that same night, my oldest brother, Da’ud, was murdered on his yacht off Barcelona. Assassins also went to Zakir’s penthouse in Paris and the only reason he escaped was because he was out that night.” She inhaled deeply.

  “Da’ud had been next in line to take the throne and he’d been ready for it. But Zakir wasn’t prepared to lead—he never wanted to. He was a playboy and an entrepreneur, yet he was compelled to return to Al Na’Jar, where he took the throne in a very troubled and violent time of rebellion. Zakir did his duty, Brandt. He gave up his life for our kingdom. And he didn’t tell anyone he was going blind as he did this.” Her voice grew thick, emotional. Caught.

  “Dalilah, this is not the time to—”

  “No! I want you to hear it. I need you to hear this. Omair didn’t shy from committing to relationships because he didn’t want one. He had to. He couldn’t have a normal life. He couldn’t involve a woman in what he was doing. He was driven to hunt the globe to bring those assassins to justice, desert style. A blood honor. Only through that process did he find Faith, his wife—and he was able to bring her into his life because she was like him, a soldier. An assassin. She understood him, and his life.”

  Brandt opened his mouth, but Dalilah raised her hand. “No, hear me out, Brandt, please. Tariq was a neurosurgeon and he was engaged to a woman he loved more than life itself. But Amal’s father had a bomb planted on our royal jet and Tariq’s fiancée died in his arms as he tried to save her. Tariq was badly scarred in more ways than one, and he lost the use of his arm in that blast. His career was over. In some ways he died himself that day. And it took a long time, and the help of a special woman to bring him back to life.”

  She paused, looking into his eyes, emotion ballooning in her chest. “And me? I went to school in the United States. I got to pursue my career, my interests. Sure, I built something, but I never suffered like they did.” She inhaled deeply. “My brothers did their duty, are doing it. And now, this is my cross to bear, my way to give. It was my dead father’s wish.”

  He stared at her. “You’re doing it out of guilt,” he whispered.

  “I’m doing it for family and kingdom.”

  Something changed in his face. “It’s not right, Dalilah,” he said quietly. “It’s not you.”

  “You barely even know me, Brandt.”

  “Oh, I know what you’re made of. You put someone into a life-and-death situation and you get to see pretty damn quick what’s at the core of that person. You’ve got what it takes—you’ve got so much. I hate to see you throw your life away.”

  “I’m not throwing it away—I’m gaining a political advantage.”

  “Yeah, well, apparently you’ve made up your mind about that one. So, don’t come looking to me for endorsement, because I don’t think your brothers deserve what you’re doing for them. How well do you know this Haroun anyway—apart from meeting him five times?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Will you be safe? Are you certain he won’t hurt you?’

  “What are you saying, Brandt?”

  He hesitated, turned away, stared out over the bush. Then he turned back, as if having made up his mind about something. “I’m saying I know things. I did covert intelligence work in Libya. Those two Egyptian men who killed that Sa’ud sheik’s fiancée in Dubai were known assassins—the Libyan authorities were looking for them.”

  Tension thrummed.

  “Doesn’t prove anything,” she whispered.

  “Those men had done contract work for the Kingdom of Sa’ud before, Dalilah, paid for by Hassan royalty.”

  “Work?”

  “Murder for hire.”

  Blood drained from her head. “And you know this because of your covert work?”

  “It wasn’t a robbery gone wrong in Dubai, Dalilah. That woman was killed by the Hassans because she’d tainted the royal family by sleeping with another man.”

  “Does Omair know this, too?”

  “I don’t know what Omair knows. He wasn’t with me on the job in Libya.”

  She stared at him, her brain reeling.

  “Haroun had nothing to do with that incident. He wasn’t part of it.”

  “Are you so sure—a Sa’ud sheik about to become king? Do you think, in the eyes of his kingdom, he’d be allowed to be seen tolerating any indiscretion on your part? I just don’t trust the House of Sa’ud.”

  Silence quivered between them. She could hear bees buzzing somewhere, the shriek of a raptor. Her head hurt.

  “He’s probably slept with a thousand women himself, and expects you to come to his bed a virgin.”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. “That’s unfair,” she said quietly.

  “That, Dalilah, is the way the cookie crumbles with men like Sheik Haroun Hassan. Trust me, I know. He can have whatever—or whoever—the hell he wants, when he wants, but you can’t.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “Well, apparently, neither do you.”

  Tension simmered between them.

  “Why—” her voice came out in a hoarse whisper

  “—are you so bitter? Is it because your own marriage didn’t work?”

  He came close. She could feel his heat, a kinetic energy rolling off him. He bent down, abruptly cupped the back of her head, and kissed her. Hard. Angry, fierce. She stiffened under him, then instantly melted under her own fire, opening her mouth, reaching up behind his neck, pulling him into herself, kissing him so wildly she could taste blood. Tears came from her eyes, her tongue twisting with his, tasting the salt of him, feeling the rough stubble of his jaw against her cheek.

  He pulled back suddenly, breathing hard, his eyes wild.

  “That’s why,” he whispered.

  She was shaking, her eyes burning.

  “Because I care. Because I’ve fallen for you, Princess. And because I can’t have you, and Sheik Hassan can.”

  Moisture pooled in her eyes.

  “And believe me, Dalilah, I tried not to care—I’m trying not to care. But…” His eyes glittered. “I do respect your honor, your decision to marry for politics, for your kingdom. But what I can’t swallow is that you’ll be sacrificing your identity when I can see it makes you so unhappy.”

  The tears in her eyes slid down her cheeks. He appraised her silently for a moment, struggling with something himself. Then he checked his watch. “Five minutes are up, Princess.” He spun away sharply and began to march over the dry, baking earth.

  “We’ve wasted enough bloody time!” he muttered over his shoulder. “Amal will be right on our asses at this rate.”

  *

  It was almost 11:00 a.m. when Brandt stopped suddenly and held up his hand. Dalilah, zoned out from heat and almost five hours of continuous walking, bumped right into his back.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Then she heard it, a lowing, the distant clang of a bell
.

  “Livestock. We must be close to the village.”

  They came over a ridge and Brandt quickly motioned for her to get down.

  He lowered himself beside her, just under the lip of a sandy ridge baking under the noon sun.

  “Lie flat,” he said softly.

  They studied the village from their hiding spot. It was fenced and contained several small square houses, painted brightly, with corrugated tin roofs. Papaya trees grew in barren red ground. A few dogs lay in shade and chickens scratched in soil. Goats bleated behind an enclosure while barefoot children played in what looked like a schoolyard—dusty brown legs. A burst of bright laughter reached them.

  Dalilah’s heart twisted.

  It felt so strange to hear children laughing, see them playing, to think of a weekday and school hours while they’d been on the run, hunted by violent killers still on their tracks. And now she was lying here with this man she was beginning to love, and couldn’t have—it made it all seem so surreal.

  There was a small fenced-off vegetable garden beside the school building and a tower with a water tank nearby. A windmill creaked in the hot breeze. No phone lines. No electricity. A little oasis of life separate from the rest of the world. Dalilah watched as two women with yellow plastic containers in a cart bent over a tap with a hose attached, filling the vessels. A toddler played in the sand at their feet.

  It drove home suddenly the reason she was here in southern Africa. The deal in Harare.

  The dead delegates. Her brother sending Brandt.

  She looked at him.

  Because I care. Because I’ve fallen for you, Princess. And because I can’t have you, and Sheik Hassan can…

  Did her brothers care? She’d never spoken to them about her marriage doubts. Apart from that one instance of hesitation right before her parents were killed, Dalilah hadn’t even articulated her fears to herself. Until now—until the Zimbabwe trip, until she’d met Brandt, and kissed him. Until he’d abducted her—physically ripping her out from the very fabric of her life, affording her a reprieve.

  How could she expect her brothers to understand or care if she hadn’t spoken to them? Dalilah wondered what her father might say if he were alive today, and she told him she wanted to marry a man for love.