Guarding the Princess

by Loreth Anne White

  Was this really possible? he thought for the gazillionth time.

  There was a freshly brewed pot of coffee on the counter, and a bottle of whiskey. Setting the flowers down, he poured a mug of coffee and sipped, watching her talk by the window.

  She’d painted her nails—fresh red. So feminine, he thought, yet she was made of stronger stuff than many men he knew.

  Dalilah pushed a lock of damp hair back from her brow, glanced at him and smiled as she listened to her brother speaking. And he suddenly loved her wholly, so completely, it was overwhelming. It brought emotion sharply to his eyes and made him feel so incredibly vulnerable. This woman could kill him.

  She was as rare as that Argyle diamond she’d so blithely given away.

  His attention shifted to the double bed. On it she’d laid out her clothes for the day, and lacy underwear. Heat pooled low and hot in his groin and Brandt’s mind went back to her room at the safari lodge in Zimbabwe, to how he’d touched her silky underwear in her drawer while he’d been resenting the fact he’d even answered Omair’s phone call.

  A lot had happened since that call. His life had changed.

  Dalilah switched suddenly from Arabic to English while shooting another glance at him.

  “Because he’s here, yes,” she said into the phone. “I do want him to hear what I’m going to say.” Eyes on Brandt, she continued, “I spoke to Haroun, Omair. I told him the wedding contract is off.” She closed her eyes as she waited for her brother to finish.

  “Yes, I spoke to him privately first, then we had a conference call with the respective heads of state, including Zakir’s representatives from the King’s Council. There’ll be compensation, since I was the one who broke the deal. But Zakir extended an offer to continue with other aspects of the treaty. Haroun is interested in pursuing talks in that regard.”

  She was silent, her eyes shining with a bright passion as she listened to her brother’s response.

  “It was amicable,” she said. “Haroun’s father might have been an old-school traditionalist, Omair, but I really get a sense Haroun wants to move Sa’ud in a new direction.” She paused. “I’m not sure he wanted to marry me any more than I did. He might even be relieved.”

  Brandt’s chest went tight as hope, possibility, began to race wild through his blood.

  “No,” she said quietly, holding his gaze. “I didn’t break it off because of Brandt. He— This mission, my trip to Zimbabwe, the fact you all withheld knowledge of Amal from me, it all brought to a head something that has been coming for a long time, Omair.”

  Another pause. “I know, I should have told you about my reservations years ago. I just…” She closed her eyes. “I felt I’d done so little, that the marriage was one thing I could offer after you all had given up so much for the future of Al Na’Jar. And I wanted to honor our mother and father. But now I’ve done that, with Brandt’s help—Amal is gone. That war is over. We owe Brandt for that, Omair.”

  She was silent while her brother spoke, then, meeting Brandt’s gaze, she said, “I also need to tell you that while he is not the reason I broke the treaty, I have fallen in love with him.”

  Brandt stilled, coffee cup clutched tight in his hand.

  She said her goodbyes, put the phone down, stared at him.

  Brandt carefully put the cup down before his hands started shaking with the pressure building inside him.

  “What did Omair say?” His voice came out hoarse.

  Emotion pooled like ink in her eyes, and she swiped at a sudden tear. “He said…he understands. He never knew I felt this way, Brandt. Zakir said the same. All this time, all these years…” She brushed another tear away quickly. “I’m sorry. It’s…it’s just such a relief. I finally feel free, like this huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders that I didn’t even realize was there.”

  “So he’s not going to send a team of assassins after my ass?”

  She smiled through her emotion, came up to him.

  “No,” she whispered, taking his hands in hers and leaning her head against his chest. “He said he owes you for this mission. He just didn’t think I was the price you’d exact.” She paused. “I think my brother likes you. I think this is going to work.”

  A sweet poignant ache filled his entire body. This thing between them still felt so fragile and he was so worried he’d break it under the strength of his passion for her.

  Gently, he tilted her face up to his and whispered, “Are you ready to go home now?”

  “Almost,” she said, eyelids lowering. She opened her robe—naked and smooth underneath and rounded in all the right places. Brandt tried to swallow. She wrapped her arms around him, bare breasts pushing against his chest, her nipples tight.

  His erection pressed hard and sudden against her pelvis as she drew him backward toward the bed. He bent down, kissed her, and she opened her mouth under his. Warm, the taste of mint.

  But as the backs of her legs bumped up against the bed, he pulled back, breathing hard, burning up inside. This was too special. He did not want to take her virginity here in this hotel-room bed.

  “Not here, Dalilah,” he whispered, cupping her face. “Not in a hotel.” His voice was hoarse, thick, low.

  “Come back with me, to my farm.” He slid his hand down her arm. “I want to make love to you there, in my bed. I want you to sleep in my arms.” He paused. “I promised I’d take you home, Princess—and I never break a promise.”

  Chapter 16

  The late-afternoon sun coated the bushveldt in yellow gold as their chopper landed on Brandt’s farm.

  He carried the bags off the helicopter first, then returned for Dalilah, taking her hand as they ran in a crouch under the whirling blades. He gave a thumbs-up, and the chopper lifted, banking into the sky, then growing smaller and smaller before winking out on the horizon. He placed his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as they stood together, watching it disappear, their bags at their feet. As the sound faded, the birdsong rose around them in a raucous crescendo.

  They were on a rise, and about a hundred yards out a copper-colored stream meandered into a pool of rocks. Beyond the stream was a bush runway and empty airplane hangar. In the distance, Dalilah could see giraffe and a herd of antelope moving. The air on her shoulders was rounded and warm and the sense of peace was almost palpable—no industry, no civilization, for as far as the eye could see.

  Dalilah couldn’t believe how exhilarated she felt, or how this had happened. She glanced up at Brandt’s rugged profile and saw that he was watching her, a strange look on his face.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I’m nervous.”

  She laughed. “You? Nervous? What on earth for?”

  “Because I want you to like it.”

  She studied his eyes, as clear blue as the sky behind him, and she knew he was talking about both his place, and making love to her. “I love it already,” she whispered, then turned to look back out over the land. “How far does your property extend, Brandt?”

  “All the way to those trees on the ridge over there.” He pointed to the horizon. “That’s where the next farm starts. Not a soul as far as the eye can see. Come, let me show you inside.”

  Truth was, Dalilah was nervous, too. Brandt Stryker was a lone ranger, and she wondered how long it might take before he once again felt the need for solitude. She, on the other hand, was not a loner, nor a quiet personality, but this was also in part why she felt so drawn to this man—he balanced her. He was a rock, solid and sure and steady, and although he was yet another alpha male in her life, Brandt had made it clear he valued her passion and independence, and that this was what made him beautiful to her. But how it could all work out, she didn’t know.

  One step at a time, she thought as he led her up a stone path toward his house, which had been built into an outcrop of rock—lots of stone, glass, wood and a wide veranda that ran along the entire front.

  She stopped to take in the architecture, the lines,
the way it all blended into the natural surroundings. It would be hardly visible by air, she thought, camouflaged into the rock.

  “Designed it myself,” he said, watching her. “There’s a small village on my land and the locals helped me build it, one rock, one brick at a time. I flew in whatever materials I needed. Took me three years to get this far.” He smiled. “And I’m still at it. Bit by bit.”

  “It’s exquisite, Brandt,” she whispered, holding his callused hand, thinking of him alone out here, under the hot African sun, putting this place together stone by stone. A home.

  “It’s big,” she said, her gaze moving along the veranda, noting that the wooden shutters that could be drawn across the length of it. She looked up at him, right into his eyes. “Why did you build this?”

  Surprise raised his brow. “That’s an interesting question.”

  Dalilah moistened her lips. “It looks far too big for one,” she said. “And you’re this guy who moved out here for solitude.” She shrugged. “It just…doesn’t quite fit.”

  He shrugged, watching her eyes. “Maybe that urge to create a home—you know, the man and his castle—” he grinned “—never truly died after Yolanda. As a kid it had always been a dream of mine to have lots of land, a farm. Animals.”

  “The soldier-farmer,” she said.

  “Hey, life throws curveballs. You do what you can.”

  “Yeah,” she said as she smiled at him. “And sometimes those balls curve right back.”

  “Come inside. There’s something out back I think you’ll like.”

  *

  A warm breeze flowed through floor-to-ceiling glass sliders that had been opened along the length of the wall to expose an endless view of the bushveldt over the veranda. Old-fashioned wooden ceiling fans paddled the air slowly, and there were fresh blooms on the counter—strelitzia on long stems, like bright birds of paradise. He must have called ahead, Dalilah thought, and asked someone to open up the house, bring in flowers. Her heart squeezed in her chest.

  He led her over floors crafted from rough, cool granite into the kitchen furnished with an antique Aga stove.

  “This is what I want you to see.” He opened the back door, and escorted her into a trellised kitchen garden enclosed by a rock wall. Herbs and vegetables grew in neat rows. Dassies—fat furry rodents with big liquid-brown eyes—sat sunning themselves atop the wall, watching them through netting that kept both them and the birds out.

  Dalilah turned slowly around. “Did you plant all this?” It was a silly question, and she knew it even as it left her mouth—of course he planted it. There was no one else. It was just that she was trying to picture this burly ex-merc with his hands in this lush dark soil, which he must have brought in from somewhere, or worked up from compost himself.

  He gave a sheepish grin and hooked his thumbs into his belt. Then he shrugged. “Got the lettuce, but no tofu.”

  She punched his arm with a laugh. “I’ll live. Where does the irrigation come from?”

  “Underground water table and rain tank, for the most part. I’m working on some other initiatives—I’ll show you later.”

  She slipped her arm around him, hugged him close, huge and solid and warm against her body—she loved the feel of him, everything about him. “You surprise me, Brandt Stryker.”

  “Touché, Princess,” he whispered. “Come,” he said, leading her back into the kitchen. He opened the fridge.

  “White wine all right for sundowners?” He held up a chilled bottle.

  “Not whiskey?” she said.

  He laughed and took two glasses down from the shelf, setting them on the counter before digging in a drawer for an opener. “Why don’t you go through to the deck while I put away the bags,” he said. “I’ll bring this through.”

  She glanced at her new suitcase standing by the door. It was filled with new clothes—functional bush clothes, hiking boots, good sandals, hats, along with some sundresses and new underwear. Propped against the suitcase was a flat package he’d been carrying under his arm. It was wrapped in brown paper.

  “What’s in there?” she said.

  He scooped it and the bag up. “Just some prints I had done in Gaborone. I’ll be right back—go on through.”

  Dalilah kicked off her sandals and padded barefoot through the living room, wanting the feel of this place, the touch of wood beneath her feet, the sensation of the stone. Her gauzy white sundress was cool against her skin. It was a liberating feeling—Dalilah wanted to enjoy it, everything about this newfound sense of lightness and brightness and freedom, where everything in the world seemed suddenly possible. And exciting.

  Old-fashioned fans stirred lazily in the living room, too. The decor in this section of the house was all dark African woods, animal skins, block-printed fabric. Large black-and-white and sepia-toned photographic prints hung on the walls—an overall retro safari look that put Dalilah in mind of Hemingway and images of great hunters.

  Dalilah turned her attention to the prints. One depicted a man holding up the head of a Cape buffalo he’d shot, gun in one hand. The man had Brandt’s features, but with a big beard and sideburns. A boy, maybe seven years old, stood next to him with a rifle in his own hands, white-blond hair. Both man and boy had eerily pale eyes against suntanned skin. Brandt and his father? she wondered.

  There were other hunting shots, and deep-sea-fishing images. A marlin leaping with sprays of droplets sparkling in sunlight. In one image Dalilah recognized the prominent topography of Cape Town, South Africa.

  Then she came to a photo of a child in a slum—this one taken in a jungle area. Another image showed a barefoot kid pushing a toy made of wire—his arm had been amputated. Yet another image showed a small girl fleeing something awful, terror wild in her face and eyes. This one looked as if it had been shot in Asia somewhere. There were more—a series with mothers with children, some poignant, some just plain heartbreaking. Devastating. Dalilah rubbed her arms, her mood shifting.

  He’d told her he didn’t bring people here, so these were not for show, they were for him. His touchstones. That’s why he said he took pictures—to capture, remember. Brandt’s words sifted back into her mind.

  It’s what I do, Dalilah. These days I shoot with a camera, not a gun, if I can help it. I shoot rare and beautiful things, things with meaning to me. Images I return to so that I can be reminded of what I value in life. Or what stands to be lost…

  She’d thought Brandt was running from his past, seeking relief. But she was wrong. He wanted to hold on, maybe too acutely, to the memories that had changed him. No wonder he struggled with needing relief.

  Over his desk of carved black wood hung a picture positioned alone in an area of prominence. She went over to it, and her hand went to her throat when she realized what it was. A toddler, pale blue eyes, white-blond hair catching sun like a halo.

  Dalilah bent forward to read the inscription in italics—Stefaan Stryker. Along with the date of his birth, and his death. Under the photo was an old leather-bound book, Jock of the Bushveldt, by Sir James Percy Fitzpatrick.

  She touched the old hardcover, opened it to the copyright page. First published 1907. There was a line drawing of a dog that looked exactly like the one from the lodge, and on the title page was an inscription written in longhand: Vir my liefste Jacquie, baie gelukkige tye met ons eie hond, jou Pa.

  Dalilah suddenly felt him watching, glanced up.

  Brandt stood in the doorway with the bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands, his features tight.

  “What does it mean, Brandt?” she said, her fingers touching the Afrikaans inscription.

  “For my dearest little Stefaan. May we have happy times with our own dog, your father.” He hesitated, as if torn between speaking and turning away. “I’d just come across a copy of that old edition. I wanted it for him.”

  Dalilah’s eyes prickled with emotion. “It’s so uncanny,” she said softly, “that the dog from the lodge looks the same, has the same name.”r />
  “Jock is a common name for a Staffordshire cross of that color. Like I said, Jock has become a cultural icon in this part of the world. There’s even a statue of Jock outside the Barberton city hall in Mpumalanga, South Africa.”

  “I still think it’s eerie,” she said, closing the book and setting it carefully back in position under the photo. “Stefaan looked like you when you were a boy, if that’s you in the hunting photo over there, with your father?”

  A wry smile twisted over his lips, but there was a sadness around his eyes. “Yeah, that was me. Lost my dad when I was twelve.”

  “How?”

  “Lion.”

  Dalilah waited, but he said nothing more, and she didn’t press, not now.

  “How about that wine,” she said with a smile.

  *

  With a view of the setting sun, Brandt poured their drinks at an outside table.

  “A Buiten Blanc, from Buitenverwachting,” he said, pouring. “It’s a vineyard near Cape Town—the name means Beyond Expectation. Cheers,” he said, raising his own glass, and she chinked hers against it.

  “Beyond expectation,” she whispered, meeting his eyes.

  They sat side by side on lacquered wicker furniture watching animals come down to the pond to drink. Monkeys squealed in a tree above the water hole, and Dalilah’s thoughts drifted back to that night in the lapa. She turned to look at Brandt.

  “Did you watch me for long, in that lapa, before the attack?”

  A slow smile curved his mouth, and this time a lightness did reach his eyes.

  “I thought you were a flame to those diplomatic moths around you.” He paused. “I thought you were a tease.”

  She fell silent as his eyes held hers, a sudden tingling heat low in her belly.

  He got up suddenly, taking his glass to the railing. “Come here,” he said, holding his hand out to her.