Guarding the Princess (11 page)

Her hand went to her stomach, pressed, as if she suddenly felt sick. And he could see her searching for an answer.

“No,” she said after several beats of silence, her voice not sounding quite her own. “I will work, though, for the Kingdom of Sa’ud, Haroun’s diplomatic functions. I’m sure I’ll find some charities—I...I’d have to live there, of course.”

He took a step closer.

“And that makes you happy—that’s what you want?”

She met his gaze. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Because you sound pretty damn passionate about the other stuff you were just yelling at me about. And you were so darn motivated to get me to take you to Harare to ink that water deal that you weren’t even thinking about the attackers on your tail.”

She swallowed, glanced away. “It’s because this was my last opportunity to do something with my ClearWater work.” She inhaled deeply. “I wanted to leave some kind of legacy, show that my freedom was worth something. Apart from...” She faded, her eyes gleaming with emotion.

“Freedom?” he said. “Versus marriage—is that how you see it?”

She moistened her lips.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes going to her ring. “Give it all up for some dude who owns most of the world’s oil. For a moment back there in Zimbabwe, I was really impressed. But I read you wrong.”

“You’d respect me more—be impressed if I
wasn’t
going to marry? Marriage takes compromise.”

“And what’s Haroun giving up—what’s his compromise?”

Her eyes flickered.

He snorted. “You’re talking to the wrong man about marriage, Princess. Been there, done that, failed miserably. Sometimes compromise is not what it’s cracked up to be.”

“So you were married once?”

“That’s none of your damn business.”

She blinked, then gave him a measuring look. Brandt swallowed, his gaze locked with hers.

“What does impress you, Stryker?”

“If you’re following your passion, Dalilah,” he said quietly, “I’m impressed, whether you marry or not. And ClearWater, your job, your independence, is very obviously your passion.” He shrugged dismissively. “Trade it all off for a life behind palace walls? I’m not seeing a clear picture here.”

When she didn’t reply, he said, “It must make you happy. Or you wouldn’t do it.”

“Yeah...it makes me happy,” she snapped, though she looked anything but.

He regarded her intently, nodded his head, then turned and began to march on.

Dalilah felt sick. She couldn’t move. He’d laid it all out right there. She couldn’t do it—she couldn’t marry Haroun. Tension coiled in her gut. But she couldn’t call it off now, either. It was a binding contract, a treaty between countries. Her brother, King Zakir, was relying on it, so was his King’s Council—her whole family. Her nation.

“You coming or what?” he yelled over his shoulder.

“I didn’t ask for your approval,” she called after him. “I don’t care what you think!”

He spun around again. “So why’d you just tell me all this? Why’d you kiss me like that, Dalilah, huh? What are you not getting with Haroun Hassan?”

She swallowed. She’d fallen right into it. She’d set herself up.

She turned her back to him, looked out over the gold grass, the big sky, the route they’d traveled. Immobilized. Trapped.

“Dalilah?”

She
couldn’t
move. Tears filled her eyes and she wouldn’t let him see.

“Dalilah?” She felt his touch, gentle on her shoulder.

Her heart began slamming against her ribs. She felt dizzy. Confused. It was fatigue, she told herself. Critical incident stress. She waited until her vision came fully back into focus.

Then she turned. Spine stiffening, she lifted her chin, met his eyes and forced a dry laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself about that kiss. Like you said, an itch to scratch.”

He moistened his lips, nodded slowly, eyes narrowing.

A bird flew overhead, big wings whooshing, a momentary shadow.

He swung his rifle back onto his shoulder, muzzle aimed into the air, and resumed his stride into the veldt.

“Damn you,” she muttered softly in Arabic. Then she cursed herself—why should she even care about explaining herself to this broad-chested mutt? Why did she want his approval so desperately?

But she knew why. She liked Brandt—there was something about him she respected, and there was a profoundness buried in him.

Most of all, she was trying to explain it to herself, and he was the punching bag in the way. And a catalyst.

They neared the bottom of the cliff and it loomed even higher than Dalilah had anticipated. The red rocks trapped the heat of the sun, radiating it back like an oven.

Dust devils swirled near the base, fine sand sticking to perspiration on Dalilah’s skin. The game trail to the approach petered out, and grass grew shoulder-high, scrub dense.

Brandt stopped, shaded his eyes, searching for a route up.

She heard a sneeze in the grass to her left and froze. Brandt spun around, lowered his rifle and clicked off the safety, attention trained on the grass.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He put his finger to his mouth.

Another sneeze.

“Impala,” he whispered. “Warning.”

A group of antelope suddenly flew at them from the grass. Dalilah shrieked and ducked as the buck leaped high and over her, violently kicking backward with his rear legs.

Brandt ignored the impala, aiming his gun at the vacated grass.

Her gaze shot to him in fear.

“Wild dogs,” he whispered. “That rocking-horse jump makes it harder for the dogs to grab their stomachs and disembowel them.”

The dog pack was only seconds behind the impala—small mottled black-and-tan predators with huge ears, white tail tips, snarling teeth as they gave full chase.

Dalilah heard a terrible gurgling death rasp as somewhere in the long grass the pack sank their teeth into an unlucky antelope and began ripping it apart alive. She grabbed Brandt’s arm, blood draining from her head and bile rising in her throat as she listened to the wet tearing, ripping grunts and growls.

“Nasty way to go,” he whispered. “That sound will attract bigger predators. We need to move fast.” Taking her hand, Brandt led her at a fast trot to the steaming base of the cliff, not letting her go for a minute. Dalilah was grateful because she felt she’d just hit rock bottom in every way, and was crashing hard.

At the cliff base, she slumped onto a rock, put her face in her hand. She wanted to cry, just release everything inside, but she also wanted to hold it all in. She began to shake. Brandt placed his hand, large, firm, calming, on her shoulder.

The tears welled.

He looked up at the sky, and she knew he was at a loss to know how to handle her. And he had to be tired, too.

Then, as if making a decision, he lowered himself onto the hot rock next to her and tentatively put his arm around her. Then he committed, pulling her tightly against his body.

Dalilah leaned into him, drawing comfort from his solid strength, his confidence, the steady beat of his heart, and she let the tears come.

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s going to be okay—I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She sniffed, met his eyes. “No, she said, very quietly. “I’m sure you’ll do your best. Or Omair will probably kill you.”

He smiled, a soft light entering his pale eyes, and he took her hat off, moving hair away from her dust-streaked face.

“Yeah. And if Omair doesn’t kill me,” he said softly, “Haroun will.”

She held his gaze.

“Brandt, thank you. I know I’m just a job, a package—”

“No,” he said softly. “Not just a package, not anymore.” He smiled, sadly this time, a worry entering his eyes. “You’re too stubborn for that.”

Chapter 10

“I
t feels as if it has a presence,” Dalilah said, looking up at the wall. “Like it’s got eyes.”

“The Batswana call it Solomon’s Wall,” Brandt said. “Sangomas—the local witch doctors—claim it’s a place where old spirits live and watch over the plains to the Tsholo.”

“Must be about seventy yards high,” she whispered.

“Around sixty meters of columnar basalt straight up, higher in other places. The wall runs for maybe forty or fifty kilometers—a rift caused by volcanic upheaval thousands of years ago.”

She studied the big blocks of rock—cubes of various sizes stacked one atop the other almost as if by a giant human hand, an ancient ruined city wall now being pried and twisted apart by the gnarled roots of crooked trees and sparse shrubs that had found sustenance in crevices.

Again the hot breeze, an almost imperceptible sensation, rustled over her skin, as if the wall itself was softly exhaling. A prickle ran over her skin.

“It feels like it doesn’t want to let us through, or over.”

“This land has a way of doing that, like something primitive whispering just beneath the veil of the surface, reflecting back your own emotions.”

She looked at him oddly, something shifting in her. Brandt handed her water. She met his eyes as she drank. He still didn’t take any, but he felt thirsty now.

“You going to be okay?” he said.

She forced a wry smile and cast another glance up the cliff face. “I’m scared of heights.”

“Because you’re afraid of falling and dying?”

She bit the corner of her lip. “I suppose that’s what it boils down to.”

“You could look at this two ways—if we stay down here, you probably will die at Amal’s hands. Or you could let me help you climb, and only stand a faint chance of dying at your own hand.”

“Oh, great. You sure have a way of making someone feel like they have some nice options—stay down here and get my head cut off, or go up there and get smashed.”

He crouched in front of her and looked up into her face, examining her, weighing how much mettle she had left, how far he could push her. “Dalilah, you
can
do this. You’ve shown me that you’ve got more grit than most men. You’re a survivor. You have everything it takes and then some.”

She turned her face away.

“No,
look
at me.” He took her hand in his. “I’m going to help you over this. Once step, one rock at a time. We’ll take it at an angle instead of straight up. It’ll be easier that way. And near the top, there’s water.” He pointed. “That dark stain on the rock? Waterfall. We’ll rest on that ledge up there by the water, then go the last short haul. We can be up on the plateau and in shelter before dark. I’ll build you a fire, we’ll eat. You can sleep. Then tomorrow, we start fresh. We’re a team, okay—got that? No man left behind. Ever.”

She gave a half laugh and her eyes flicked briefly to her finger with the ring. “After everything I’ve been through so far, this suddenly feels like the biggest, insurmountable hurdle of all.”

Brandt had a sense she wasn’t talking just about the wall, but about the argument they’d had over her marriage versus independence. He felt there was something much deeper and darker at play there, but he was not going to judge, or dig further. Right now he had to keep her focused on moving forward and up, on the positive.

“Listen here, Dalilah, I’ll make you a harness, and you’ll be tied to me with rope. I
won’t
let you fall. You’ve just got to keep looking up, never down, never backward.” He got to his feet, his body casting her in shadow. “Tomorrow we’ll make for a small village where we might even find transport. From there, smooth sailing and we’re home.”

“Home,” she said softly as she studied the wall. She rubbed her brow. “I’m not sure I know where that is anymore,” she muttered.

She was talking about moving to Sa’ud, the upcoming marriage, Brandt was certain of it. But he didn’t want to go there, not now. He removed the coil of rope from his pack that he’d cut from the jeep canopy. “I’m going to use this to fashion a harness around your chest, and I’m going to remove your sling for now, just in case you need balance from that other hand, but go easy on it.”

He began to loop knots as he spoke. “The idea is for me to climb up a boulder or two, find a secure perch, then haul you up. You’ll help by using your good arm to pull and your legs to climb and leverage against my resistance. We go this way rock by rock, step by step. When you’re tired, tell me, and we rest. Then when your mind is clear and focused again, then—and only then—we take another step.” He paused, assessing the rock face. “And from the top, we’ll see right across this plain. We’ll see if Amal is coming.”

He removed her sling and looped the rope around her back, and under her arms above her breasts, securing it with knots. But when the side of his hand brushed against her breast, her eyes ticked up to his, and the memory of their kiss suddenly hung briefly in the heat between them.

“There.” He cleared his throat and stepped back, smiling as encouragingly as he could. “Ready?”

She inhaled deeply, nodded.

But exactly what she was ready for, Dalilah wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she had to take the first step, get up over that first rock—and she was going to have to place her full trust in Brandt.

She believed he would not let her fall, that he’d help her up over this hurdle. But the other hurdles that would come after?

Once she got “home” she was on her own. And for a brief insane instant, she didn’t want to scale this cliff. She wasn’t ready to go home.

* * *

Amal stared over the wide, roiling Tsholo at the Botswana bank on the other side. Rage as violent as the floodwaters seethed inside him.

It was already afternoon, and jeep tracks showed his quarry had crossed the river right here. Before the waters had come down. Who was this bastard that had taken the princess? How had this person known that he was coming for her?

When Amal found him, he was going to disembowel the bastard, hang him from a tree for the jackals to tear at his innards while he was still alive. He’d make him watch what he was going to do to the Al Arif woman.

“There’s a bridge,” the old tracker was saying quietly at his side.

Amal spun to glare at him. “How far?”

“North, maybe half a day or more in the jeeps. But sometimes the first flood of the wet season washes parts of the bridge out. And there’s border control there, on the Botswana side.”

Amal glowered at the old man. He hated Jacob’s eyes, the way they seemed to harbour a quiet, secret knowledge. Amal didn’t trust him, but he needed him. Once he sighted his quarry, he’d kill the old man and that dog in a flash.

“Screw border patrol,” he snapped. “It’ll be sundown soon. We drive through the night, fast.” He marched over to Mbogo.

“Mark that spot over the river on the GPS,” he said, pointing to the high bank on the Botswana side. “If we make good speed we can be there by dawn tomorrow. We’ll pick up their tracks there. They won’t get away.”

* * *

Halfway up, Dalilah looked down. Mistake. Far below, the plain stretched—brown and gold, grasses, acacia scrub, stunted Mopani. Dizziness swirled, heat and dehydration taking their toll. Her muscles began to shake and sweat dripped from under her hat.

She slipped, rope digging into her skin as she jerked out and crashed back into rock, breath slamming out of her chest. Above her, Brandt braced, taking the brunt of her drop with the rope. He held still for a moment as she hung there, small stones skittering out from under his boot heel as it began to slip. A shower of stones clattered down on top of her.

“Grab that branch near your face!” he yelled. “Dig your toes into that crevice above your knees—just feel your way. And don’t look down!”

She groped for a piece of twisted old root. Grasping it, she found purchase with her boots, dug her toes in, and took some of the weight off Brandt. He hauled her up as she helped by pulling on bits of bush and roots. Once over the ledge of the rock, Brandt grabbed her and held her body tightly against his. Dalilah’s heart jackhammered. She could feel his heart, too, pounding against his ribs. Their bodies were drenched with perspiration.

“I got you,” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. “Take it easy, okay? Calm down. Just relax. If anything kills a person out here it’s panic, got that? You’re in control of your own mind.”

She nodded, mouth tight, trying to tamp down the wild fear rampaging through her, blinding her focus, narrowing her vision. She didn’t know how much more of this she could take.

“Did I mention,” she whispered against his neck, “that I really do hate heights?”

“And did I mention,” he whispered in return, his breath feathering her cheek, “that you never cease to surprise me, Princess?”

“I hope you mean that in a good way.”

She felt him smile. It made her feel better. Calmer. As if she had a partner.

“We’re a team, remember? No man left behind.”

She nodded, and it felt good to know that this guy had her back—the kind of guy who could be hard on her when she needed to push herself, but tender when she needed a soft touch. A man who’d push her to follow her passion and be the best woman she could be.

And as Dalilah held on to this scarred lion of a man, she realized that’s what she wanted out of a marriage. And it sunk like a cold knife deep into her chest—she’d never get that with Haroun.

I’m not seeing a clear picture here...

Neither was she. Not anymore.

He held her steady until her heart rate lowered, until she could focus and think properly again. Then he cupped the side of her face and made her look up into his eyes.

“Remember,” he said firmly, “looking backward serves zero purpose, understand? Only think of the future.”

“Is that what you do, Brandt?” she whispered. “Never look back?”

Surprise flickered through his eyes. Then his lips twisted into a slow, wry smile. “Touché, Princess. But let’s keep this about the cliff, all right? We’ll save my past for later.”

She held his gaze, his lips so close, his arms so strong. A team suspended between sky and earth, and for an upside-down moment Dalilah was oddly grateful to be here right now, with him, to have been afforded this tiny window of reprieve, even under these circumstances. A chance to rethink her future before she made a terrible mistake from which she could never turn back.

* * *

An hour later, wet through and caked with red clay, muscles screaming with exertion, Brandt reached down his hand and hauled Dalilah over a big slab and onto a wide ledge of rock that ran almost fifty yards along the cliff face. Dalilah caught her breath as she heard water and felt a waft of cooler air kissing her cheeks. They were almost at the top of the cliff, and through a crevice above, cascading into a pool carved by time and pressure into rock, was a fall of gloriously clear water. Thirst rose fierce and sharp. She shot a look at Brandt. A grin split his rugged face, his teeth stark white against skin that had turned an even darker bronze from a full day under the baking sun. The dancing light in his eyes reminded her of a summer swimming pool with its surface recently broken by a swimmer—sunlight refracting off the surface. Cool, welcoming.

And she’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“You should do it more often,” she said.

“Climb cliffs with you?”

She laughed as she pushed past him and dropped to her knees, dipping her hand in the clear, coppery-colored water.

“No, silly. Smile. I like your smile.”

His smile faded, his gaze darkening, becoming unreadable.

She cupped water in her hands—it was the color of clear Ceylon tea. “It’s cool, Brandt!” Dalilah took off her hat and bent forward, splashing it over her face, feeling like a child. Laughing.

“God, this is heaven.” She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Is it okay to drink, do you think?”

He was staring at her, and she felt suddenly aware, self-conscious, then that gorgeous broad grin crept over his face again, splitting it into facets and crinkles, making his blue-sky eyes dance again like a summer pool in sunlight. Then he braced his hands on his hips and laughed. “And what’s so funny?”

“You! You look like a female warrior with war paint out to do battle—and you’re still all trussed up in the harness and trailing rope.”

She peered into the surface of the water. In the rippling reflection she could see her face was now streaked with dark mud. She grinned. “I really must look a prize.”

“A hell of a lot cuter than you did in that cocktail outfit when—” He caught himself.

“When what?”

“It’s nothing.” Brandt came forward, untied the rope around her and swung off his pack. He dropped it to the slab with a thud, kettle clunking against rock. Crouching, he moved the rifle strapped across his torso to one side, then cupped his hands, tasted the water. “No cleaner in the world—just colored by minerals.”

“Still could have parasites, bacteria—”

“I’ll take that chance. This rock pool has been baked dry and clean by the sun all winter—it’s only flowing again now since the fresh rains.”

“Animal feces could be upstream.”

“Spoken like someone who understands water risks in Africa,” he said, pooling more water in his hands and drinking deeply, regardless. It was the first time Dalilah had seen him drink anything since the whiskey this morning. He’d saved their supply for her, and now he was slaking what was clearly a deep and desperate thirst.

He filled the water canteen, capped it, then stuck his whole head into the cool pool, rinsing his face. He got up, flicked his head back and raked his hands through his short hair, biceps flexing, and Dalilah was struck by a thought—she could love this man.

It turned her mood suddenly dark and heavy.

“Drink, Dalilah. And wash off—we’ll rest here a bit. We have enough light to get to the top before sunset. He dropped to his haunches again and opened his pack, removing two small airplane-size bottles. “Shampoo and lotion,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “You could take a full shower under this waterfall. Nature’s spa.”