Guarding the Princess (17 page)

He regarded her intently for several long beats.

“Well—is it a deal?” she said.

B.K. bowed, softly clapping his hands together in a sign of thanks. He followed this by making a sign of the cross for good measure.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank the Lord for this gift. You may take jeep, and all our petrol, and any supplies we can give. Teep will help you. Tell him what you need, and he will get the villagers to bring everything.”

“We’re in a hurry,” she said.

“Yes—we will be quick.”

Dalilah smiled triumphantly at Brandt, an expectant look in her face.

“I’m not saying thank-you,” he growled. “If Amal comes here, finds that ring...” He pointed after B.K., then swore and stalked off toward the jeep. She ran after him.

“I’m not asking for your thanks, you...brute.”

He huffed, walked around the jeep, evaluating her purchase. Afternoon shadows were already lengthening. Doves sounded in the trees.

On the rear of the jeep someone had scratched the word
Skorokoro.

“You see that?” He jerked his chin to the scrawled inscription. “It means too old to work. You paid two-point-five million for a lemon that might not even get us to the road.”

“If you have issues, I’ll drive. It’s my jeep now.”

He grunted.

“You just don’t like a woman taking over, do you, Brandt? Or is it the fact I have money?”

He stopped dead, turned to face her square. “No, Dalilah, it’s Haroun. I don’t like that family, and you’ve just given away his ring—I don’t know what constitutes a violation in his goddamn tradition.”

Her face sobered. “You’re afraid for me.”

“Hell, yeah. Nothing about this is right.” He waved his hand at the jeep, the village. “We’ve probably brought harm right to their door. And now—” He stopped speaking as he saw Teep approaching with two women dragging a cart of boxes loaded with supplies.

Teep handed him the jeep key as the women began to load the supplies into the back.

“Food, water, spare petrol, camping stove, pot, kerosene lamp, spare tin of kerosene and a blanket.” Teep hesitated, then said, “And two tins of motor oil.”

“Thank you,” Brandt said, irritably taking the keys. “Does it leak oil, then?”

“A bit.”

He grunted irritably. “You have any spare ammunition lying around?”

Teep’s eyes shot to his.

“For my rifle. Might need to hunt.”

Wariness crossed the man’s features, but he called out over his shoulder for someone to bring rifle bullets.

A man came running with two boxes of shells.

“Get in, Princess,” Brandt said as he took the boxes. “Your chariot awaits.”

She muttered something in Arabic and climbed into the passenger seat.

Brandt got in, turned the ignition.

The engine coughed, then sputtered to life with an unearthly growl.

“Skorokoro, you better have some juice in you,” he said as he pressed down on the accelerator.

He gave a wave of thanks and they trundled toward the gate, someone running ahead to open it. The children ran behind in their dust, squealing and waving. One of the women began to sing, and others joined in, waving them goodbye.

But as they reached the gate, Brandt stopped the vehicle just before the cattle grid and disinfectant trough.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, throwing open the door.

Dalilah shot him a look—he was edgy, she thought, like bottled fuel ready to blow. “Where are you going?”

But he was gone already, engine still running, door open. Dalilah spun around in the passenger seat. He’d taken the chief aside, his head bent down, urgency in the set of his body as he discussed something. A whisper of trepidation ran through Dalilah. The shadows were growing longer, the colors of the bush turning gold.

Brandt got back into the driver’s seat and shifted gears. They bumped over the cattle bars, and he laid on the gas. Dust boiled out behind them, catching the sun’s yellow rays. The jeep had some power in it, even if it sounded cranky. Dalilah took off her hat before the wind could snatch it from her head, holding her hair in her fist to keep it from whipping her face.

She glanced at his profile. His hands were tight on the wheel, his features pulled into a frown.

“What did you say to the chief when we left?”

“Told him if men come to his village asking about us, to say that we stole the jeep—then to show Amal our tracks to the road.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want Amal to think they helped us or that they’re hiding anything. I don’t want to give him any reason to hurt them.”

She swallowed, thinking of the villagers’ faces, the children, the bright, white smiles, the happy school. The babies.

They came to the road. It was narrow and the paving was pocked with potholes and being eaten away by thick grass along the edges. A rickety wooden arrow declared the Limpopo River border with South Africa was to the left, and another arrow pointed right to Bulawayo.

Brandt wheeled onto the rugged road and headed south toward the Limpopo.

“We’ll travel about twenty klicks down this paved section, then cut off into a tract of controlled conservation area. We’ll do some countertracking at the junction, and hopefully Amal will lose our vehicle tracks for good along here.”

“Countertracking?”

“Hide our tracks so it’s not obvious that someone recently veered off this road into sand.”

In the opposite lane, a vehicle came toward them, shimmering in the distance. It blew past—a blue-and-white Botswana police van heading north. She shot Brandt a fast look.

“They can’t do anything, Dalilah—the police here generally don’t even carry guns. It’s why I like this country. It’s a good place.” She heard the bite of self-recrimination in his voice. He felt he was bringing bad things into a haven that he’d chosen to come to and try to heal all those years ago.

He drove faster, the combination of potholes and bad suspension sending jarring shocks right through her teeth. Dalilah gripped the side of the door for purchase as Brandt swerved wide into the oncoming “lane” to avoid a particularly large hole.

Just as he veered back into their own lane, he suddenly swerved again, this time to avoid a warthog that burst out of the tight grass on the side of the road and scampered across, followed by babies, tails held erect.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon and the wind was warm against her face. The plains rolled away in endless browns and golds. Dalilah touched her naked ring finger, a crazy sense of freedom overcoming her as they barreled down this road, through empty land as far as the eye could see. The more she thought about it, the wilder the excitement racing through her heart—she wasn’t going to marry Haroun.

She’d decided that when she took off the ring. But coupled with a delirious sense of liberation, Dalilah was also deeply anxious about how to break the news to Haroun, to her brothers and to the world, especially after their official engagement had been reported by media around the globe. The guest list was already being prepared. And Brandt was right—one invitation was being sent to the White House, too.

She glanced at him. Strong, protective, sensitive, caring. He had no idea what he’d done for her, and at this moment Dalilah just wanted to stay out here, travel this road with him, with the warm wind in her hair. But she couldn’t outrun the inevitable looming consequences of her decision not to uphold the treaty.

There
would
be an end to this road, and she still had to face it. Brandt slapped the dash suddenly, and made her jump.

“What is it?”

His hands fisted tight on the wheel. “We shouldn’t have interacted with them. You shouldn’t have touched the kid. They’re going to get hurt.”

“My touching that toddler isn’t—”

“We shouldn’t have been there, Dalilah! We should’ve split the instant that Wusani kid saw us.” He gritted his jaw, face going darker, shoulders tighter.

“Brandt, we can’t change what happened now.”

“Our tracks lead right up to that village. Amal is going to go in there and start asking questions—”

“And the headman will tell him we stole the jeep, like you said.”

“One of those kids, or women...someone in that village is going to let something slip if Amal and his men start scaring them. He’s going to find your ring. Amal’s going to find your ring and they’re finished.”

They passed a dead cow on the side of the road. Two women with knives bent over, skinning it to reveal a sinewy white carcass. It must have been hit by a vehicle, and they were not going to let it go to waste. She turned away, feeling suddenly sick, fear whispering through her again. They drove by a few more signs of civilization—another road sign, two women walking with large bundles on their heads. Soon there was a high game fence running alongside them for miles.

Brandt swore again, eaten up by what they’d done.

“We had no choice but to interact, Brandt, after that child saw us.”

“Because I was too damn busy kissing you—that’s why!”

She swallowed. His fury at himself was palpable and increasing in direct proportion to the distance they were putting between themselves and the village. It made her edgy, nervous for the villagers. Images assailed her again—that dead delegate under the table, Amal’s men mowing them all down, slaughtering innocents.

Brandt swerved sharply to avoid a man standing on the side of the road, waiting, presumably, for a ride. Next to him was a garbage bag of clothes and two wooden boxes filled with old-fashioned glass pop bottles. Dalilah guessed he was going to sell them.

“This is where we leave the road,” Brandt veered off the paved section and jounced over a dirt track toward a break in the game fencing. The jeep trundled over a series of cattle grids as they entered the controlled area. He stopped the vehicle, got out, grabbed a branch from the side of the path and went back to the road, sweeping over their tracks.

When he got back into the driver’s seat Dalilah saw he was pale under his tan, his skin tight—he really was broken up about leaving those villagers.

Conflict torqued inside Dalilah as they entered a gorge, high rocky cliffs on either side, casting long shadows.

“Valley of Ghosts,” he said.

“Is that what it’s called?”

He nodded. “A superstitious place.”

They traveled for a while down the gorge, cliffs narrowing in on them.

He sensed her uneasiness. “Don’t worry, the path veers off before it narrows too much.”

“It’s not the gorge, Brandt. It’s the village. I mean, if they claim we stole their jeep, surely—”

“Omair has told me things about Amal,” he said coolly. “He revels in destruction, pain, hurt. He’s evil, Dalilah. I saw firsthand what he did at the lodge—I can see him slaughtering every one of those villagers for pure pleasure.”

“Okay, so you’re right, maybe we should have just walked.”

“And then? You’d be dead by sunrise. Because if we were on foot, he’d be on our asses before dawn with his horses and jeeps.”

She stared at him.

“So you chose me over that village.”

He drove in silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. And she truly was. For being an Al Arif royal, for attracting Amal, for Omair forcing Brandt into this. For bringing possible devastation to an innocent village, for pushing this man to break his vow of peace.

“Brandt,” she said suddenly, “stop the car.”

“What for?”

“Just stop. Now!”

He did. Dust settled. The sound of birds rose around them.

“We need to go back.”

He rolled his eyes. “We can’t—I’ll be signing your death warrant, Dalilah. My sole purpose out here is to keep you
alive.
”

“We
have
to go back.”

“And do what, exactly?”

“Kill Amal.”

He stared at her, stunned by the determination—and fear—on her face.

“We need to protect that village, Brandt, and we need to head Amal off, lead him away.... I don’t know, trap him or something.”

“Don’t be naive,” he snapped. “You know what’ll happen, Dalilah—we’ll
all
die. Villagers, you, me...I get to see a repeat of what happened to Carla.”

“Oh, so it’s about you.”

He swore violently. “That is not fair.”

She swiveled in her seat, faced him square. “Listen to me, Brandt, I can’t keep running. If we don’t end this now, if Omair doesn’t catch him, he’s always going to be out there somewhere.” She pointed into the distance. “There will always be the fear that he’ll come after one of my family, anywhere, anytime, somewhere in the world. I have to end this now.”

“You?”

“We do. Me and you. A team.”

“Dalilah—”

“Listen, Brandt, I know you made this vow not to use violence, but please, help me do this. I can’t keep running, not now that I have everything to live for. I gave away that ring because I decided I couldn’t give up who I am in order to marry Haroun. You helped me reach that decision. Now I’m almost there—almost free. Help me go the rest of the way.”

He stared. Something unreadable in his face. Something changing in the lines of his features, in the quality of light in his eyes—anticipation, hope. It fueled her.

But he said, “Dalilah, I cannot endanger your life. I just...can’t. My job is to protect you.”

She grabbed his arm. “Brandt, this is not about your job, it’s not about delivering me to Omair—I’m not going anywhere. This is about
us.
About...maybe trying to make things work.”

The muscle in his jaw ticked. He swallowed. “What are you really saying, Dalilah?”

She glanced away. What
was
she saying? Then she spun back to face him. “I’m saying that when this is all over, I want to come to your farm, Brandt. I’m saying I want to get to know you better—if you’ll let me.”

All the color drained from his face.

“But I have to tell Haroun I’m not upholding the treaty, and I have to inform my brothers. If I can also tell them Amal is gone, it’s going to win me favor. That’s my offer to them, my compromise. That’s what I can do for my country. And I need your help.”

“Christ,” he breathed.

“Remember, Brandt,” she whispered, “you told me yourself, whatever you do out here, don’t run. Because there’s nothing out here that you can outrun. I’m not running anymore. And neither are you, because if you come back with me, and we take out Amal, you’ll kill those memories in your head, I swear it.”