Guarding the Princess

by Loreth Anne White

  The man who took the princess must have been planning to take to the air. But his plane had been robbed. No supplies, no transport, broken shoes on the woman. They would not get far. If the pilot was sharp, he’d go first to look for transport, food, water, before moving on.

  Jacob looked up into the sky. If the pilot came over the Tsholo River in his plane, like a bird he would have seen the bush camp that lay to the north.

  “Soek, Jock,” Jacob whispered to the dog, showing him the ground to initiate another search. The dog soon led him to what he was looking for—a set of tracks heading northward, toward the camp. He patted Jock, gave him a piece of biscuit from his pocket, then started toward the plane and the men. As he got closer, he saw, painted on the tail, the word Tautona.

  Jacob knew immediately whose plane it was. A person could not be in Africa long without being given a nickname, something that described his personality. Tautona was the Setswana name given to a legendary bush pilot from Botswana named Brandt Stryker who sometimes flew guests over the border to the safari lodge where Jacob worked. Tautona was one of the few pilots who would still fly into Zimbabwe. Now look at what had happened to his plane—that’s why people didn’t come here anymore. The country was too hungry.

  Jacob did not tell Amal what he’d seen, or knew. He just watched as Amal’s tracker started gesticulating west toward the river. The tracker was saying the plane had Botswana registration. It meant their quarry would probably have continued on foot directly west, making for the Tsholo River.

  Amal glanced suddenly at Jacob, and he tensed inside.

  “Jacob, come!” Amal pointed west. “They went that way—find their tracks!”

  “I think they went another way, boss.”

  “What?” Jacob pointed north. The men shook their heads and murmured in dissent.

  “Get over here!” Amal ordered. Jacob just lowered his head. This angered Amal, who marched up to him and unsheathed his dagger. He shoved the tip against Jacob’s neck. “You messing with me, old man? You trying to send me on a wild-goose chase?”

  “No, sir.”

  Something flickered in Amal’s oil-black eyes. “We’ll see. If my tracker is right, if we find their trace at the river, I cut your guts out and leave you for the hyenas, understand?”

  “Yes, sir, boss.”

  Amal resheathed the dagger.

  Jacob moved silently behind the posse of men as they headed straight for the line of dense foliage in the distance. Behind him the man on horseback followed, and Jacob knew the rifle was continually trained on him.

  But he was biding his time. He had good information—he now knew how to find Mr. Stryker even without tracks, and he’d use his knowledge when it would serve him best.

  Chapter 7

  Dalilah came awake slowly, surfacing from some dark and terrible nightmare. Her head was spinning, images slicing through her brain. Automatic gunfire. Blood. Massacred bodies strewn under tables. Broken glass. Being carried on the back of a brutish man into the black African night. An awful dream…then her eyes jolted open.

  Faint, gray light filtered into her field of vision. She turned her head slowly. Branches dripped onto the drab, olive-green canopy above her head. She was covered by an unzipped sleeping bag, warm, and she could smell mud, foliage like hay. The sound of a churning river filled her brain.

  Panic licked suddenly through her and Dalilah tried to push herself into a sitting position on the front seat of the jeep before remembering her arm was broken. Gingerly, she edged fully up on the front seat. Through the dirty windshield the brown river swirled with yellow foam. The scent coming from wet, burned trees across the river was strong. Her heart started to pound. It wasn’t a dream.

  The nightmare was real.

  She held dead still, trying to orient herself, recall the sequence of events that had brought her here. But her arm hurt and her brain was fuzzy. Carefully she moved her head, neck stiff, taking further register of her surroundings.

  She was alone in the front seat. Rain had stopped. The jeep was parked under a cathedral-like canopy of tall trees with lime-colored bark, leaves moving like silvery fish in a warm breeze that stirred up cooler pockets of air; the sensation of both warm and cold against her face felt strange.

  Her heart beat faster, something akin to dread licking into her belly as she wondered where Brandt was, and then she recalled his kiss, the taste of him. Her own hot well of desire.

  Oh, God.

  She inhaled deeply, spun round in full-blown panic now, then sucked air in sharply as she saw him standing in the shadows, silent, rifle cradled in his arm. He was watching her, his pale eyes glacial-cool slits against darkly tanned skin, his features hard in this cruel light of dawn. Had she imagined it all in the night—the compassion in his touch, the warmth, the ferocity and tenderness of desire?

  “How’re you feeling?” His Afrikaans accent sounded as gruff as he looked this morning.

  Dalilah brushed a tangle of knotted hair back off her forehead. “Terrible, thanks.”

  She disentangled herself from the sleeping bag as he started toward the jeep.

  “Do you need to stretch your legs, or can you wait?”

  She took his question as euphemism for bathroom break. “I can wait.”

  “Good, because we need to get moving—I already let you sleep too long.”

  He climbed into the jeep beside her, and the weight of the vehicle shifted. He secured the rifle on the dash and folded down the spattered windshield.

  Brandt started the ignition and the diesel engine purred to life. He began to reverse from their spot beneath the trees. Swinging the wheel around, he checked the GPS and set a course directly perpendicular from the river. Dalilah saw him glance at his watch. Tension whispered through her.

  Sharp grass stalks clicked and rustled under the carriage as they negotiated the space between trees and already temperatures were increasing. Dalilah glanced at Brandt’s profile, taking her first proper study of him in the unforgiving light of dawn.

  He had a fighter’s face. The bridge of his nose had a bump, as if it had been broken more than once, and he had a fine scar across his jaw. He was not handsome, but arresting—there was something mesmerizing about the broad strokes and aggression of his features. This was a man who wouldn’t shy away from confrontation, who’d physically stand up for what he believed, or wanted.

  His mouth was also powerful—wide, well-defined lips, the lines bracketing them etched deep. She liked the character in his face, a rugged map of his past experience. The memory of the taste of him, the sensation of the feather-soft brush of those powerful lips against hers filled her mind and Dalilah swallowed, her gaze lowering to his strong neck muscles that flared into broad shoulders which she knew from experience were strong and hard like iron. Dalilah glanced at his hands on the wheel. Firm, sure. Big. Knuckles also scarred.

  She knew the palms of those hands were rough, and his fingers callused, but that his touch could be as gentle as he was dexterous. This was a physical man who spent a lot of his life outdoors, a man shaped, most likely, by wilderness, the sun, the space and freedom. And violence.

  Dalilah wondered again about what he’d said about killing people, about how he knew her brother. He could feel her studying him, she was sure of it. But he didn’t glance her way. The sky turned soft gold as the first rays of sun crept over the land. Heat and humidity peaked instantly. She loosened her shirt, feeling thirst.

  “Why a lion?”

  Now he looked at her. “What?”

  “Your tattoo.”

  He gave a soft snort. “My African name—Tautona. That’s what the locals call me. It means old lion.”

  “Why an old lion?”

  A wry smile twisted over his lips. “Guess they figured I’m like those scarred old males that have been ousted from their pride and live alone on the fringes of the veldt. Have to hunt all by themselves—no females to do the job for them.”

  “Is it true?”


  He shot her another glance, and the brackets around his mouth deepened, but he said nothing.

  “Where are we going?” she said finally.

  “First, west. Then north, then southwest.”

  “I mean, what is the plan, our destination? How long is it going to take?”

  He inhaled, his grip firming on the wheel, as if irritated by having to explain things.

  “Look, it might help to share the plan,” she said. “I helped you back at the river, remember? You might need me again. We made a good team last night.”

  A muscle began to pulse at his jaw. And when he didn’t bother to dignify her with a reply, she lowered her voice and said irritably, “Brandt—”

  He muttered something in Afrikaans she couldn’t understand, then said, “I want as much distance as possible between us and the Tsholo, okay? Then we turn northward to find a route up onto a plateau. Once up on the plateau we’ll head for a paved road, hopefully lose tracks while driving south along the tarmac for a while, then we’ll cut back into the bush and make for a safe place and phone your brother.” His tone was terse. “However, if by the time we reach the plateau tonight there is no sign of them following us, we might stop and rest for the night at an old airstrip I know, move again at first light.”

  “How will we know if they’re following?”

  “We should be able to get a good view of the land all the way to the river from up on the plateau.” He reached into the giant cooler on the seat behind him as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the terrain ahead. He came out with another apple and a bottle of water.

  “Breakfast,” he said, dumping them in her lap. “I’ll make you some tea later.”

  “Tea?” A sudden craving for the strong, warm sweet liquid filled her with a kind of desperation. “How?”

  “Found a gas burner and kettle in the back with the shovel. Tea bags come from the bush camp.”

  She positioned the water bottle between her knees and unscrewed the cap with her good hand. “I’m impressed that you got all this stuff,” she said, raising the bottle to her lips. “We could go for days—”

  “Hope not,” he said crisply.

  She paused, bottle midair. “Me, too. I was just—”

  “Eat,” he said brusquely. “Drink.”

  Dalilah glared at him, something immediately resisting inside her. She wasn’t accustomed to being ordered around. Her brothers tried, but she fought them every step of the way. It had become a reflex—her life was dominated by too many alpha men trying to push her around for her own damn good.

  In spite of her thirst, Dalilah’s mouth flattened and she recapped the water bottle. She set the bottle and apple on the seat next to her.

  He cast her a sideways glance, the sun’s rays filtering through the trees making his eyes an even paler blue.

  “You really should eat.”

  “I will when I’m hungry.” She was drawing her own little line in the sand, for whatever that was worth. But it made her feel stronger.

  He was about to argue, but stopped himself, a whisper of another wry smile ghosting his lips. He found her rebellion amusing. Her blood began to boil.

  As the sun climbed higher into the sky, the air grew humid and blisteringly hot. The jeep bumped and bounced over increasingly rocky terrain. Trees went from green to a blackish-gray, leafless, sharp. Strips of bark hung from trunks. Surprise rippled through Dalilah as she became suddenly aware of silvery monkeys in the branches around them. The troop was watching them pass. Silent. Menacing.

  Qua-waaaaee—Go awaaaay. Qua-waaaaee—Go awaaaay. The sad call of a gray lorie again.

  Brandt glanced up into the trees, and she could sense a renewed tension in him. In spite of the heat, a ripple of coolness trickled down Dalilah’s neck.

  Soon they were out on a plain again, this one dotted with the iconic acacia trees of Africa. White thorns as long as her middle finger and fat as a pencil stuck out from the branches.

  “Keep your arm inside the jeep,” he ordered as one of the tree branches scraped down the side of the jeep. “Those thorns will shred skin to ribbons.”

  Dalilah removed her elbow from where she’d been resting it on the door.

  “You didn’t say where we were actually going after we get up to the plateau,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

  “A safe place.”

  “Like, where?”

  “Like, you don’t need to worry about it.”

  Exasperation flushed through her. “Anyone ever tell you you were short on both words and manners?”

  “Get down!” He swerved as a branch whipped inside the jeep, and Dalilah flung herself onto his lap.

  He grinned as she looked up at him in shock.

  “You did that on purpose!” Dalilah snapped as she shoved herself back into a sitting position. The brackets around his mouth creased and fine lines fanned out from his eyes, but he said nothing.

  “I know what you’re doing, Brandt! You’re being a cantankerous boor to keep me all worked up. You think if I’m angry, I’ll focus on survival and won’t wimp out on you!”

  “If you’ve shown me one thing, Princess, it’s that you don’t do wimpy.”

  She glowered at him. “Is that a compliment or insult?”

  “Fact.” He chuckled low and throaty, but without the sound of real mirth. “And you got that right. I am a Boer—come from good old Dutch-Afrikaner farming stock.”

  “I said boor, not Boer.”

  He chuckled again and she muttered a curse in Arabic, grabbed the bottle of water and took a big angry swig as she turned her body away from him and sat in simmering silence.

  The veldt stretched endlessly to the horizon, just rocky outcrops, thorny trees, dry, dead grass, dun soil. The wind died, and heat began to shimmer in oscillating waves off the land. Dalilah lifted her thick hair off her neck, wishing she had something to tie it up with, but there was no way she was going to ask Brandt Stryker for help.

  Abruptly Dalilah felt the jeep slow, then stop. She swung round in the seat, instantly worried.

  “Look…over there,” he said softly, pointing into the distance.

  About a hundred yards out, as if materializing from the interplay of shadow and light in the trees, two graceful giraffes stood side by side, looping their necks around each other. Brandt cut the engine.

  Heat pressed down, the engine ticking as it cooled. The sounds of the bush seemed to rise from nowhere to envelop them—the slight rustle of grasses, the clicking of grasshoppers. The faint chorus of a million birds that exploded suddenly into the sky, swarming in unison, alighting on a tree, then bursting up from the branches in a riot of movement as the flock moved to another tree.

  Dalilah shaded her eyes, and as she watched the towering animals swinging their necks, everything else seemed to slip into the far reaches of her mind. No Manhattan. No Haroun. No looming wedding. She felt a shift in Brandt’s energy, too, and glanced up into his face. He met her gaze for a brief moment, and Dalilah saw something dark and hungry. But his eyes narrowed abruptly and he turned away. That’s when it really hit Dalilah—Brandt was fighting an attraction to her. He was angry with himself for overstepping the line, and with her for enabling him.

  “Two males,” he said, nodding toward the animals. “You can tell by the lack of hair on top of their horns—they rub them smooth by fighting. And see over there?” He pointed, and Dalilah was conscious of the golden hairs on his strong, tanned forearm. “In the trees to the right—there’s the female they’re fighting over.”

  “That’s fighting?”

  He nodded.

  They watched for a few seconds longer as the giraffes, torsos pressed together, did a sidestepping movement, like a dance, gangly legs moving in perfect choreography. Then suddenly, the giraffe with the darker markings swung his neck down low then slammed it hard up into the other male’s neck. A slapping sound carried over the veldt.

  Dalilah’s stomach clenched. The light-colored g
iraffe seemed stunned by the blow and stumbled as it tried to sidestep away from the aggressor. But the larger, darker giraffe stepped in time with him, keeping his torso pressed against his opponent.

  “The one on the left, the lighter-colored, younger male is trying to get away now,” Brandt explained as the older one looped his neck down again and swung it hard up against the other animal with another resounding crack.

  Dalilah gritted her teeth, her hand fisting.

  The younger giraffe staggered and its long legs buckled slowly under its body. It hit the ground in a puff of red dust, the tawny rise of its torso just visible through the gold grasses. The older giraffe hovered above the fallen animal, leg raised, hoof poised to kick, his head held high. When the fallen animal struggled to stand, the old male kicked hard, and its opponent went back down.

  They waited. Grasshoppers clicked. Heat shimmered. “What’s going to happen?” she whispered.

  “The young male will die if it’s fallen flat and can’t get up,” Brandt explained. “These animals have hearts as heavy as a human head, so they can pump blood all the way up those long necks, but lying down too long will send too much blood to their brains and they’ll pass out and die. It’s why they sleep standing up.”

  She swallowed, a strange desperation clawing up inside her. So much beauty in this land, even in this graceful fight. Yet it was combat. Harsh and deadly. Over a female, the right to mate. To create life.

  The palette of this bushveldt—the stark reality of it, was just so in-your-face raw, life and death at its purest.

  Hunt or be hunted, kill or be killed.

  Just as she and Brandt were being hunted now, and could be killed.

  When the fallen giraffe failed to get up, Brandt started the ignition and they began to move away. Dalilah turned in her seat, hoping. But he didn’t rise from the grass.

  “You okay?” he said gently.