Guarding the Princess by Loreth Anne White Page B

had taken place somewhere deep down within her and it had all started with this last ClearWater mission to Zimbabwe. Dalilah suddenly had no idea what she was doing anymore. After all these years of knowing with crystal clarity that it was her royal duty to marry Sheik Haroun Hassan, after knowing she had to come to the marriage a virgin, as per the contract her father had signed, Dalilah had gone and kissed a virtual stranger—and liked it. A lot. Too much.
    She’d barely ever kissed a man in her life.
    Stupid, she muttered to herself. Damn stupid. You’re drunk, stressed and in shock and in pain, and it’ll all look different in the morning. Just shut it out, like it never happened. In daylight you’ll be able to see your path again.
    Dalilah struggled out of her torn gown and into the light safari pants. She pulled a long-sleeved cotton shirt over a T-shirt, and fumbled to get her feet into the socks and hiking boots Brandt had given her. The dry clothes were deliciously welcome, if a little big.
    As she tried fruitlessly to do up the buttons on the shirt, Dalilah glanced at the sarong Brandt had used to partition off the driver’s seat from the back of the jeep. He might be a brutish, scarred lion of a man, but there was a gentleman buried deep inside that tawny brawn somewhere. And the tenderness in his touch had not gone unnoticed in spite of the way he’d shut her down—he was struggling with something inside himself, also. It made her even more curious about him.
    Cursing as a button refused to slide through the tiny opening, she glanced again at the curtain. Behind it she could see Brandt’s shadow moving as he organized things in the back.
    If you need help changing, tell me.
    No way on this earth was she going to ask him for help dressing, not after what his touch had already done to her body. And her mind.
    While she struggled, Dalilah could hear Brandt going around to the rear of the jeep. The vehicle began to bounce around as he hefted and grunted. Then she heard his boots crunching through twigs as he left the vehicle. Quickly she leaned forward and peered around the sarong curtain.
    He was carrying the stiff leopard carcass across his shoulders, the headlamp lighting his way toward a cluster of trees. With a grunt, he lowered himself to his haunches and tilted the leopard’s body onto the dirt. It landed with a soft, dull thud. Dalilah closed her eyes.
    She’d forgotten for a moment the leopard was still on the backseat. She’d forgotten, too, in their struggle to get out of Zimbabwe alive, about the little cub left behind in the tree. Emotion ballooned painfully in her chest.
    It had all been too much. She breathed in deeply, steadying herself as she opened her eyes and watched Brandt.
    He was on his haunches, his forearms braced on his muscular thighs for balance, as if he was just sitting there, thinking. Then he reached out and laid his palm gently on the animal’s fur, something reverent in his gesture. Something very private. Then as if sensing her watching, he suddenly spun around.
    Dalilah ducked quickly back behind the kikoi. She heard him returning, opening the tool compartment at the rear. Then she heard a clunking sound as he removed something, and his boots crunched over to the leopard again. Once more she peeked round the curtain.
    He had the shovel in his hand. The blade chinked against small stones as he thrust it into the soil—Brandt was digging a grave for the female leopard.
    Dalilah’s chest hurt as she watched him gently roll the dead animal into its resting place. He began to cover it, his muscles rolling under his soaked shirt, and it struck her how tired he must be. How long he’d been at it since flying his plane into Zimbabwe, hiking up to the lodge to rescue her. Finding all this equipment and getting them both across the river. Now he was taking time to bury the leopard in a way that revealed a respect for life.
    Compassion washed through Dalilah. And for a brief