Gail Barrett - To Protect a Princess

“You think you can stop a man who wants you?” His voice was graveled now, raw, and his dark eyes burned into hers. “Hell, you think you could fight me off?”

She trembled, lost in those hot, hot eyes, the feel of his callused thumb on her throat. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she whispered. “I trust you.”

“Then you’re a fool. Because I stopped playing the hero a long time ago.” His eyes stayed on hers for a beat, long enough for her to see his anger, his desire, and then he dropped his hand and stepped back.

She swayed, shaken by the stark intensity in his hungry eyes, her nearly overpowering urge to pull him close.

“I’ll take you to the next village over,” he said, his voice stripped flat now. “I need to pick up my string of llamas and board my horse. Someone there can take you to a safer town.”

He strode back to his horse, launched himself into the saddle, then rode up to where she still stood. He hauled her up, and she settled behind him, wrapped her arms around his back.

But if he thought she’d given up trying to convince him, he was wrong. Because her people needed that dagger. And no matter what happened, she couldn’t let them down.

“Damn.”

His soft curse brought her attention back to the village. “What is it?” She scanned the streets, saw the three men mounting their mules. Her pulse sped up, and she gnawed her lip. “They won’t follow us, will they?”

“You can bet on it.”

She swallowed, and a nervous flutter invaded her chest. She didn’t need more danger dogging her trail—that mysterious man she’d glimpsed was enough. “So what are we going to do?”

“Ride like hell, darlin’.”

He wheeled the horse around, prodded him into a run. But as they thundered up the road and into the mountains, she remembered the hunger in Logan’s eyes, that thrilling heat.

And she wondered who was the greater threat—the outlaws or Logan Burke.

If the road to Hell was paved with good intentions, Logan figured he’d just laid a long stretch of asphalt toward his final reward. He’d intended to intimidate Dara back there, make her understand that traveling in these mountains could get her killed. But he hadn’t banked on that need crashing through him when he touched her—that raw, savage need that obliterated his good sense like a flash flood ravaging a rocky gorge.

And even the punishing pace he’d set through the mountains hadn’t eased it. He’d driven the gelding hard—racing through empty creek beds, scrambling up the rocky terrain—but he still hadn’t shaken the desire that swamped him, that hunger that pounded his blood.

He angled his horse up another steep slope. Dara leaned closer against him, and he stifled a groan. He was far too conscious of her slender arms encircling his waist, the soft breasts caressing his back.

Touching her had been a mistake all right, stirring up cravings he could never indulge in—especially with a woman like her. But he’d just have to ignore them. Once they got to that village, he could leave Dara—and temptation—behind.

It wouldn’t be soon enough.

They reached an outcropping of rock above the trail, and Logan slowed. He reined the gelding to a much-needed stop, studied the thin gray slash switching across the mountain below. A mile back, some dust puffed up, then dispersed on the rising wind.

“Are they still following us?” Dara’s throaty voice rippled through his nerves.

Not trusting himself to look at her, he kept his gaze on the dust. “Yeah, they’re down there.” And closing in fast. Too fast.

Damn. He’d banked on their giving up. Renegades were a lazy bunch, more likely to drink themselves into a stupor than come haring after him. And this was a long, hot ride across parched terrain in the brutal, midday sun.

But Dara was a tempting prize, worth a thirsty trek through the hills.

Worth killing him for.

He hissed out his breath, turned the horse to go, but then a wisp of dust farther back caught his eye. He paused, squinted at the distant haze, and the muscles along his shoulders tensed. Had the men split up? Or was someone else out there?

He watched, narrowed his eyes. His pulse drummed a hard, slow beat. A hawk drifted past, towing a shadow over the hill. The tall grass dipped in the wind.

But nothing else moved, and he finally eased out his breath. It was probably just the wind whipping up dust, or some wild guanaco passing through. At least he hoped that was it. He had enough trouble on his hands with the thugs.

He glanced at the approaching men again, bit off a curse. Under normal conditions, their pack mules couldn’t match his gelding’s speed. But his horse was carrying a double load over steep terrain.

He kneed his horse into motion, then steered him into the brush. “What are we doing?” Dara asked.

“The trail opens up ahead. The men are less than a mile back, close enough to pick us off.” Especially with the scopes they’d tooled on their Dragunov SVDs.

“So what are we going to do?”

“Take cover, wait them out. Hope they give up and turn around.”

Her grip tightened on his waist. “And if they don’t?”

Then he had a hell of a problem.

Refusing to think about that possibility, he urged the horse through the rocks and grass toward a pile of boulders above the trail. The wind gusted again, a cool, moisture-laden breeze that flattened the tall clumps of straw-colored grass.

He studied the rain clouds stacking up behind the peaks. A storm would hit by nightfall, he decided, the first of the season. He was going to have a hard, muddy trek through the mountains in the freezing rain—assuming he made it to the pass in time.

His gut tightened. He’d better make it. A lot of miners needed the income from that run. The starvation rate in these hills was already too damned high.

They reached a small grove of eucalyptus trees behind the boulders, and he reined in the horse. “This is good.” He helped Dara dismount, then swung to the ground beside her. He pulled out his rifle, ratcheted a bullet into the chamber, nodded toward the rocks overlooking the trail. “We’ll wait over there.”

“Shouldn’t we stay in the trees?”

“I want to know if they spot us. We’ll leave Rupper here, though, so he doesn’t tip off the mules.”

“Rupper?” Her gaze met his. “Is that your horse’s name?”

“Yeah. Rupe. Rupper.” He took out an extra magazine, slid it into his pocket, checked the position of the 9mm Imbel tucked into his jeans.

“But…that’s a Romani word. Silver. Are you Roma?”

“Half,” he admitted, and his gaze met hers. So she was a Gypsy. It made sense—that long, black hair, the exotic eyes. But then what was she doing out here? He hadn’t been raised in the culture, but even he knew single women didn’t travel alone—especially beautiful women like her.

At least he assumed she was single. He turned away, headed to the pile of boulders above the trail. She hadn’t mentioned a husband, didn’t wear a ring. She could be a widow. The Roma married young—too damned young. And this woman had to be in her late twenties, at least.

He reached the boulders, glanced back, watched as she sauntered toward him. And she was a marvel to watch. Her full breasts swayed, her hips swiveled like an invitation to erotic bliss. Loose strands of hair tumbled around her face, making him ache to free that silky mass, feel it sweep his chest, his thighs.

Her skin had been soft, smooth when he touched her jaw, and the memory of it flashed through his nerves. He tightened his grip on the gun, fighting the urge to reach for her again, to test the weight of her breasts.

He sucked in his breath, hissed it out. She was something, all right. No wonder those renegades hadn’t given up yet.

But single or not, she was none of his business. She’d asked for his help, and he’d refused. End of story. Now he just had to drop her off at that village and be on his way.

And keep his hands off her until he did.

He leaned over the boulders, spotted the dust rising on the trail. “They’re still a few minutes back.” He lowered himself to the ground, leaned against the rocks to wait. Dara sat down beside him.

She drew her gun from her bag, settled back against the rock, mimicking him. He eyed the small pistol in her hands. “You know how to shoot that thing?”

“I do all right.”

“All right doesn’t cut it out here.”

She lifted her chin, and her sultry eyes met his. “Don’t worry. I can defend myself.”

Right. “Like you did in the bar?”

A flush climbed up her cheeks. “I was caught off guard. It won’t happen again.

“Damn right it won’t.” Because she’d be back to civilization before nightfall. He’d make sure of that.

“I’m serious about the dangers,” he told her, in case she had plans to continue alone. “These mountains are filled with outlaws—drug runners bringing down coca leaves, ex-revolutionaries, Shining Path and Túpac guerrillas with nowhere else to hide. And the law doesn’t mean squat out here. Strength rules, bribes pay for silence, no matter what you’ve done. Even murderers walk free.”

Especially if they’d only killed a Gypsy.

His belly clenched. And before he could block it, the frustration and rage surged back—rage at the corruption, the injustice, at a world where money ruled, where no one cared, where the innocent always died. But he dragged in air, forced the painful past from his mind. This wasn’t the time to dwell on his dead wife.

“Then there are wild animals, pumas,” he continued. “No doctors, no clinics, not even a Quechua shaman for miles. Even a minor injury or infection can do you in. And those tombs you want to see are at sixteen thousand feet. You’d be lucky to survive the thin air.”

Her eyes met his. “You survive out here.”

“I’ve spent most of my life in these hills. You haven’t.” He held her gaze, making sure she understood. “I’m not kidding, Dara. A woman like you doesn’t belong here.”

“How do you know?” Her chin lifted in challenge. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He knew enough. And he wouldn’t hang around to find out more.

His horse lifted his head then, and he rose. “Stay down,” he warned. “Don’t make a sound.” He leaned against the rocks, trained the AK-47 on the trail.

But Dara stood and squeezed in beside him, her shoulder touching his arm. He shot her a scowl. Hadn’t she heard him? She should be plastered against the rocks, praying those renegades didn’t spot her. But she aimed her gun, looking cool as hell.

He swore, hoped she had the sense to hold her fire, then jerked his attention back to the trail. The three outlaws rode into view, just a few yards below where they stood.

The men had their Dragunovs strapped over their ponchos, more weapons within easy reach. Ready to fight. His hope that they would give up and turn back started to fade.

Then the wind shifted. The lead mule pricked up his ears, lifted his head, and Logan tensed. The wind was blowing their scent toward the mules. But the mule settled down, the men rode past in a haze of dust, and he eased out his breath.

He touched Dara’s arm, signaled for her to keep still. She nodded that she understood. He kept his rifle aimed on the men.

The outlaws crested the hill, came to a stop. They looked around, scanned the open valley ahead.

Come on, he silently urged them. You’ve lost our trail. Turn back.

He waited, barely breathing, his blood pumping a loud, rough beat through his skull. Because if those outlaws didn’t give up, if they rode on to that next village…