Gail Barrett - To Protect a Princess

His mouth thinned. The renegades wanted her for obvious reasons. There weren’t many females around. And a terrorist might try to hold her for ransom, to fund some personal war. But a sniper? Why would a sniper pursue an archeologist?

Unless the woman had lied.

Her footsteps crunched behind him, and he rose. His face burning, so angry he couldn’t speak, he seized her arm and yanked her back through the trees, his vision hazing with every stride.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding breathless. She trotted beside him to keep up. “Is someone there?”

“You might say that.” He stalked to the horse and released her arm, his blood rushing hard through his skull.

She’d lied. The damned woman had lied. Just what the hell was she up to?

“So what are you going to do?” she asked, her voice anxious, high. “Blow up the bridge?”

“No.” The cliff was too unstable, too exposed. And that sniper would pick him off before he could set the charge.

Which left two choices. They either outran that man or they died.

He sprang into the saddle, jerked her up behind him. “We’re going to ride hard,” he warned. “You can use the time to think.”

“Think?” Her hands clutched his waist.

“About the truth.” He twisted in the saddle, and his gaze nailed hers. “Because when we stop, you’re going to tell me what you’re really doing out here.”

Dara had never seen a more furious man. Tension vibrated off Logan’s shoulders and powerful back as he stood in the rocky ravine, watering his horse at the creek. His jaw was clamped in a rigid line, his profile as unyielding as the granite slabs on the towering peaks. Anger simmered in every move.

The cool wind gusted up the narrow canyon with a rumble of thunder, and she shivered and rubbed her arms. For the past two hours they’d climbed at a reckless pace, cutting across plunging hillsides, backtracking through shallow stream beds, edging around valleys so steep she’d grown dizzy when she’d braved a glimpse down.

And Logan hadn’t spoken the entire time. He’d been restless, alert, checking frequently for signs of pursuit, his AK-47 at hand.

The thunder rolled again, drumming through her aching forehead, and she glanced uneasily at the darkening sky. The land had stilled, the air hushed as the storm approached, turning as ominous as Logan’s temper.

And just as ready to explode.

He left the creek and prowled back to her then, leading his hulking horse. She eyed the barely leashed power in his forceful strides, the dark eyes burning beneath the brim of his weathered hat.

And a sudden flutter skimmed through her nerves, hummed in her blood. Angry or not, everything about this man appealed to her. Just the memory of that kiss made her body pulse with heat.

He stepped close, forcing her to look past his steel-hard chest to meet his eyes. And that virile maleness swamped over her again, that electric awareness that made her forget to breathe. She pressed her hand to her belly to quiet her nerves.

“All right, let’s have it.” His deep voice broke the charged silence. “What are you doing out here? And I want the truth this time.”

She turned to the gelding, stroked the elegant nose sloping beneath the silver brow band, buying time while she chose her words. Her colleague had warned her not to tell anyone about the dagger, not even Logan Burke. The danger of theft was far too great.

But Logan didn’t care about treasure. He helped the miners, made a living hauling silver and gold. She slid him a glance, eyed the taut grooves bracketing his masculine mouth, the implacable planes of his face. And she knew that she could trust him. This man was honest, honorable. She felt it down to her bones.

“I told you I need to find Quillacocha, the lost Inca city,” she said. “And that’s true. I do need to find it. But not to study the tomb. I’m looking for the dagger, the Roma dagger. The one from the legend—the Gypsy’s Revenge.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t move. He continued to watch her, alert, intent, like a dangerous predator studying his prey. Only a slight narrowing at the corners of his eyes indicated he’d heard.

“You probably know the story if you’re part Roma,” she said. It was a standard childhood tale. The Indian goddess Parvati, impressed with an eleventh-century king’s courage in battle, rewarded him with three sacred possessions—a necklace, a dagger, and crown. Combined, these treasures gave the Roma king the power to rule the world.

But then a hot-headed prince rose to the throne, lusted after a forbidden virgin, and misused those powers to take her. Heartbroken and disgraced, the woman cursed the Roma king and condemned the Gypsies to roam.

Soon afterward, the Roma were driven out of India, their priceless treasures lost. Generations of archeologists and fortune hunters had searched for the treasures ever since.

Logan shifted, made a low, rough sound of disgust. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Who hasn’t? That necklace was in the news for months.”

Dara nodded. The discovery of the necklace in a Spanish bank vault had rocked the world—and not just because it was Nazi war loot. It was proof that the treasures existed, that the legend had a kernel of truth. And when the Spanish government decided to return the necklace to its rightful owners—the Gypsies—experts from around the world had converged on the palace to get a closer look.

She’d been there that fateful night. She’d stood behind her parents as they waited to receive the necklace—and watched them die.

The memory surged, catching her unprepared, and she clutched the gelding’s neck. She closed her eyes, struggled to ward off the inevitable parade of images—their splattered flesh, their pooling blood, her mother’s vacant eyes.

She swallowed hard, battled the nausea rising in her throat, tried to push the horror aside. She’d had three months to come to grips with her parents’ murders. Three months of flashbacks, nightmares, grappling to find logic in two tragic, pointless deaths.

She opened her eyes, dragged her gaze to the unyielding man beside the horse. “I don’t know where the crown is,” she said quietly. “No one does. But the dagger is here in Peru. I’ve studied documents from the time of Pizarro, the conquistadores. And about two months ago, I figured out where it is.”

“In Quillacocha.” His voice was flat.

“Yes, in the royal tomb.” She tightened her grip on her pack—the backpack that contained her research, the diagrams of the tomb, proof in case anything happened to her. “I’m sure it’s the Roma dagger. The description fits it exactly—the patterned wootz steel they used in India at the time, the gold hilt inlaid with amber, the engravings of the sun and moon. And once we get to Quillacocha, I know exactly where to look.”

“The only place you’re going is the first town over the pass. You can get a bus to Cusco, and then a flight to Lima from there.”

“But—”

“Forget it.” His eyes turned fierce, and her heart beat fast. “There’s no way I’ll take you to Quillacocha. It’s going to be dangerous enough trying to cross that pass. I’ll be damned if I’ll risk your life—or mine—for a chunk of gold.”

“I’m not going to keep it.” Even the idea shocked her. The dagger was a symbol for the Roma people, an artifact steeped in legend, history. A treasure so ancient, so powerful, that a secret society was slaughtering her people to find it. Their people, since Logan was Roma, too.

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