Gail Barrett - To Protect a Princess

And then he kissed her—a deep, rough kiss that wiped out every thought.

Just as abruptly, he stepped back, grabbed the gelding’s reins and turned into the turbulent night.

The wind whipped against her. Dara shivered, tightened her grip on the rope, determined to forget the kiss, forget the need sizzling in her veins, and concentrate on what mattered most—surviving the night.

They had a sniper close behind them, lightning threatening to strike, a treacherous mountain to cross.

She dragged in an unsteady breath and prepared herself to face the danger ahead.

But as she stepped into the seething night, the feel of Logan’s kiss still lashing her nerves, she feared that the real danger might be the temptation brewing inside herself.

Dear Reader,

There’s something about a long-lost city that really ignites my imagination. Add in towering, mist-clad mountains and ancient trails, and I’m hooked! So what better place to set this second book of THE CRUSADERS miniseries than Peru, a fascinating, profoundly spiritual land filled with pyramids, mummies, mysterious energy lines and sacred ruins.

Better yet, hiding out in the forbidding mountains I found my favorite type of hero—cynical, solitary Logan Burke. An honorable man with a wounded soul, Logan is convinced he isn’t a hero. Fortunately, he’s about to meet a determined princess who will prove him wrong.

I hope you enjoy their dangerous and exciting journey!

Gail Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

always dreamed of becoming a writer. After living everywhere from Spain to the Bahamas, raising two children and teaching high school Spanish for years, she finally fulfilled that lifelong goal. Her writing has won numerous awards, including Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart. Gail currently lives in western Maryland with her two sons, a quirky Chinook dog and her own Montana rancher-turned-retired Coast Guard officer hero. Write to her at P.O. Box 65, Funkstown, Maryland 21734-0065, or visit her Web site, www.gailbarrett.com.

To my sister, Mary Jo Archer, for her wonderful support.

I’d like to give a huge thanks to author Adrianne Lee for her brainstorming help; farrier Kevin King for information about mules; Darlene Leivonen for answering my endless questions about horses; and especially Judith Sandbrook, for her super critique help. Thank you all!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Yanahirca, Peru

Trouble was coming.

The warning shivered down Logan Burke’s neck like the graze of a cobweb, that whisper of danger, danger, he’d learned not to ignore. He knocked back his shot of whiskey, hissed as it scorched a raw, hot path through his gut, then slid his left hand to the Imbel .45 tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

The men lurking in the shadows of the cantina shifted, and the muscles along Logan’s broad shoulders tensed. He eased himself into shooting position, flicked his gaze to the open door.

The newcomer stood in the doorway, backlit by sunlight, but there was no mistaking her long, slender legs and female curves.

He sucked a long, slow breath through his teeth. Trouble was right. A woman in this hellhole meant gunfights, bloodshed.

But damned if the blood would be his.

She strolled into the cantina, and the outlaws tracked her, watching her with feral eyes. These men were renegades, ex-guerrillas and terrorists hiding beyond civilization in a remote Andean village laid waste by poverty and war. Men with nothing to lose. Men waiting to die.

Men he just might have to kill.

The woman seemed oblivious to the danger. She sauntered straight toward him across the packed dirt floor, her fine-boned chin raised, the hips in those snug jeans swinging to the kind of sweet, sensual beat that compelled a man to watch. She drew closer, and he made out high, exotic cheekbones, dark, tilted eyes. And round, ripe breasts that shifted beneath her T-shirt, daring a man to touch, to taste, to take.

The men stirred. Mutters broke the tight silence. The air reeked of testosterone.

“Logan Burke?” Her voice was throaty, low-pitched. And any hope he had of avoiding trouble died.

“I’m Dara Adams.” She pulled a small pack off her shoulder, held out a slender hand. The motion swept her thick, black braid past her hips.

He ignored the hand, slid his gaze across the dim room to assess the danger. Three men. Five empty bottles. Enough firepower to run a war.

But armed or not, he knew these men wouldn’t challenge him outright. They were cowards by nature, hyenas who skulked in the shadows, finding strength in packs. They’d watch, wait until they could shoot him in the back.

This woman would give them the courage to try.

She pulled her hand back. Her dark eyes flashed, and a flush climbed up her cheeks. “I need to talk to you. I heard you could help me.”

“You heard wrong.”

She blinked. Her sultry lips parted. “But…you don’t even know what I want.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He worked alone, lived alone, never got involved. That was the rule he lived by. The rule he’d die by.

The one rule he could never forget. His wife’s death had guaranteed that.

“Of course it matters.” She frowned, glanced back at the outlaws. “Can we go somewhere to talk? Alone? I have a proposition for you.” She lowered her voice. “I promise it’s worth your while.”

The edge of his mouth ticked up. And for a second he indulged himself, letting his gaze slide over those erotic lips and creamy throat, those perfect, tempting breasts.

Hunger kicked low in his gut.

“A business proposition,” she added, sounding breathless, and he tugged his gaze back up.

“Sorry. I’m not interested.”

“But I’ve spent three weeks trying to find you.” Her voice rose. “I’ve hiked all over Peru.”

“Then you wasted your time.”

“But—”

“Listen, darlin’. Let’s make this clear. Real clear.” He leaned close, locked his gaze on those harem eyes, tried not to inhale her female scent. “Whatever you want, the answer is no. No way in hell.”

He slapped a coin on the bar, touched the brim of his leather hat, then strode across the silent room. He angled his shoulders and ducked through the open doorway, hoping she had the sense to do the same.

Because damned if he’d go back and save her.

He paused, squinted in the blazing sunshine, then headed down the dirt road to where he’d tied his horse. It didn’t matter what she wanted. He knew better than to get involved with a woman like her, even for business. He’d have every renegade in Peru on his tail.

Determined to forget the woman in the bar, he strode past the crumbling huts, their thatched roofs and mud walls destroyed by warring senderistas and drug lords. His horse nickered, bobbed his head as he approached.

“Hey, Rupper.” He rubbed the gelding’s forehead and ears, grinned when the horse bumped him back. Rupe was a fifteen-hand Peruvian Paso, spirited and smart, five centuries of brio breeding evident in every step. And Logan hated to leave him behind on this trip. But he had a job to do—silver to haul—and he needed his sure-footed llamas for that.

He flipped a coin to the Quechua kid who’d begged to watch the horse. The boy’s white teeth flashed in a smile. “Yuspagarachu.” Thank you. He darted off barefoot down the rutted lane.

Logan tightened the horse’s cinch and checked his packs, made sure the dynamite and his AK-47 were undisturbed. He doubted anyone would have touched them. His reputation was deadly enough to keep most thieves away. But a man didn’t stay alive in these mountains by letting his guard down.

His thoughts swerved back to the woman in the bar. He frowned, glanced up the empty road, and an uneasy feeling gnawed at his gut. What was she doing in the cantina for so long? He’d expected her to be out by now, heading safely down that road toward some town.

He shoved the worry aside. She wasn’t his problem. He wouldn’t let her be. He couldn’t fail another woman like he had his wife.

And he couldn’t afford to waste more time here. He glanced at the mountains looming above him, scanned the ancient Inca terraces that ringed the distant peaks. The sunshine was deceptive. The seasonal rains would hit any time now, turning the trails to mud. He’d have to hustle to get that last load of silver over the mountains before the passes closed.

Scowling, he swung himself into the saddle, nudged the gelding’s flanks, and set off. The horse pranced sideways, tossed his head, oddly nervous in the quiet air, as if menace lurked in the abandoned huts.

And Logan felt just as restless. He scanned the deserted hovels, the faded graffiti on the crumbling rock walls. It was too quiet. Even the pigs and stray dogs were lying low. And that damned sense of danger, danger kept bludgeoning his nerves.

Then suddenly, a gunshot shattered the silence. Birds scattered and took to the sky. He jerked the rifle from his pack, wheeled his horse back toward the cantina and swore.

He’d been right. That woman was going to cause trouble.

Thank goodness she’d brought a gun.

Dara Adams stood with her back to the cantina door, her heart careening against her rib cage, the blast from her pistol still thundering in her ears. She steadied the gun in her trembling hand, took another step toward the open door.

“Stay back. Aléjense,” she warned the three thugs who’d tried to stop her. Her shot had missed them, just taken out some bottles behind the bar. But at least it had forced them back.

But not for long.

She lifted her chin to stare them down, but their mean eyes, fueled by pisco and whiskey, glittered back. There were three of them, one of her. And slung over their ponchos were the deadliest weapons she’d ever seen.

They crept closer, fanning out this time, and her heart wobbled into her throat. “I said get back,” she said again, sharper now, determined not to let them see her fear.

God, she didn’t need this. Her forehead pounded from the too-thin air. She was spooked about the man she’d spotted following her for the past three weeks. And she was exhausted after trekking through endless villages, searching for the elusive Logan Burke.

And now that she’d finally found him, she couldn’t let him get away.

She moved closer to the door, getting ready to run. But one of the outlaws lunged. She leaped back, her pulse rocketing, and raised her pistol to fire. But he caught her wrist, twisted hard, and a sharp bolt of pain shot up her arm. She gasped and dropped the gun.

He jerked her close, and she shoved back, fighting to loosen his hold. But he was strong. He pulled her tighter against him and groped her breast.

Outraged, her fear for her safety growing, she struggled to knee him, gagging on the stench of unwashed flesh. But he twisted her arm higher, trapping her against him. The men behind them laughed.