To Protect a Princess

Chapter 2

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…

He could never leave Dara there, not with those men around. He’d be condemning another woman to die. Not that they’d kill her outright—although it would be kinder if they did. By the time they finished with her, she wouldn’t want to survive.

And she wouldn’t be the only one at risk. Those men would slaughter anyone in the village who tried to stop them.

The outlaws scoured the trail, searched for tracks. A deep sense of dread tightened his throat, like a steel trap locking him in. He couldn’t go forward, couldn’t take her back.

So what could he do? Take her with him into the hills? Take responsibility for another woman’s life?

No way.

No damned way.

He swore under his breath, turned the dilemma over in his head, tried to come up with another plan. But there was no way out. Unless those outlaws turned around, he’d be stuck.

The men turned back, headed toward him, and his hopes picked up. But they were riding slowly, too slowly, still hunting for tracks. His gut tensed. Sweat trickled down his unshaven jaw.

The men reached the trail directly below them, and the rising wind gusted again. The lead mule stopped and bobbed his head.

The mule’s rider looked up, squinted at the rocks. “¡Allá! Up there!” he yelled and raised his gun.

Logan dove, yanking Dara down with him. Shots riddled the boulder above their heads. “Get into the trees,” he ordered, his pulse hammering fast now. He waited a beat, rose, fired off a volley of rounds to pin them down. “Damn it! Run!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move. He ducked, slapped another magazine in the AK-47, leaped up and shot again. While she fled, he blasted away at the outlaws, giving her time to reach the trees. Then he stopped and raced to his horse.

“Stay in the trees,” he shouted to her as he grabbed the reins. “I’ll get you.” He vaulted into the saddle, spun around, fired toward the boulders to keep down the thugs. Then he urged the horse toward the trees.

But Dara leaped into the open, and his heart kicked. “Get back!” he yelled as he charged toward her. She ignored him, pointed her pistol toward the rocks, and opened fire.

Fear seized his throat. The reckless fool! Did she have a death wish? Outraged, so angry his vision blurred, he spurred the horse to where she stood. She stopped shooting, grabbed his hand, and he yanked her up.

“Are you out of your mind?” he raged as she clutched his shirt. “Why didn’t you stay back?”

“They were climbing the rocks. They would have killed you.”

So she’d put herself in danger instead. Furious, he glanced toward the boulders, ripped off several more rounds, then swung the horse around and galloped off.

Still swearing, he kicked the horse into a flat-out run, racing through the woods toward the river gorge. He’d deal with Dara later, make damned sure she listened to him next time.

If there was a next time. Unless they got to the gorge and crossed that bridge before the renegades did, they’d both be dead.

He nudged the gelding, forcing him to keep to the breakneck speed. But a sense of finality, of relentless inevitability, seeped through the adrenaline like a noose tightening around his neck. Once he crossed that bridge, he couldn’t turn back. It would take him miles out of his way, put an end to his plans to make that silver run.

And he’d be out in these mountains with a woman alone, her safety in his hands.

Again.

The one thing he’d vowed to never do.

Fury mixed with dread, burned through his gut. Then a sharp crack sounded behind him, and he swerved. A gunshot—or maybe it was the sound of fate laughing at him, mocking his plight.

Another woman. Another trek through the wilderness. Another chance to fail.

His worst nightmare come to life.

Chapter 3

Dara clung to Logan’s waist as they zigzagged down the side of a mountain, then hurtled along the cliff above a rocky gorge. Her heart pounded, her blood roaring louder than the river slamming the boulders below.

She braved a quick glance back, squinted in the tearing wind, but couldn’t see the outlaws yet. Logan had raced full out down the steep slope to avoid their gunfire, but they couldn’t be too far behind.

“When we reach the bridge, get off,” Logan shouted over his shoulder. “You cross first. I’ll be behind you with the horse.”

“Can’t we ride across?” she shouted back, but the wind whipped the words from her mouth. Then the bridge came into view, and the shock of it made her breath stall.

It was a dilapidated rope suspension bridge—a sagging mass of woven grass cables stretching two hundred feet over the plunging gorge. The ropes had darkened, loosened with age, unraveling at the bottom and sides, creating gaps wide enough to fall through. The entire structure drooped, forming a dangerous, gap-riddled vee that swung precariously in the wind.

And a hundred feet beneath it, the rapids raged.

Oh, God.

Disbelief gripped her. Anxiety tightened her nerves. Would that bridge hold their weight? Not that they had much choice with the outlaws closing in fast. And Logan wouldn’t cross if it wasn’t safe.

Would he?

He hauled up on the reins, jerked the horse to a stop at the edge of the cliff, and she leaped down. “Run,” he urged her. “I’ll be behind you.”

“Right.” She raced to the bridge, paused at the edge—and took in the sheer, dizzying drop, the water crashing furiously below, the high wind making the long bridge sway. Her head grew light. Panic strangled her throat.

This probably wasn’t a good time to mention that she hated heights.

She swung her backpack over her shoulder, grabbed the thick grass cables that served as handrails on each side. The bridge was narrow, sagging so badly she could hardly squeeze herself through.

Her pulse jittered hard. She struggled to breathe, but it was like trying to pull a wad of cotton through a needle’s eye. She stepped onto the bridge, felt it tremble beneath her feet.

“Go on!” Logan shouted behind her, and she glanced back. He had dismounted, stood holding the reins, and she saw the urgency etched on his face. Could the horse really make it over these ropes? Could she?

There was only one way to find out.

She jerked her gaze back to the bridge, forced her feet to move, trying desperately to ignore the water roaring under the gaps. The ropes felt slick in her sweaty palms, and she tightened her grip on the sides.

She could do this. She had to do this.

Maybe if she just darted across…

She took several fast steps, determined to hurry, but the bridge rippled and swayed underfoot. And then it jolted hard, dipped dangerously, nearly knocking her off her feet. She gasped, glanced back, saw Logan on the bridge with the horse.

“Hurry up,” he shouted. He kept coming towards her, leading the balking horse, but the added weight made the bridge lurch.

Her legs quivering wildly now, feeling as disjointed as a marionette in amateur hands, she tried to balance on the bouncing ropes. She fixed her gaze on the opposite side, headed downhill into the sagging center of the bridge, afraid the river was sucking her in.

But she couldn’t panic, couldn’t succumb to the fear. They had to escape those men.

And she couldn’t let Logan think she was weak. She’d spent too many years not measuring up, never meeting people’s expectations, especially her father’s. It had killed her to see that pained disappointment in his eyes.

And now this man thought she couldn’t cope.

She would prove him wrong. She’d prove everyone wrong. Her people needed her; she was the only royal left. She had to help them survive. But to do that, she had to cross this bridge.

She reached the lowest point of the span, kept her eyes off the river churning through the gaps, and started up the opposite side. The climb was steep, and the wind gusted, making the treacherous bridge sway hard. She jerked her eyes from the rapids frothing beneath her, slid her shaking hands over the ropes. It wasn’t much farther. She was almost there.

She rushed the final distance, leaped onto solid ground. Relief sapped her strength, turning her head light. She nearly collapsed and kissed the earth.

But those outlaws were behind them. She whirled back, her pulse sprinting again, scanned the slope across the gorge. There was still no sign of the men, so for the moment, at least, they were safe.

Logan led the anxious horse off the bridge and stopped beside her. “Here, hold this.” He handed her the reins.

She grabbed the leather straps, eyed the trembling horse, while Logan rummaged through one of his packs. “I’m going to blow up the bridge,” he told her. He pulled out a stick of dynamite, a fuse, and then his eyes pinned hers. “Take Rupper behind that hill, and wait for me there. And hold on to him. I don’t want him to spook when this thing blows.”

“But what about you?” Her stomach balled in a rush of nerves. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I set the charge.” He closed the flap on his pack, jogged back to the bridge. She opened her mouth, wanting to protest, but they did need to protect the horse. She dithered for a moment, reluctant to leave Logan, and finally led the gelding toward the rocky hill. She’d tie up the horse and come back.

But then a bullet whined past.

Her pulse jerked, slammed to a halt. She whipped around, saw their pursuers racing down the opposite hill.

And Logan was out on the bridge, exposed.

She had to protect him. She couldn’t let him die!

She hurried the horse around the rocks, scanned the steep slabs of granite rising toward the towering peaks, but there were no trees, no place to tie him up. “Stay,” she told him firmly, and hoped he obeyed. Logan wouldn’t thank her if she lost his horse.

But the horse wouldn’t matter if he died.

She jerked her pistol from her pack, raced back to the bridge. The gorge was two hundred feet across, too far for her to shoot with any accuracy.

And those men had rifles. The distance wouldn’t be a problem for them. Logan didn’t stand a chance—especially while he was setting that charge.

She had to get closer, provide cover. She had to creep out onto the bridge again, take advantage of the sagging center to shoot over Logan’s head.

She choked back the dread, refused to think about the precarious ropes. She kept the pistol in one hand, clutched the grass cable with the other, then forced herself onto the bridge. It bounced and swayed in the wind.

The outlaws had dismounted on the other side now. Logan was kneeling about five yards out, setting his charge beyond the massive stone pylons that anchored the bridge to the cliff.

One man raised his rifle, and her heart seized up. She whipped up her gun, fired a shot in their direction, praying it would worry them enough to drive them back.

Logan’s head jerked up. “Get out of here!” he yelled. He lit the fuse, started running toward her. The ropes beneath her bounced.

More gunshots barked, and her nerves went wild. The only way to shoot back and miss Logan was to lean out over the gorge. She eyed the spaces between the ropes, the water rocketing below, and her heart made a crazy dip.

But she had to do it. She couldn’t let those outlaws win. She sucked in her breath, leaned against the side rope, aimed toward the opposite cliff. She fired, fired again. She missed, but the thugs dispersed.

Then she struggled to pull herself upright, but Logan was running toward her, making the ropes jump under her feet. She slipped, shrieked, fell against the handrail. One leg slid through a gap.

Her heart spasmed. Time stalled.

But Logan grabbed her arm and yanked her up. “Go!” he shouted and pushed her forward. “Go, go, go!”

She raced off the bridge, headed for the rocks. Panic fueled her steps.

And then the dynamite blew.

The explosion boomed, jolted the ground, and she staggered, lost her balance, nearly fell. And then a bigger blast roared in her ears.

Logan shoved her against the rocks, flattened himself against her, covering her body with his. The ground vibrated, reverberated through her feet, rumbling into a fierce drum that rattled her chest.

Her face was mashed against Logan’s chest. Sharp stones dug into her back. The explosion crackled, zinged like bullets firing around them, and then dirt drizzled onto their heads.

He leaned harder against her, sheltering her head with his arms, protecting her from the falling debris. And she clutched his arms, digging her fingers into his biceps, trying to curl herself into his skin.

Long moments later, the noise finally faded, and the echo in her ears began to ease. “Is it over?” she asked, her heart still racing.

“Yeah.”

She dragged at the dusty air and coughed. God, that was close. He could have died out there with those outlaws firing at him—and it would have been her fault. But he was safe now, safe. She shivered hard, tried to calm her quivering heart.