Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,58
to move for the night hunt.
Brandt placed two old bricks and some stones at the edge of the fire, and he raked some of the coals between them. Filling the kettle with enough for one cup, he set it atop the rocks.
He opened the bag of biltong, offered it to Dalilah without meeting her eyes.
“Brandt.”
He glanced up. Her eyes were inky bright and there was a look of need in her features. She wanted to explain, talk. He didn’t. He just wanted this over.
“What is it?”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“What? Now?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should have told me before I lit the fires.”
Her cheeks flushed.
“Look, you can’t afford to be all ladylike and coy out here, Dalilah. If you need to take care of business you take care of it.” Irritated, he jumped back to his feet and put the headlamp on. He handed her the other lamp. “Put it on.”
While she adjusted the Petzl, he swung himself easily out through the old window, clicked on his light, then helped her through. The scent of her freshly shampooed hair washed over him before he could put her to the ground and the image of her naked in the mountain pool sliced back into his head and firmly imprinted itself in his mind.
“Go behind those trees,” he said as he walked her down to a clump of acacia, their twin beams flickering over grass. “I’ll stand guard and wait right here.”
Dalilah went alone behind the clump. Shadows lunged and darted as she moved, as if dark hands of night were clawing at her, hungry. She hesitated as she heard a scurry of nails over rock, then a rustle through the grass. Heart thumping, she turned in a slow circle, and tiny green pairs of eyes glinted back at her.
“Brandt—there’s something out there!”
“Just duikers. Hurry up. Watch for snakes and scorpions.”
Dalilah struggled with one hand to undo her pants and balance as she squatted. She’d barely had to go all day—dehydration seemed to be taking care of that. She scrunched her eyes, forcing herself to relax enough to relieve herself, but having trouble, knowing he was listening, the lack of privacy.
This man was getting to know her more intimately than she’d dared allow any other man. Once she was done, Dalilah did up her pants and inhaled deeply, pressing her hand to her stomach as she gathered herself.
She came out from behind the tree.
“See?” Was that a glint of his teeth, a grin in the dark? “It gets easier each time.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Dalilah retorted, cutting slightly ahead of him, reasserting some personal space and dignity as she aimed for the warm, flickering light of their little ruined building. But he was right. It was a little easier each time.
This man was pushing her into new spaces, bit by bit, minute by minute, tilting her paradigm of the world, forcing her to let go of the reins she seemed to have been holding too tight over too many years.
Did that constitute true freedom—not caring what others thought? Doing things you wanted, not what others expected of you? Or was that just selfish?
The kettle was boiling by the time they were settled back into the building. Brandt poured water over a tea bag and handed her the sack of dried meat.
“It’s all we have right now.”
She declined, but accepted the mug gratefully.
The stars turned bright and a moon started to rise. But a bitter cold also began to press down.
“You need some protein, Dalilah,” he said, poking at the flames. “We could be out here for days.”
Silence.
He glanced at her. “I’m serious. My job is to ensure your survival—and you need proper fuel. The only way to get it out here right now is to eat that biltong.”
She snatched angrily at the bag, took out a dried twisted cord of meat encrusted with spices. She ripped at it with her teeth, chewed.
He was watching her intently.
“Don’t worry—I’m going to swallow it. I’m hungry, not stupid.”
Brandt snorted and turned to stare into the flames as she chewed.
“Ethical choice?” he said after a while.
“You mean vegetarianism?”
He grunted.
She nodded. “Pretty much. I used to hunt once—my father made all us kids learn to shoot, kill. Live off the desert the old way,” she said. “He wanted a royal family who was still in touch with our Bedouin roots, with the citizens of Al Na’Jar.”
“Omair told me he’d learned to hunt and shoot with his father.”