Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,66

pushed a thick tangle of hair back from her face. “I...” She was as lost for words as he was. “I didn’t mean it. I was dreaming...I...” Emotion choked her voice and tears spilled from her eyes.

He crouched beside her, took her shoulders in his hands. “Dalilah, it’s okay—that was not supposed to happen. I should not have let it ha—”

“It was my fault. I was with you in my dream. I...” Another tear leaked down her cheek. She brushed it away, blushing.

His chest squeezed so tight he couldn’t breathe—Dalilah had been making love to him.

“Hey,” he said softly, “it happens to everyone. I should have stepped away. I’m so sorry, so very sorry. I—” He inhaled deeply, hesitated, struggling for words. “Look, Princess. It’s no secret. I want you. You saw in that waterfall what you’re doing to me—you’re killing me—but let’s just leave it all right here, okay? No one—not Omair, not Haroun—nobody needs to know this. It’s between you and me, our secret.”

Another tear fell. She looked away.

Anxiety, self-recrimination twisted through Brandt. “Dalilah, please, look at me.”

She wouldn’t. “You think I’m breaking a promise, Brandt. You think I’m being unfaithful, but I’m—”

“Hey—” he cupped her chin, turned her face back to his “—it’s in the past. Like I said, no looking back—keep moving forward. In a few days, this will all be history.”

She sat silent. Watching him. Something powerful was going on inside her head. “It won’t be over,” she said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“It won’t be history. Not for me.” Then a sharp brightness flashed through her eyes—the old Dalilah was back, the passionate one. She shoved the sleeping bag off her body, grabbed her boots, thrust her foot into one.

“I don’t feel like I’ve broken any damn promise,” she snapped, grabbing the other boot, yanking it on, too.

“It wasn’t even mine—I never made it.” She seemed to catch herself. Then she grew quiet.

Brandt sat back. “I don’t understand.”

She struggled with the laces of one boot, unable to tie them with one hand, frustration biting at her movements. “It’s a political contract, between my deceased father and Haroun’s dying father.”

He stared. “What is?

“My marriage was arranged when I was five.”

He was speechless.

Seconds ticked by. “An arranged marriage?” he said, trying to wrap his head around it. “When you were five years old?”

“Yes. A political alliance between the two kingdoms.”

He dragged his hand over his hair. “But...you do love him, right?”

She swallowed, looked up and met his eyes. “Brandt, I barely know him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Five times—I’ve been with Haroun only five times in my entire life.”

“You’ve slept with him five times?”

“No! I’ve been in his company five times. Each time with a chaperone. I haven’t even kissed him. I feel nothing physical at all for him, so there you have it now. Happy?”

Brandt’s mind reeled, his entire paradigm tilting drunkenly on edge. And pieces of the puzzle that had been niggling at him suddenly began clicking into place—her sad look when he pressed her on her engagement. The quiet desperation in her eyes when he’d asked her if giving up her job and charity work was worth marriage to a king. Her attraction to him.

A mad excitement, anticipation, hope, rushed through him all at once, as if floodgates had been abruptly flung open in his brain. Birds grew loud outside and baboons screeched. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the sky growing lighter. But he was riveted to the floor by this news, unable to move.

“I know that doesn’t excuse what happened here,” she said quietly, “but I wanted you to know because—” Her voice hitched and moisture pooled in her dark eyes. “I care that you think well of me, Brandt.”

“Do you want to marry him?” Blunt. Simple. Top question on his mind.

“I must.”

“Must?”

“It’s a binding contract. Two kings, two kingdoms. A political accord. Everyone expects it. My brother, King Zakir, needs it. His ruling King’s Council needs it. It will bring a lucrative oil partnership, defense contracts, an economic alliance—”

“And you’re the pawn on the chessboard? The chattel to be exchanged. Whatever happened to women’s emancipation?”

Her mouth tightened, eyes narrowing, a flicker of defiance shooting through her features. “Haroun is as much ‘chattel’ as I, if that’s what you want to call it—this is not a female thing. He has to uphold his end, too.”

“And you’re going to do it, uphold this contract?” He waved his hand between them.

“It’s my duty to uphold it, Brandt. It’s been my obligation as a