Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,80
in the distance. It blew past—a blue-and-white Botswana police van heading north. She shot Brandt a fast look.
“They can’t do anything, Dalilah—the police here generally don’t even carry guns. It’s why I like this country. It’s a good place.” She heard the bite of self-recrimination in his voice. He felt he was bringing bad things into a haven that he’d chosen to come to and try to heal all those years ago.
He drove faster, the combination of potholes and bad suspension sending jarring shocks right through her teeth. Dalilah gripped the side of the door for purchase as Brandt swerved wide into the oncoming “lane” to avoid a particularly large hole.
Just as he veered back into their own lane, he suddenly swerved again, this time to avoid a warthog that burst out of the tight grass on the side of the road and scampered across, followed by babies, tails held erect.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon and the wind was warm against her face. The plains rolled away in endless browns and golds. Dalilah touched her naked ring finger, a crazy sense of freedom overcoming her as they barreled down this road, through empty land as far as the eye could see. The more she thought about it, the wilder the excitement racing through her heart—she wasn’t going to marry Haroun.
She’d decided that when she took off the ring. But coupled with a delirious sense of liberation, Dalilah was also deeply anxious about how to break the news to Haroun, to her brothers and to the world, especially after their official engagement had been reported by media around the globe. The guest list was already being prepared. And Brandt was right—one invitation was being sent to the White House, too.
She glanced at him. Strong, protective, sensitive, caring. He had no idea what he’d done for her, and at this moment Dalilah just wanted to stay out here, travel this road with him, with the warm wind in her hair. But she couldn’t outrun the inevitable looming consequences of her decision not to uphold the treaty.
There would be an end to this road, and she still had to face it. Brandt slapped the dash suddenly, and made her jump.
“What is it?”
His hands fisted tight on the wheel. “We shouldn’t have interacted with them. You shouldn’t have touched the kid. They’re going to get hurt.”
“My touching that toddler isn’t—”
“We shouldn’t have been there, Dalilah! We should’ve split the instant that Wusani kid saw us.” He gritted his jaw, face going darker, shoulders tighter.
“Brandt, we can’t change what happened now.”
“Our tracks lead right up to that village. Amal is going to go in there and start asking questions—”
“And the headman will tell him we stole the jeep, like you said.”
“One of those kids, or women...someone in that village is going to let something slip if Amal and his men start scaring them. He’s going to find your ring. Amal’s going to find your ring and they’re finished.”
They passed a dead cow on the side of the road. Two women with knives bent over, skinning it to reveal a sinewy white carcass. It must have been hit by a vehicle, and they were not going to let it go to waste. She turned away, feeling suddenly sick, fear whispering through her again. They drove by a few more signs of civilization—another road sign, two women walking with large bundles on their heads. Soon there was a high game fence running alongside them for miles.
Brandt swore again, eaten up by what they’d done.
“We had no choice but to interact, Brandt, after that child saw us.”
“Because I was too damn busy kissing you—that’s why!”
She swallowed. His fury at himself was palpable and increasing in direct proportion to the distance they were putting between themselves and the village. It made her edgy, nervous for the villagers. Images assailed her again—that dead delegate under the table, Amal’s men mowing them all down, slaughtering innocents.
Brandt swerved sharply to avoid a man standing on the side of the road, waiting, presumably, for a ride. Next to him was a garbage bag of clothes and two wooden boxes filled with old-fashioned glass pop bottles. Dalilah guessed he was going to sell them.
“This is where we leave the road,” Brandt veered off the paved section and jounced over a dirt track toward a break in the game fencing. The jeep trundled over a series of cattle grids as they entered the controlled area. He stopped the vehicle, got out, grabbed a