Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,90
she knew he was talking about both his place, and making love to her. “I love it already,” she whispered, then turned to look back out over the land. “How far does your property extend, Brandt?”
“All the way to those trees on the ridge over there.” He pointed to the horizon. “That’s where the next farm starts. Not a soul as far as the eye can see. Come, let me show you inside.”
Truth was, Dalilah was nervous, too. Brandt Stryker was a lone ranger, and she wondered how long it might take before he once again felt the need for solitude. She, on the other hand, was not a loner, nor a quiet personality, but this was also in part why she felt so drawn to this man—he balanced her. He was a rock, solid and sure and steady, and although he was yet another alpha male in her life, Brandt had made it clear he valued her passion and independence, and that this was what made him beautiful to her. But how it could all work out, she didn’t know.
One step at a time, she thought as he led her up a stone path toward his house, which had been built into an outcrop of rock—lots of stone, glass, wood and a wide veranda that ran along the entire front.
She stopped to take in the architecture, the lines, the way it all blended into the natural surroundings. It would be hardly visible by air, she thought, camouflaged into the rock.
“Designed it myself,” he said, watching her. “There’s a small village on my land and the locals helped me build it, one rock, one brick at a time. I flew in whatever materials I needed. Took me three years to get this far.” He smiled. “And I’m still at it. Bit by bit.”
“It’s exquisite, Brandt,” she whispered, holding his callused hand, thinking of him alone out here, under the hot African sun, putting this place together stone by stone. A home.
“It’s big,” she said, her gaze moving along the veranda, noting that the wooden shutters that could be drawn across the length of it. She looked up at him, right into his eyes. “Why did you build this?”
Surprise raised his brow. “That’s an interesting question.”
Dalilah moistened her lips. “It looks far too big for one,” she said. “And you’re this guy who moved out here for solitude.” She shrugged. “It just...doesn’t quite fit.”
He shrugged, watching her eyes. “Maybe that urge to create a home—you know, the man and his castle—” he grinned “—never truly died after Yolanda. As a kid it had always been a dream of mine to have lots of land, a farm. Animals.”
“The soldier-farmer,” she said.
“Hey, life throws curveballs. You do what you can.”
“Yeah,” she said as she smiled at him. “And sometimes those balls curve right back.”
“Come inside. There’s something out back I think you’ll like.”
* * *
A warm breeze flowed through floor-to-ceiling glass sliders that had been opened along the length of the wall to expose an endless view of the bushveldt over the veranda. Old-fashioned wooden ceiling fans paddled the air slowly, and there were fresh blooms on the counter—strelitzia on long stems, like bright birds of paradise. He must have called ahead, Dalilah thought, and asked someone to open up the house, bring in flowers. Her heart squeezed in her chest.
He led her over floors crafted from rough, cool granite into the kitchen furnished with an antique Aga stove.
“This is what I want you to see.” He opened the back door, and escorted her into a trellised kitchen garden enclosed by a rock wall. Herbs and vegetables grew in neat rows. Dassies—fat furry rodents with big liquid-brown eyes—sat sunning themselves atop the wall, watching them through netting that kept both them and the birds out.
Dalilah turned slowly around. “Did you plant all this?” It was a silly question, and she knew it even as it left her mouth—of course he planted it. There was no one else. It was just that she was trying to picture this burly ex-merc with his hands in this lush dark soil, which he must have brought in from somewhere, or worked up from compost himself.
He gave a sheepish grin and hooked his thumbs into his belt. Then he shrugged. “Got the lettuce, but no tofu.”
She punched his arm with a laugh. “I’ll live. Where does the irrigation come from?”
“Underground water table and rain tank, for the most part. I’m working on some other initiatives—I’ll show you later.”