Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,95
and that’s when Brandt decided she really might be happy to live permanently with him out on this farm—she’d never be isolated. Not Dalilah. She was a vivacious, exotic creature who brought the party to her. And he’d finally felt secure enough in her happiness to ask her to be his wife.
So the planning had begun—more Meru tents had been flown in, the bush camp expanded, invitations sent out to family and very close friends. Small, intimate and informal.
Brandt waited for his bride now, under the tree. Nervous.
In front of him, filling the chairs that had been placed in rows under an awning of reeds to shade guests from the sun, were a few of Brandt’s pilot connections, a group of Dalilah’s closest friends from New York, including colleagues from ClearWater, and of course, the immediate Al Na’Jar royal family. Blonde Queen Nikki sat in the front row along with her extensive brood of children, the kids—apart from Solomon, the eldest—fidgeting and poking at each other as she fussed with them to be quiet. Tariq and his wife, Bella, had also flown out from the States, and Omair had brought his wife, Faith, and their young son, Adam. It was a time of reunion, happiness and peace for the Al Arif clan, thanks to Brandt and Dalilah—a time of celebration.
They were all going to stay in the bush camp tonight, where the wedding feast was already being laid out—traditional African style, under the giant nyala tree hung with lanterns, music provided by locals from the village.
One of those locals hit poignant notes on his xylophone now as Brandt waited. He checked his watch, wondering if it was written in law somewhere that grooms should fret over whether or not their bride would show.
Omair leaned over to him. “You look after my sister well now, or else.”
Brandt’s face cracked into a grin. “I have no doubt,” he murmured, but his attention was suddenly solely on Dalilah as the jeep with white ribbons drew near.
The guests rose. The xylophone and traditional instruments started up in an African rendition of the wedding march, and the voices of three women rose in haunting song. Then, just as Dalilah stepped out of the jeep with her oldest brother, blind King Zakir taking her hand, the music shifted into a loud and joyous rendition of a traditional southern African favorite—“Mama Thembu’s Wedding Song.”
Brandt’s heart twisted as he saw Dalilah laugh, her black eyes glittering with delight at his surprise. Her dress was white silk, strapless, and her hair was done up with a sprig of white flowers, showing the lines of her shoulders and neck to their most beautiful advantage. She led her brother slowly down the aisle, her gaze fixed on Brandt. He swallowed as King Zakir placed his sister’s hand in his.
Everything fell silent—as silent as the bush can fall—and an old African Zionist priest began to preside over the ecumenical ceremony in Setswana, a language Dalilah had been learning over the past eighteen months. And when Brandt slipped the simple platinum band onto Dalilah’s finger, and kissed his bride under the African sun, he knew—he really, finally, had come home.
“I love you, Stryker,” she whispered into his ear as the music rose joyously around them again. “I’m glad you came for me.”
“Me, too,” he whispered.
He might have regretted that one phone call from Omair, but it had changed his life. And hers. All of theirs.
* * *
Later that night, Omair rose from his table and clinked his champagne glass, getting ready to make a speech. The prince looked dark, handsome, like his brothers—an exotic, strong family all around, thought Brandt, and they’d embraced him fully.
But before Omair could toast the bride and groom, Jacob appeared like a shadow behind Brandt, and placed his gnarled hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to speak in his ear.
“What is it, Jacob?”
“The lions, Mr. Stryker.” His eyes gleamed. “They are back. I saw the pride this evening, down by the river.”
Dalilah met Brandt’s gaze and something raw and powerful passed between them. She reached for his hand under the table.
“It’s supposed to be,” she whispered. “They’ve come home.”
* * * * *
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