Guarding the Princess(63)

“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 royal since I was five years old. I’ve grown up with the knowledge. I’ve accepted I was born a royal, and with that comes obligations other people don’t have.” She hesitated, holding his gaze. “Or sometimes can’t understand.”

He spun around, dragged both hands over his hair, then ricocheted back to face her.

“Jesus, Dalilah, how can you marry a guy you don’t even know, let alone love? Do feel anything for him? Like...”

“Like I feel for you?”

He went dead still. Swallowed. Throat dry, muscles shaking. She’d said it. Out loud. She felt for him. And he’d told her what she was doing to him. What was patently obvious to both had now been made vocal, and that admission cracked Brandt’s world open like the shell of an egg, and he didn’t know what to do with the mess spilling out.

Rays of light bled into sky, savage slashes of pink, orange, yellow. Amal would be on the move and a voice in the back of Brandt’s mind was saying, Hurry, hurry. Move—now! Yet a different voice was urging him to deal with the moment properly, not to let something—someone—so precious slip through his fingers forever.

“No, Brandt,” she said softly. “I don’t feel anything for Haroun other than civility. He’s is a nice-looking, smart man, and he seems kind, and—” She looked as if she was going to cry suddenly, then steeled, her chin rising in defiance. And in that brief second Brandt could see the two women inside Dalilah doing battle. One the exotic, determined, flamboyant powerhouse, a proud princess committed to her country and diplomatic function. The other a gorgeous, vulnerable and compassionate woman who needed love in her life.

Dalilah Al Arif had one stiletto planted in an ancient desert world, the other firmly in a new one.

Her cheeks heated and she cursed suddenly, softly, in Arabic. “I wish you’d put some more clothes on.”

Brandt jolted back, grabbed his shirt. “You’re sacrificing your freedom, that’s what you’re doing,” he said coolly as he pulled on his shirt and cinched his belt buckle. “You’re giving up everything you are, who you’ve fought to become, for your kingdom, for your brothers?”

Anger was creeping into his voice now, and he couldn’t help it. “You can’t do this, Dalilah.” He rammed the GPS back into his belt, grabbed his sheathed knife.

“Why not?”

“It makes you unhappy. You don’t have to be a shrink to see that.” He waved his hand at the crumpled sleeping bag. “Your kiss, your body, your eyes, everything tells me you want more than a cold marriage, that you don’t want to give up the niche you’ve carved for yourself in the world. You just told me that your whole life you’ve been fighting to get out from under your brothers’ shadows. Now this?”

“You’re just saying this because you want to sleep with me.”

He reeled, then looked carefully into her features. She was testing, pushing him, he could see that. Maybe to test her own resolve, hell knew.

“No,” he said quietly. “I have no right to even try to fight for a woman like you, Dalilah. I could never win, anyway. Besides—” his gaze went to her ring “—if I slept with you, it could get you killed. Trust me—I know.”

He resheathed his panga, grabbed his gun. He slung the rifle across his chest and pulled the camera out of the pack.

“I need to go see if there’s any sign of Amal. It’s getting late.” His tone was brusque. But as he was about to step over the coals, he paused as something hit him like a mallet—she’d been engaged all her adult life.