Guarding the Princess

chapter 16



The late-afternoon sun coated the bushveldt in yellow gold as their chopper landed on Brandt’s farm.

He carried the bags off the helicopter first, then returned for Dalilah, taking her hand as they ran in a crouch under the whirling blades. He gave a thumbs-up, and the chopper lifted, banking into the sky, then growing smaller and smaller before winking out on the horizon. He placed his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as they stood together, watching it disappear, their bags at their feet. As the sound faded, the birdsong rose around them in a raucous crescendo.

They were on a rise, and about a hundred yards out a copper-colored stream meandered into a pool of rocks. Beyond the stream was a bush runway and empty airplane hangar. In the distance, Dalilah could see giraffe and a herd of antelope moving. The air on her shoulders was rounded and warm and the sense of peace was almost palpable—no industry, no civilization, for as far as the eye could see.

Dalilah couldn’t believe how exhilarated she felt, or how this had happened. She glanced up at Brandt’s rugged profile and saw that he was watching her, a strange look on his face.

“What is it?” she said.

“I’m nervous.”

She laughed. “You? Nervous? What on earth for?”

“Because I want you to like it.”

She studied his eyes, as clear blue as the sky behind him, and 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.”

She slipped her arm around him, hugged him close, huge and solid and warm against her body—she loved the feel of him, everything about him. “You surprise me, Brandt Stryker.”

“Touché, Princess,” he whispered. “Come,” he said, leading her back into the kitchen. He opened the fridge.

“White wine all right for sundowners?” He held up a chilled bottle.

“Not whiskey?” she said.

He laughed and took two glasses down from the shelf, setting them on the counter before digging in a drawer for an opener. “Why don’t you go through to the deck while I put away the bags,” he said. “I’ll bring this through.”

She glanced at her new suitcase standing by the door. It was filled with new clothes—functional bush clothes, hiking boots, good sandals, hats, along with some sundresses and new underwear. Propped against the suitcase was a flat package he’d been carrying under his arm. It was wrapped in brown paper.

“What’s in there?” she said.

He scooped it and the bag up. “Just some prints I had done in Gaborone. I’ll be right back—go on through.”

Dalilah kicked off her sandals and padded barefoot through the living room, wanting the feel of this place, the touch of wood beneath her feet, the sensation of the stone. Her gauzy white sundress was cool against her skin. It was a liberating feeling—Dalilah wanted to enjoy it, everything about this newfound sense of lightness and brightness and freedom, where everything in the world seemed suddenly possible. And exciting.

Old-fashioned fans stirred lazily in the living room, too. The decor in this section of the house was all dark African woods, animal skins, block-printed fabric. Large black-and-white and sepia-toned photographic prints hung on the walls—an overall retro safari look that put Dalilah in mind of Hemingway and images of great hunters.

Dalilah turned her attention to the prints. One depicted a man holding up the head of a Cape buffalo he’d shot, gun in one hand. The man had Brandt’s features, but with a big beard and sideburns. A boy, maybe seven years old, stood next to him with a rifle in his own hands, white-blond hair. Both man and boy had eerily pale eyes against suntanned skin. Brandt and his father? she wondered.

There were other hunting shots, and deep-sea-fishing images. A marlin leaping with sprays of droplets sparkling in sunlight. In one image Dalilah recognized the prominent topography of Cape Town, South Africa.

Then she came to a photo of a child in a slum—this one taken in a jungle area. Another image showed a barefoot kid pushing a toy made of wire—his arm had been amputated. Yet another image showed a small girl fleeing something awful, terror wild in her face and eyes. This one looked as if it had been shot in Asia somewhere. There were more—a series with mothers with children, some poignant, some just plain heartbreaking. Devastating. Dalilah rubbed her arms, her mood shifting.

He’d told her he didn’t bring people here, so these were not for show, they were for him. His touchstones. That’s why he said he took pictures—to capture, remember. Brandt’s words sifted back into her mind.

It’s what I do, Dalilah. These days I shoot with a camera, not a gun, if I can help it. I shoot rare and beautiful things, things with meaning to me. Images I return to so that I can be reminded of what I value in life. Or what stands to be lost...

She’d thought Brandt was running from his past, seeking relief. But she was wrong. He wanted to hold on, maybe too acutely, to the memories that had changed him. No wonder he struggled with needing relief.

Over his desk of carved black wood hung a picture positioned alone in an area of prominence. She went over to it, and her hand went to her throat when she realized what it was. A toddler, pale blue eyes, white-blond hair catching sun like a halo.

Dalilah bent forward to read the inscription in italics—Stefaan Stryker. Along with the date of his birth, and his death. Under the photo was an old leather-bound book, Jock of the Bushveldt, by Sir James Percy Fitzpatrick.

She touched the old hardcover, opened it to the copyright page. First published 1907. There was a line drawing of a dog that looked exactly like the one from the lodge, and on the title page was an inscription written in longhand: Vir my liefste Jacquie, baie gelukkige tye met ons eie hond, jou Pa.

Dalilah suddenly felt him watching, glanced up.

Brandt stood in the doorway with the bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands, his features tight.

“What does it mean, Brandt?” she said, her fingers touching the Afrikaans inscription.

“For my dearest little Stefaan. May we have happy times with our own dog, your father.” He hesitated, as if torn between speaking and turning away. “I’d just come across a copy of that old edition. I wanted it for him.”

Dalilah’s eyes prickled with emotion. “It’s so uncanny,” she said softly, “that the dog from the lodge looks the same, has the same name.”

“Jock is a common name for a Staffordshire cross of that color. Like I said, Jock has become a cultural icon in this part of the world. There’s even a statue of Jock outside the Barberton city hall in Mpumalanga, South Africa.”

“I still think it’s eerie,” she said, closing the book and setting it carefully back in position under the photo. “Stefaan looked like you when you were a boy, if that’s you in the hunting photo over there, with your father?”

A wry smile twisted over his lips, but there was a sadness around his eyes. “Yeah, that was me. Lost my dad when I was twelve.”

“How?”

“Lion.”

Dalilah waited, but he said nothing more, and she didn’t press, not now.

“How about that wine,” she said with a smile.

* * *

With a view of the setting sun, Brandt poured their drinks at an outside table.

“A Buiten Blanc, from Buitenverwachting,” he said, pouring. “It’s a vineyard near Cape Town—the name means Beyond Expectation. Cheers,” he said, raising his own glass, and she chinked hers against it.

“Beyond expectation,” she whispered, meeting his eyes.

They sat side by side on lacquered wicker furniture watching animals come down to the pond to drink. Monkeys squealed in a tree above the water hole, and Dalilah’s thoughts drifted back to that night in the lapa. She turned to look at Brandt.

“Did you watch me for long, in that lapa, before the attack?”

A slow smile curved his mouth, and this time a lightness did reach his eyes.

“I thought you were a flame to those diplomatic moths around you.” He paused. “I thought you were a tease.”

She fell silent as his eyes held hers, a sudden tingling heat low in her belly.

He got up suddenly, taking his glass to the railing. “Come here,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

Dalilah joined him at the railing with her glass. The sun was blood-orange and going squat on the horizon, as if resisting the end of the day before being pushed under.

“I positioned the house and veranda so you could see the watering hole at sunset and catch the last rays of the evening sun. This is my favorite time of day, when everything is magic. Anything seems possible.”

He took her glass from her hand, set it on the railing and tilted her face to his. As the sun slid below the horizon, the last rays caught the rugged planes of his face, and his eyes darkened.

And suddenly she wanted him. All of him.

“I need you, Brandt,” she whispered. “I need you, now.”

* * *

He carried her to his bedroom and laid her on the bed. Here, too, glass sliders were open to the evening air. Outside in the dusk the bush noise grew loud.

But Dalilah froze suddenly as she caught sight of what was hanging on the wall opposite Brandt’s bed—a poster-size photograph of her. Naked under a waterfall, droplets like jewels spinning in an arc from her wet hair as she tossed her head back, sunlight glancing off the emerald in her navel. The hair between her legs was dark and wet, her nipples tight and pointed. A look of pure joy on her face, her eyes closed.

Dalilah’s jaw dropped and she quickly pushed herself back up into a sitting position. She stared at the image—a stunningly artistic shot, more about form than a naked woman, the curves of her body being echoed in the contours of the smooth red rock.

Her gaze shifted slowly up to meet his.

“Why?” she said.

“Touchstones,” he whispered, watching her intently. “To capture something of your spirit and bring it home.”

And hang it where he could lie and look at her every night...

He lowered himself to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his.

“I never dreamed I’d be lucky enough to actually bring you home, Dalilah.” He drew her closer on the edge of the bed, parting her legs around him as he spoke. “So I stole something I could keep, just for me. Do you mind?”

Her vision spiraled as he pushed up the hem of her dress and slid his hands up the insides of her thighs. She couldn’t even think of words to answer him with. His hands went higher, fingers hooking into her G-string as she stared at the photo of her naked self, thinking of how she’d caught him in his own state of arousal. She didn’t feel affronted by the photo—it speared heat into her belly, made her breasts ache. She lifted herself slightly as he rolled her G-string down her thighs, and a soft sigh escaped her, her eyelids fluttering low as he drew her right to the edge of the bed and opened her legs wide.

She felt his tongue, teasing, warm, slick, the rough stubble of his jaw rubbing against the sensitive skin on her inner thighs. Dalilah couldn’t breathe. She arched her head back, widening her thighs, giving him more access. She felt his tongue entering her. Dalilah groaned, her entire body going white-hot as outside the birds screamed, jockeying in a tree for best position for the night.

He went in deeper, and her pulse started to race so fast she thought she might faint. He grated her with his teeth until pleasure built so raw and wild in her chest she thought she’d burst, scream. Her hands fisted in the sheets, head going back as she grew wetter, aching, desperate for him.

Suddenly he stopped, yanked off his shirt and dropped his pants—no underwear, his arousal evident, powerful. Perspiration glistened over his muscular body.

He lifted her dress over her head and gave a soft inhalation as he saw she wore no bra.

Gently he eased her back onto the bed, his tongue, wet, teasing slowly up her abdomen, circling the emerald jewel in her belly button. She arched her pelvis, clawing the covers, desperate to have him inside. Now.

But he was taking his sweet time, torturing her, making it last. Sweat broke out over her body, desperation growing unbearable. She reached down, cupped him between the legs, massaged the hot, hard, quivering length of him, writhing her hips up to him with a need and instinct as old as time.

He grabbed her good wrist suddenly, held her arm up over her head, pressing her into the bed with his body as he kneed her thighs open wide. Her breathing was fast, breasts rising and falling, eyelids heavy, mouth open—all she wanted was him, in her, all of him. She was going to implode.

He entered her with just the smooth tip of his erection. Dalilah went dead still, blood pounding loud in her ears. He pushed slowly deeper, then pulled out. Then again, this time going even deeper. She arched her spine, trying to get more of him, but he pulled out again, and then suddenly reentered with a sharp, hard, long thrust. She gasped, her world spiraling into shades of scarlet and black as a sweet, sharp pain seared up through her abdomen and caught her in the throat. Tears flowed from her eyes.

He stopped, a look of concern suddenly in his features. But she shook her head, pulling his body against hers, wrapping her legs around him, holding him in tight. He held still for a while longer, and she could feel him, quivering and hot inside her as her body accommodated the size and delicious feel of him. Then Dalilah began to rock her hips, stroking herself against him, breathing light, fast, faster. She moved harder. Then suddenly she stilled, long fingernails digging into his back, and she shattered around him with a cry, her body besieged by rolling contractions as her muscles spasmed around the length of him.

Brandt’s control cracked. He grasped her hips, yanking her against him as he thrust hard, deep, fast. And almost instantly he released, the pure pleasure, the pain of restraint too much to hold on to. Tears of release filled his eyes as a feeling of indescribable warmth rolled through his body. He gathered Dalilah into his arms, and they lay there like that, in the velvet dusk, still joined as they listened to the bush readying for the night, feeling the warm African air on their hot, damp skin. He stroked her hair back off her brow and loved the smell of her, the sensation of her thick curls against his cheek.

“I believe I’m the luckiest man alive right now,” he whispered against her skin

They heard the hyenas, a rising whoop whooooop whooping call as they started on their night hunt.

“Do they come close?” she asked softly.

“Right up to the house sometimes—you can see their prints in the morning. They’re the top predator on my land. They ousted the lions.”

“Tautona has no lion pride?”

He laughed softly. “No. There apparently was a pride here before I bought the place. But some really dominant hyenas challenged them. There was a huge bloody battle. The lions were defeated and moved out of the territory. The hyenas control the place now.”

Silent, the two of them lay naked, side by side, time stretching out before them.

“Do you ever think of starting your own safari business out here, Brandt?”

“No,” he said quietly.

“Why not?”

“I told you. I don’t like people.”

“I do.”

He was silent for a long time and when she said no more, Brandt thought she might have fallen asleep, but she said suddenly, “We do make a good team, you know.”

“You say that like you were having doubts.”

“I was just thinking, I could handle the people side of things.”

He grinned, found her hand, twined his fingers through hers. Truth was, Brandt had started thinking about a way to keep her busy out here. Because then he might find a way to keep her.

“I love you, Princess,” he whispered.

Dalilah smiled in the dark, squeezed his hand. Then she heard his breathing change. She propped herself up on her elbow, hair falling over her breast, and she watched his face in the shadows.

Finally, she thought, Brandt sleeps. Now that he’s secure, when the job is done.

She watched him for a long while, his chest rising and falling, naked. So strong, yet so darn tender it cut right through her heart. She breathed in the scent of him, the scent of their sex, and mingled with it was a fragrance of wild honeysuckle that grew below the window.

“I love you, too, Tautona,” she whispered, and kissed him softly in his sleep.