Читать книгу Stranded with the Prince - Dana Marton - Страница 8

In hindsight, they shouldn’t have wasted so much of the daylight on fighting.

Milda wrestled with the tent she’d dragged into the olive grove. She could see Prince Lazlo’s outline a few hundred yards from her. She hadn’t gone too far—was kind of scared of the darkness of the grove, the trees throwing shadows in the moonlight. The island was a nature preserve. Which meant wild animals for sure. She didn’t want to think about that.

“I don’t think that’s how it goes,” the prince called across the distance that separated them. He hadn’t bothered bringing the second tent up from the beach.

“I got it,” she answered over her shoulder. Don’t come over. Please, don’t come over.

If he helped her set up her tent, he would probably expect to sleep in it. With her. She couldn’t handle that.

She glanced toward him. He rested—probably thinking dark, murderous thoughts about her—sitting up, his back against a tree, his shoulders outlined in the dim light. His body was lithe and powerful. He wasn’t her favorite person in the world, but even she had to admit that he was incredibly handsome, with that debonair, devil-may-care attitude.

And beyond his good looks, he was intelligent as well. And a prince. At first, she’d been foolish enough to think that marrying him off would be easy. He’d certainly taught her better since.

She couldn’t pin the man down, not for a second. Like seawater through a fishnet, he ran through her fingers over and over again. He could have made it all work. He had incredible focus when he chose. He owned one of the best speed car factories in Europe, built it himself from nothing but a dream. When he wanted something, he applied himself to the task until he achieved his goal. He could have made her job easy. Instead, he was doing the opposite. He didn’t want anything to do with the Queen’s plans, so he resisted Milda at every step.

Like the damn tent was doing at the moment.

She was going to figure this out. She gathered her last reserves and fitted the poles together at last. And felt triumphant.

Until she tried to get the structure in through the tent’s door. She struggled for at least five minutes before she figured out it wasn’t going to work this way. The poles were probably supposed to be snapped into place inside the tent. She stifled a groan and took it all apart.

“Need help?”

“Almost done. I’ll be ready in a minute.” She looked up to make sure he wasn’t coming over.

But he was still sitting by the tree, his aristocratic profile outlined by the last of the light—a strong chin, straight nose and lips that looked as if they were carved from granite. Aside from the occasional debauchery—or even with that—he could have been one of those heroes of ancient Rome. She could definitely see him at the chariot races. She’d seen him at a modern racetrack, behind the wheel.

He was mesmerizing, had charisma in spades. No wonder women fell at his feet left and right. He certainly spent more time with them than pondering the duties of royalty. To the point that the media had taken to calling him The Rebel Prince. She filled her lungs with the salty sea air and turned away from him, giving the impertinent tent her full attention once again.

“I can’t believe the women didn’t send the boat back,” she said after another five minutes of struggle.

“You know, the blonde looked familiar. I think I might have dated her in the past.”

“You dated all three of them. With time being so tight, I wanted to go for certainty. A shortcut, you know? If you were attracted to them once, you could be attracted to them again.”

Silence was the only answer.

“Right?” she asked, then immediately hated that she was second-guessing herself because of him. He was terrible for her self-confidence.

“'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'” He quoted William Congreve. “Better settle in for the full two weeks.”

“They couldn’t have been that mad at you. They agreed to another try.”

“Could be they planned to kill me in the wilderness,” he remarked dryly.

“What on earth have you done to them? No, never mind.” The fact that he didn’t even remember that he’d dated them gave her a clue. Plus his tirade on the beach that the ladies had overheard. She’d never dated him, and even she was about ready to strangle him and leave him in the wilderness for the vultures or whatever.

So maybe the ladies were somewhat justified in their fury. But leaving her stranded here with the prince was completely uncalled for. What harm had she done to anyone? She was doing the best she could, with everyone’s best interests at heart. She was beginning to feel decidedly underappreciated. The least of her problems, all considered, when her whole world was threatening to come right down around her ears.

She was the last link in a long line of matchmakers. And the business hadn’t been doing well for the past couple of years. If she failed, the family tradition would end with her. Her grandmother was probably rolling in her grave.

Poles miraculously snapping into place and holding the tent up from the inside at last distracted her from any further thoughts on what a disappointment she was turning out to be, compared to her more talented ancestors. The tent was standing. So there. That was something. She pulled herself straight proudly, grinning into the darkness. But then she tripped over the blanket she’d already tossed into the tent, not wanting it to get dirty or bugs to crawl inside, and fell with her full weight against one of the poles and the whole thing came apart all over again.

She could have howled with frustration. She didn’t. She’d be damned if she’d lose control within hearing distance of the prince.

“Everything okay in there?” His voice dripped with mockery.

She climbed out on her hands and knees, the definition of undignified, stood and brushed herself off. “I decided to take it down. The air is too stifling in there.”

The breeze coming off the ocean was balmy. She simply adjusted the waterproof material on the ground so the collapsed poles wouldn’t be sticking her in the ribs, then lay down at last. There. She was perfectly content. Who needed the tent?

She was blissfully comfortable for five full minutes. Except maybe her neck. She adjusted a wadded-up blanket under her head just as a fat raindrop fell on her face. Wind ruffled her hair. Another raindrop followed.

She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. She was not going to be defeated. She got up and tried to unfold the tent, to get in the middle somehow, sandwiched between protective layers. But the rain picked up long before she finished. And by the time she was settled horizontally again, she realized she was lying in mud. She cursed the prince under her breath.

She was so not supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be snug in his tent, with three intelligent, great women, each with the pedigree and temperament to become a fantastic princess. Why couldn’t he have just gone with that plan? What did he have to complain about?

“It’s raining,” he said from a few feet away, his rich baritone startling her.

She hadn’t noticed him coming closer. “Cry me a river,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Or not. They seemed to have more than enough water already. She pulled her head into her cocoon. She’d been about to get out of the mud, but she would pretend that everything was well if it killed her.

“The water running down the hillside will be heading this way,” he observed with perfect aristocratic nonchalance.

Maybe it would wash him away. That could be another solution to the problem. He couldn’t very well embarrass the monarchy any more if he disappeared, could he?

But the water would wash her away, too, if she stayed like this. She crawled out and was soaked to the skin the next second. “You know how to set this thing up?” She gestured toward the tent. If they had it anchored to the ground, maybe the water would run around them. The canvas was waterproof.

“Forget it.” He grabbed the muddy, dripping tent, tossed it over his shoulder and headed inland. His slight limp did nothing to detract from his powerful appearance.

She reluctantly followed him, carrying her soggy blanket. With the cloud cover thick now, and the rain coming down hard, she could see little, even with the flashlight. Once she thought she caught a moving shadow up ahead, but by the time she looked closer, it disappeared. Maybe one of the guards. Their gear and supplies had been dropped off on the other side of the island earlier. They’d probably gotten their tents up around the perimeter in time for the rain. Lucky them.

“Hello!” she called out. “We need help. We’re here.”

She waited, but no response came. Maybe they couldn’t hear her. Or she’d only seen a bush moving in the wind.

Should have looked for the men this afternoon, instead of waiting for a boat by the beach and fighting, she thought as she pushed ahead, mud squishing in the front of her sandals and leaking out the back.

An hour of miserable marching got them to a rocky cliff wall. The famous Painted Rocks, not that she could make out any of the images in the rain and the dark. Soon blind luck brought them to an overhang that shielded them from most of the rain—if they sat far back in the rock’s crevice and very close to each other.

He positioned the rolled-up tent in front of them to block as much rain from that side as was possible. “You might want to take a minute and ponder where meddling gets you.” His tone was lecturing. “I hope you’re happy.”

She would have been happy if she’d never heard of Prince Lazlo of Valtria. “I’m wet.”

Her side was plastered to his. He was a full head taller than her, long limbs, muscles in all the right places. According to her research, he was an avid sportsman. Highly competitive, highly seductive, highly annoying. And, unfortunately, he was her cross to bear.

He relaxed his shoulders against the rock. His masculine scent of leather and motor oil reached her even through the rain. He’d probably spent his morning at the racetrack as usual.

She needed to think about something other than him, or she’d never relax enough to fall asleep. She gave that a valiant try for as long as she could. With her clothes soaked, she was cold to the bone, but she resisted moving even closer to him.

“First thing in the morning,” she said when she could stay silent no longer, “we’ll set up the tent and find our breakfast in the bags. I had the royal cook pack plenty of food for you and the women. If the rain stops, we can make a fire and signal for help.”

He didn’t say anything.

She thought of her small walk-up in Brooklyn, New York, that was mortgaged to the hilt. She couldn’t fail here. If she pulled this off, she’d have enough money to throw some serious advertising out there and save her business.

The matchmakers’ second rule was: Win each client’s goodwill. Only then can you work productively together.

And she badly needed to keep this client.

Having to apologize, when she’d done nothing wrong, just about killed her, but she was willing to make that sacrifice. She had a month left to claim the exorbitant fee the Queen had promised her if she succeeded. She needed to gain Lazlo’s cooperation and goodwill.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t how I planned this.”

Once again, he didn’t respond.

But she did hear a sound, so she turned and saw his head resting on his shoulder, at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. He softly snored into her face.

And then he began leaning and sliding against her. She tried to move away, but somehow ended up on the ground, practically pinned under him.

“Your Highness!” She shoved him toward the edge of their shelter.

“Mmmm,” he said without opening his eyes as he rolled onto his side.

Wedged between him and the rock, she had no room to pull away. She was practically spooning him. She had to get out of there. Except, the spot was comfortable. And his body heat was slowly drying her. And it was dark and scary out in the open.

She decided to stay put. For comfort’s sake. She did her best to ignore that they were touching. Still, sleep didn’t come easily.

Every noise the rain didn’t drown out startled her. At one point, she could have sworn something big moved through the woods nearby. She could hear branches cracking, but as she waited with her breath held, nobody materialized from the darkness.

When she did sleep, her dreams were strange. She was with the prince on the beach, entangled, naked, waves licking their feet. He was kissing the sensitive skin of her neck, sending spirals of need through her body. In her dream, he wasn’t the least annoying. The hands that at times molded metal at his auto factory, now caressed her breasts. She arched to press them into his palms as her nipples pebbled and begged for more. She tried to shift closer to him, but hit her head on rock.

What rock? They were making love in the surf on the beach. The sand was soft …except it wasn’t. She was lying on rock. She slowly came awake.

The wetness on her feet was rain, not playful waves. She’d stuck them out of their shelter while she slept. Prince Lazlo had turned in the night, one arm under her head, his other hand cupping one of her breasts gently.

Heat rushed to her face. “Your Highness!” She squeaked the words as she tried to wiggle away from him, but the rock provided no space.

Firmly, she pushed the hand away. “Prince Lazlo, this is not—” She glanced up into his face.

His eyes were closed, his aristocratic mouth lax. He was still fast asleep.

ROBERTO SPIT SAND as he crawled out of the water, too exhausted to stand. The waves had broken their raft, taken their weapons—the makeshift knife as well as the guard’s rifle—and separated the small team from each other.

He scanned the beach where he landed. Nothing but darkness and rain. He couldn’t even tell if he’d reached the mainland or only another island. He rolled to his side and puked up some of the saltwater he’d swallowed. Then he flopped onto his back, letting the rain beat his face, unable to move another inch.

Endless hours passed. Each time the waves came up to lick his feet, he crawled a little higher. Then the rain stopped, the clouds cleared out and he could see two dark forms on the beach—either his men, driftwood or clumps of seaweed. He stood from the wet sand and staggered toward them, squinting his eyes to see.

He came across Marco first, shook him, pounded his back. When the man coughed up water at last, Roberto moved on to José. Then the three of them dragged themselves into the low brush that edged the narrow, rocky shoreline.

And for a while, they rested.

“Where the hell are we?” José spoke first, sounding hoarse. Their throats were raw from swallowing too much seawater and vomiting.

“Close to a house, I hope.” Marco shook wet sand from his curly black hair, looking the most chipper among the three. “A house full of food and women.”

But instead of a house, the first thing they spotted once they got going was a tent, about a hundred meters or so inland.

Roberto signaled to the others, then picked up the largest stone within reach. They spread out and circled their target, caught the man inside the tent unawares. The guy had a weapon, but no time to use it before they smashed his skull in.

They stood over the body, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping, the scent of blood in their nostrils. They waited, listening. When they were sure that the man had been alone and nobody was coming, Roberto lit a lamp. He grinned as he looked around. His friends didn’t call him a lucky bastard for nothing. “We have food, shelter and a gun again.” Not a bad start to the day.

Marco was stuffing his face already. Crumbs rolled down his cleft chin as he made an animal-like sound.

“Give me that.” Roberto snatched the rucksack away from him. He went through the contents, then tossed José a neatly packed sandwich, laying claim to the rest. He was the boss; he would hand out the food when and where it pleased him.

He took the largest sandwich for himself and bit into it with only slightly more restraint than Marco. They were safe for the moment, out of the weather and soon their bellies would be full. Nobody knew they were here. Probably nobody knew the man they’d killed was here, either. Surveying his gear, he looked like a lone hiker out camping.

But before they could settle in comfortably, a radio he hadn’t noticed before came on, startling José into jumping.

The small device was hanging on a peg in a dark corner of the tent. “Station two, come in.”

MORNING COULDN’T COME soon enough. Every inch of Milda’s body ached. The only comfort she’d had over the long night was the heat radiating off the prince. Since their sole blanket was wet and muddy, she hadn’t been able to use that for anything.

She looked around, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Lazlo was gone.

Thank God.

She ran her fingers through her hair. She wasn’t one of those women who woke with perfect style and grace. At least she would have a little time to get herself together before she had to face him. A drowned rat had to look better than she did.

She ran her fingertips under her eyes to take off any smudged mascara. Not that she wanted to look attractive for the prince, but looking put together gave her self-confidence, and she had a feeling she would need all the self-confidence she could get when dealing with this client on this particular morning.

She crawled out from under the overhang, smoothed down her soiled, ruined clothes. Then the pictures that covered the rock wall caught her attention, the paintings that had been nothing but darker smudges in the dark night when they’d arrived here.

She’d heard of them when she’d been asking around for information on the island, trying to figure out whether it would be right for this project, but she’d had no idea what they depicted. She’d expected horses and buffalos like other nonhomicidal cavemen left all over Europe. She blanched now as she looked at scenes of wholesale murder. Blood splashed everywhere, necks cut, bellies opened. Shocked, she snatched her gaze away.

Good thing she hadn’t seen the paintings the night before. They would have given her nightmares.

She stumbled away from the images, heading for the beach. The gear she’d put together, with professional help, included a number of toothbrushes and plenty of toothpaste. And breakfast. Most importantly, coffee. She’d have her first cup here, then another cup when they were back in the palace. They made the most amazing cappuccinos there, the frothy milk dusted with cinnamon.

She was one hundred percent certain that the boat would come for them today. The ladies had been angry. They’d made their point. The rescue team had to be on their way, if not already here.

But when she came out of the grove, she found the beach empty. No boat. No prince. And more alarmingly, no gear.

She swirled around. Maybe the boat had come and gone already. Was Lazlo mad enough at her to leave her like this?

“Your Highness?”

No response came, save the slapping of the waves.

“Your Highness?” she shouted more loudly as a twinge of panic squeezed her chest.

He couldn’t just leave her. He wouldn’t, she thought, openmouthed with shock, still scanning the empty beach. He was a gentleman.

In most situations.

But he did seem to have developed some sort of unreasonable dislike for her. Crazy, really, when one considered that she was here to help him. She was instrumental for his future happiness. That he wouldn’t see that was most frustrating.

She was close to making him see reason, though. She was pretty sure. The two weeks with those ladies on this island would have done it. Once she got back to the palace, she needed to come up with another plan, and quickly.

She looked toward the mainland. The sunrise over the endless blue of the ocean filled the sky with pink. The scene was beautiful enough to take her breath away, but after a few moments her instincts prickled. Something didn’t feel right. There was something …sinister in the air.

She shook her head. She thought that just because the prince was missing. Or maybe because she’d seen those dreadful pictures.

She ignored her prickling senses, although she’d always been proud of her keen intuition, a must in her line of work, a strong family trait. Having excellent intuition was essential in matching up couples.

Except, she’d never felt that sense of rightness when she’d considered a candidate for the prince. Not even with the three women she’d invited to the island, if she were to be honest, and the present moment seemed like the perfect time to face certain truths. She didn’t feel that certain zing. Didn’t see that image of the young couple leaving the church and rice flying. Didn’t hear the proverbial wedding bells ring. Maybe that had been the problem to begin with.

Every time she’d looked at a woman and thought of her with the prince, the image brought only one thought to her mind: wrong. And she didn’t have all that much time to keep looking.

She picked up a chunk of driftwood by her feet, walked to get another. Even a couple of larger pieces had washed onto the shore overnight. She could use smoke to signal for help. Not that she had any matches. Those were in the gear, which was presumably with the prince. Still, there was that Boy Scout thing of making a bow with a string and rubbing things against each other. She’d seen that once on TV. But before she could bring up in her mind’s eye exactly how that was done, she saw a man bobbing in the water a few hundred feet from shore. He hadn’t been there a moment before.

Then he was close enough for her to recognize Prince Lazlo. Relief flooded her. He was swimming for shore, pulling something with him. A green bag, dripping with water, she realized, when he was close enough to stand up and start walking.

Naked!

Her dreams rushed back. Her eyes went wide. Her throat constricted. Her heart put on a drum festival in the middle of her chest, the beat growing faster and faster, not slowing until he was out of the water enough so she could see that he was still wearing his underwear. Phew. Royal-blue boxer briefs.

Thank God for small mercies.

Not that the rest of his nakedness wasn’t distracting enough. His upper torso was all lean muscles, drops of seawater running down his tanned skin. The rising sun was behind him, outlining his perfect shape.

Then her gaze dropped to the scars on his left leg.

She bit her lip. The skin was pulled together and a shade darker than the rest, white stripes going through the angry red here and there. He’d gotten trapped in a wreck at a racetrack crash and had been burned a few years back, an accident he so downplayed that, before now, she hadn’t even been aware of the extent of his injuries. From what she was seeing now, he must have suffered horribly. That he was even walking had to be a miracle.

His stunning scars didn’t detract anything from his absolute masculine beauty. If anything, they gave him an edge that she imagined drew women even more. His physique drew her, for love’s sake, and he was the last man on earth she would have ever been seriously interested in.

The first rule of matchmaking was: Do not get involved with a client under any circumstances.

He pulled his left hand through his dark hair to get it out of his eyes, shaking the bag with his other hand to dislodge a long strand of seaweed. His breathing was labored, as if he’d been swimming for a long time.

“What are you doing?” Had he tried to swim off the island with some of their supplies? That made no sense whatsoever.

“Saving the remains of our gear.”

Her feet rooted to the spot. For a second, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She couldn’t really understand. “But—”

“The storm last night whipped up the waves. They ran farther up the beach than usual.” He came over and lowered the bag to the ground at his feet.

“It’s all gone?” She stared at him, still barely comprehending.

He nodded.

Disaster. Absolute disaster was all she could think.

“Can you go back for the rest?” She wasn’t the best of swimmers.

He dropped to the sand, panting, stretching his muscular legs in front of him. “I’ve been at it for the last two hours. Everything else must have been carried far out to sea.”

Her legs wouldn’t hold her up. She sank down across the bag from him.

He opened the bag and pulled out ten jars of caviar—five red, five black—a dozen scented candles and a half-dozen bottles of champagne carefully wrapped in bubble bags.

She waited for more, then could have cried as he tossed the empty bag aside. She pulled it to herself and went through it again. And in one of the front pockets she found waterproof matches, one box of the two dozen she’d ordered from a camping supply store.

“Breakfast?” He held out a jar of caviar, the top already twisted off.

“No thanks.” Her stomach was in a knot. No way could she put anything into it.

He shrugged and scooped some tiny, shiny, pearl-like beluga roe into his mouth. When he finished off the jar, he washed the food down with champagne. Then he lay back on the sand, his face to the sky, suddenly grinning while she did her best not to hyperventilate.

“How can you be happy at a moment like this?” she snapped at him.

He came up on one elbow—biceps bulging all over the place—and pinned her with those wicked dark eyes of his. “I have two weeks without you being able to do anything to get me married.”

He was insufferable.

“You’re missing your race,” she pointed out, just to needle him.

He shrugged. “A little freedom might just be worth it.”

She didn’t say anything for a while, then, “We should light a fire and send smoke signals.”

He looked over the meager pile of driftwood she’d collected. “If the guards are on the other side of the island, they won’t see it. Better we save the wood for tonight to keep warm. It has to dry before we can light it anyway.”

She couldn’t bear the thought of another night. Under those rocks. With the prince. “The boat will come.”

“Maybe. But we need a plan B.”

“We should find another shelter. And we should go and find fresh water before the day gets too hot.” They were in the Mediterranean. There was plenty of heat; his shorts were half-dry already. And they needed to do something. Sprawled on the sand, he looked like he was on vacation. He gestured toward the champagne bottles.

“That won’t prevent dehydration. In fact, alcohol speeds it.” Lady Szilvia, the survival expert, had told her that when she’d given advice about what to bring. And Milda had made sure to pack plenty of water. Except, those plastic bottles were now bobbing somewhere in the sea. “We need fresh water.”

“We have nothing to put it in until we drink the champagne.”

She hated that he had a point. “We could pour the champagne out.”

He seemed to consider that, but then he said, “On the off chance that we might be here awhile without much food, we could need those calories.”

She grabbed the bottle from him.

The bubbles tickled down her throat deliciously. After the ninth or tenth sip, she felt some of the tension leaving her body. “There.” She took another gulp, then tossed the empty bottle onto the sand in front of him.

He picked it up with an amused look, stood and held out his hand.

She ignored him.

He walked to the bushes and came back with his clothes, a bundle she hadn’t seen there in her frenetic search for him. He dressed, then slipped the waterproof matches into his pocket, packed everything else back into the bag before slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s stash this under the overhang before we go for a stroll. Wouldn’t want to lose it again.”

She walked after him, trying not to look at him too much. The only man she’d ever known who managed to swagger with a limp. Who did he think he was, John Wayne?

They crossed the wild olive grove, the tangy scent of the trees heavy in the air. That odd feeling returned to her again, a premonition she couldn’t put her finger on, a sense of unease. Probably because they were going back to those gruesome rocks.

“So, what are those paintings about? I didn’t realize Valtria’s past was that bloodthirsty.”

“It’s not. The island was used by Etruscan priests back in the day, for their human sacrifices. Valtrians came here much later.”

A shiver ran down her spine as she thought how many men and women must have died on the island over the centuries. Which would explain the bad vibes she’d been getting. By being here, they were probably disturbing some ancient burial grounds.

She tried not to look at the rock paintings as they emptied the bag and secured their meager supplies. Then they were finally heading for higher ground. The hillside wasn’t too steep, solid rock in places, brittle shale in others where she had to watch her step in order not to slip. Here and there, thick woods appeared, especially close to the top, but on the bottom, the wild groves were sparse with plenty of open areas between them.

“Is there fresh water here, do you know?” She did her best to keep up with him. He was pretty fast, even with the limp.

She was wearing sandals. Only two-inch heels, but still …She hadn’t planned on staying on the island beyond explaining the camping trip to Lazlo and introducing him to the ladies. She’d planned on being back at the palace by dinner, at the latest. At least she’d had the good sense to wear summer slacks, and brought a sweater in case the wind was too much on the boat ride over.

“There’s a stream.”

“Do you know where?”

“No idea. I was only here once, when I was a kid.” The higher they went, the denser the vegetation became.

“Wild animals?” She remembered last night’s worry.

“Rabbits and foxes.”

At least that was reassuring.

They walked until noon but found nothing. “We should switch tactics and walk the perimeter of the island,” Lazlo recommended. “Even if the guards keep out of our way, we should be able to find one of their tents. We’d be set for supplies at least.”

Exactly. Why didn’t she think of that earlier? Had to be the champagne.

Downhill was a lot easier than up. She did slip a couple of times, but he always caught her easily. She didn’t like when they were touching. He was the type of man a woman couldn’t help but be aware of physically.

Several hours passed as they walked, keeping as much as possible to the shade of the trees. Her stomach growled.

“Should have brought some food and champagne,” Lazlo said. “Sorry.”

“We didn’t know it would take this long.”

It had to be midafternoon by the time he spotted the tent under a clump of trees and pointed it out to her.

She was so tired she could barely walk, but she broke into a run.

“Hello, we need help.” She pushed through the open flap, relieved that the nightmare was over.

Then reeled back, was caught against Lazlo’s wide chest. He swore softly, put his arms around her, tried to pull her back. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes off the sight in front of her.

Inside the tent was the dead body of one of the guards. Lying in a pool of blood, stripped naked. A sight that eerily echoed the rock paintings.