Читать книгу To Protect a Princess - Gail Barrett - Страница 11

Dara clung to Logan’s waist as they zigzagged down the side of a mountain, then hurtled along the cliff above a rocky gorge. Her heart pounded, her blood roaring louder than the river slamming the boulders below.

She braved a quick glance back, squinted in the tearing wind, but couldn’t see the outlaws yet. Logan had raced full out down the steep slope to avoid their gunfire, but they couldn’t be too far behind.

“When we reach the bridge, get off,” Logan shouted over his shoulder. “You cross first. I’ll be behind you with the horse.”

“Can’t we ride across?” she shouted back, but the wind whipped the words from her mouth. Then the bridge came into view, and the shock of it made her breath stall.

It was a dilapidated rope suspension bridge—a sagging mass of woven grass cables stretching two hundred feet over the plunging gorge. The ropes had darkened, loosened with age, unraveling at the bottom and sides, creating gaps wide enough to fall through. The entire structure drooped, forming a dangerous, gap-riddled vee that swung precariously in the wind.

And a hundred feet beneath it, the rapids raged.

Oh, God.

Disbelief gripped her. Anxiety tightened her nerves. Would that bridge hold their weight? Not that they had much choice with the outlaws closing in fast. And Logan wouldn’t cross if it wasn’t safe.

Would he?

He hauled up on the reins, jerked the horse to a stop at the edge of the cliff, and she leaped down. “Run,” he urged her. “I’ll be behind you.”

“Right.” She raced to the bridge, paused at the edge—and took in the sheer, dizzying drop, the water crashing furiously below, the high wind making the long bridge sway. Her head grew light. Panic strangled her throat.

This probably wasn’t a good time to mention that she hated heights.

She swung her backpack over her shoulder, grabbed the thick grass cables that served as handrails on each side. The bridge was narrow, sagging so badly she could hardly squeeze herself through.

Her pulse jittered hard. She struggled to breathe, but it was like trying to pull a wad of cotton through a needle’s eye. She stepped onto the bridge, felt it tremble beneath her feet.

“Go on!” Logan shouted behind her, and she glanced back. He had dismounted, stood holding the reins, and she saw the urgency etched on his face. Could the horse really make it over these ropes? Could she?

There was only one way to find out.

She jerked her gaze back to the bridge, forced her feet to move, trying desperately to ignore the water roaring under the gaps. The ropes felt slick in her sweaty palms, and she tightened her grip on the sides.

She could do this. She had to do this.

Maybe if she just darted across…

She took several fast steps, determined to hurry, but the bridge rippled and swayed underfoot. And then it jolted hard, dipped dangerously, nearly knocking her off her feet. She gasped, glanced back, saw Logan on the bridge with the horse.

“Hurry up,” he shouted. He kept coming towards her, leading the balking horse, but the added weight made the bridge lurch.

Her legs quivering wildly now, feeling as disjointed as a marionette in amateur hands, she tried to balance on the bouncing ropes. She fixed her gaze on the opposite side, headed downhill into the sagging center of the bridge, afraid the river was sucking her in.

But she couldn’t panic, couldn’t succumb to the fear. They had to escape those men.

And she couldn’t let Logan think she was weak. She’d spent too many years not measuring up, never meeting people’s expectations, especially her father’s. It had killed her to see that pained disappointment in his eyes.

And now this man thought she couldn’t cope.

She would prove him wrong. She’d prove everyone wrong. Her people needed her; she was the only royal left. She had to help them survive. But to do that, she had to cross this bridge.

She reached the lowest point of the span, kept her eyes off the river churning through the gaps, and started up the opposite side. The climb was steep, and the wind gusted, making the treacherous bridge sway hard. She jerked her eyes from the rapids frothing beneath her, slid her shaking hands over the ropes. It wasn’t much farther. She was almost there.

She rushed the final distance, leaped onto solid ground. Relief sapped her strength, turning her head light. She nearly collapsed and kissed the earth.

But those outlaws were behind them. She whirled back, her pulse sprinting again, scanned the slope across the gorge. There was still no sign of the men, so for the moment, at least, they were safe.

Logan led the anxious horse off the bridge and stopped beside her. “Here, hold this.” He handed her the reins.

She grabbed the leather straps, eyed the trembling horse, while Logan rummaged through one of his packs. “I’m going to blow up the bridge,” he told her. He pulled out a stick of dynamite, a fuse, and then his eyes pinned hers. “Take Rupper behind that hill, and wait for me there. And hold on to him. I don’t want him to spook when this thing blows.”

“But what about you?” Her stomach balled in a rush of nerves. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I set the charge.” He closed the flap on his pack, jogged back to the bridge. She opened her mouth, wanting to protest, but they did need to protect the horse. She dithered for a moment, reluctant to leave Logan, and finally led the gelding toward the rocky hill. She’d tie up the horse and come back.

But then a bullet whined past.

Her pulse jerked, slammed to a halt. She whipped around, saw their pursuers racing down the opposite hill.

And Logan was out on the bridge, exposed.

She had to protect him. She couldn’t let him die!

She hurried the horse around the rocks, scanned the steep slabs of granite rising toward the towering peaks, but there were no trees, no place to tie him up. “Stay,” she told him firmly, and hoped he obeyed. Logan wouldn’t thank her if she lost his horse.

But the horse wouldn’t matter if he died.

She jerked her pistol from her pack, raced back to the bridge. The gorge was two hundred feet across, too far for her to shoot with any accuracy.

And those men had rifles. The distance wouldn’t be a problem for them. Logan didn’t stand a chance—especially while he was setting that charge.

She had to get closer, provide cover. She had to creep out onto the bridge again, take advantage of the sagging center to shoot over Logan’s head.

She choked back the dread, refused to think about the precarious ropes. She kept the pistol in one hand, clutched the grass cable with the other, then forced herself onto the bridge. It bounced and swayed in the wind.

The outlaws had dismounted on the other side now. Logan was kneeling about five yards out, setting his charge beyond the massive stone pylons that anchored the bridge to the cliff.

One man raised his rifle, and her heart seized up. She whipped up her gun, fired a shot in their direction, praying it would worry them enough to drive them back.

Logan’s head jerked up. “Get out of here!” he yelled. He lit the fuse, started running toward her. The ropes beneath her bounced.

More gunshots barked, and her nerves went wild. The only way to shoot back and miss Logan was to lean out over the gorge. She eyed the spaces between the ropes, the water rocketing below, and her heart made a crazy dip.

But she had to do it. She couldn’t let those outlaws win. She sucked in her breath, leaned against the side rope, aimed toward the opposite cliff. She fired, fired again. She missed, but the thugs dispersed.

Then she struggled to pull herself upright, but Logan was running toward her, making the ropes jump under her feet. She slipped, shrieked, fell against the handrail. One leg slid through a gap.

Her heart spasmed. Time stalled.

But Logan grabbed her arm and yanked her up. “Go!” he shouted and pushed her forward. “Go, go, go!”

She raced off the bridge, headed for the rocks. Panic fueled her steps.

And then the dynamite blew.

The explosion boomed, jolted the ground, and she staggered, lost her balance, nearly fell. And then a bigger blast roared in her ears.

Logan shoved her against the rocks, flattened himself against her, covering her body with his. The ground vibrated, reverberated through her feet, rumbling into a fierce drum that rattled her chest.

Her face was mashed against Logan’s chest. Sharp stones dug into her back. The explosion crackled, zinged like bullets firing around them, and then dirt drizzled onto their heads.

He leaned harder against her, sheltering her head with his arms, protecting her from the falling debris. And she clutched his arms, digging her fingers into his biceps, trying to curl herself into his skin.

Long moments later, the noise finally faded, and the echo in her ears began to ease. “Is it over?” she asked, her heart still racing.

“Yeah.”

She dragged at the dusty air and coughed. God, that was close. He could have died out there with those outlaws firing at him—and it would have been her fault. But he was safe now, safe. She shivered hard, tried to calm her quivering heart.

But he still didn’t move. And she was suddenly aware of how close he was. His muscled thighs crowded hers, his strong arms bracketed her head. He smelled safe, strong—like dusty flannel and warm male skin. His ragged breath fanned her neck.

Her pulse sped up. Her shaky breath snagged in her lungs. She could feel the heat of him through the layers of clothes, the hard muscles pressed against hers.

Hard everything. The intimacy shocked her, excited her. And then he shifted, and a sudden heat shot through her blood.

She tightened her grip on his arms. He slowly lifted his head.

His dark eyes locked on to hers. He was close, so close. And she gazed back at him, trapped by the dark, raw heat in his eyes. She traced the hollows of his face, the black scruff coating his jaw, that sexy, masculine mouth. His hat had fallen off, and his thick, black hair was wild now, dusted with dirt. The sheer maleness of him made her nerves rush.

His gaze dropped to her lips and stalled. Her breath grew erratic, her blood skipped crazily through her veins. And then his gaze caught hers, and she was lost in those dark, dark eyes.

“Damn,” he muttered, and slanted his head. And then his lips claimed hers. She stiffened, electrified by the feel of his mouth on hers, the rasp of his whiskered cheek. Thrills rose from her belly, shot through her nerves.

He placed his hand on her jaw, changed the angle of his mouth, ran his tongue along her closed lips. Pleasure spiraled through her, and she gasped.

He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, aligned her closer against him. And her body exploded with sensation, fierce waves of it, like aftershocks from that dynamite blast.

Stunned, feeling as if she’d vaulted back into that explosion, she clung to his biceps, slid her hands up those massive arms. He made a low, rough sound, pulled her hips tighter against him. And pleasure burst through her at the intimate contact, shocking, drugging pleasure, making her want to get closer, then closer yet.

Her knees trembled. Her head whirled as he deepened the kiss, sweeping her mouth with his tongue. She’d never felt anything so wild, so glorious. So free.

She moaned, wanting more. Needing more. She was lost. She didn’t care. She didn’t want these feelings to end.

But he pulled back and lifted his head. His uneven breath mingled with hers. And she could only stare back at him, shocked, stunned, amazed.

He dropped his hands and stepped back, his gaze still burning on hers. And then he turned, picked up his hat, his movements slow, stiff. He banged the hat on his thigh to dislodge the dust, shoved it back onto his head.

His gaze cut to hers again, and she knew instantly that something had changed. His eyes were still hot, still narrowed, but not just with hunger now.

He was furious. The anger vibrated right out of him and charged through the air.

Her heart plunged. She knew what he was thinking. That kiss had been reckless, wildly inappropriate. She’d broken every Roma rule.

Daredevil, her people called her. Too impulsive to be a princess.

Maybe they were right.

A lifetime of condemnation swept through her, and her face flamed. She hugged her arms, searched for something to say. “Is…is the bridge gone?”

His mouth flattened more, carving deep brackets in those heavily stubbled cheeks. “Hell if I know.” His voice was bitter, rough. “But my sanity sure is.”

He turned, stalked around the rock in the direction of the bridge, anger pounding his strides.

She hitched out her breath and watched him go. But her mind was still spinning, her body pulsing from that delirious kiss.

Oh, God. She pressed her fingers to her lips, sagged back against the rocks. That kiss had been wrong, she knew that. Wrong for a princess. Wrong for a respectable Gypsy woman. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

But heaven help her, she didn’t care. She only wanted to kiss him again.