Unfaded Glory (2 page)

He was a solid wall against her back—his body was immovable like a marble statue, but he exuded heat like a bonfire. Even when she'd been surrounded by bodyguards in the royal palace, she'd never felt as safe as she did right at that moment. It was insanity. They were tearing through the streets, barreling toward even more danger. Damara was about as far from safe as she could be.

Only she was almost out of Abele's reach, and that felt amazing, too. It made her giddy, a false sense of freedom. She knew she'd never be truly free—she had a duty—but it would be a gift to be able to serve without being under his cruel thumb.

When she tried to stop thinking about the strong man who held her, she couldn't help but focus on how fast they hurtled through the air. She'd swear that the bike wasn't even touching the road. It was either the bike or him.

She breathed deeply, centering herself and pushing down her fear. Damara could smell the salt and the sea, something that never failed to ground her. Strangely enough, it seemed to be coming from him more than the air around them.

Their bodies swayed and twisted with the bike as it shot through the streets and alleyways, and for a moment, Damara could swear she was riding the wind. That thought somehow made it better. The wind was her friend, or so she'd thought as a child. It reminded her of the time she'd launched herself off the small cliff at the summerhouse, leaping into the wind so it could carry her safely to the lagoon with the bright blue fish below. Her nanny had almost had a stroke, but Damara had been so confident that her friend the wind would cradle her gently until she slipped into the clear waters. And she supposed she was lucky that it sort of had.

The colors and scenery slowly untangled into recognizable things as Hawkins decelerated the machine. They emerged on a small hidden beach that stank of fish guts and gasoline. Damara had been to Tunis and La Goulette numerous times, but she'd never known anything like this was here.

Well, what had she expected? To leave a secured international port from a monitored dock?

She saw the boat that would be their mode of transport. He wasn't kidding—it was going to be a tight fit. She bit her lip. It was true that she'd trained hard for the skills that she had, but she wasn't used to hardship or discomfort.

You can do this.

She would do anything she had to do to stop Abele and save Castallegna, she reminded herself.

“Get in and lie down. I'll cover you with the tarp until we're clear.”

Damara did as she was told. The boat stank like old fish and must, and she pulled her shirt up over her nose. The roar of a small motor soon rattled the hull, and Damara didn't know how long she lay there under the tarp as still and quiet as she knew how to be until he pulled it back from her face.

The first thing she noticed was the sky. The stars were big and bright, like glittering holes burned out of the pitch—breathtakingly beautiful. She could smell the salt in the air again, and the ocean around them seemed so black and fathomless, except for the pale ribbon of moonlight the shone down like a winding road over the inky waves.

“There's no way we can make it together to Marsala in this. There's a cargo ship anchored just over there that's headed to Marseille. It'll be close quarters, dirty and dank for about twenty hours, but I think it'll do the job.”

Twenty hours?
She could do this. Damara was used to sitting in on political dinners, parties and other things where she had to be still and quiet. This was just more princess training. She turned her attention from the sky to where he gestured. “How are we going to get aboard?”

“Captain is a friend. I got in touch with him before I dumped my cell. You're not carrying any electronics, are you? Phone, iPod...”

She shook her head. “No, I knew they'd be able to track me.”

“Smart girl.”

Pride swelled and bloomed at his praise. She didn't even know him, and after this she'd never see him again. It didn't matter what he thought of her as long as he got her to the States.

“He's going to linger there for the next twenty minutes, and we have to get aboard and down in the cargo hold before any of his crew sees us. So I need you to do exactly as I say when I say it. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” she agreed easily.

He maneuvered the boat up next to the cargo ship, and the sound of the small motor was drowned out by the idling growl of the giant engines of the ship. A rope ladder had been left hanging down the side for them.

She grabbed hold of the ladder, the rope abrasive on her palms. For all of her training, she still had the hands of a princess. Damara wouldn't complain; instead she would just do as he instructed. She tried to be as quiet as she could, remembering her ballet lessons and balancing her weight so she didn't flail and clang against the side like some alarm alerting everyone to their presence.

When she pulled herself to the top, she heard voices and she ducked her head, still clinging to the rope ladder. She looked down at Hawkins.

What's wrong?
he mouthed.

She made a talking motion with her hand, and then held up three fingers to indicate the number of voices she'd heard.

He put his head down for a moment, and then he began to climb. She would have shimmied back down the ladder and into the boat, but she saw it had already been set adrift. They were well and truly stuck.

Damara made herself as narrow as possible while still holding herself steady, and he started moving up the ladder behind her, his feet and hands on the outside of hers.

Even though Damara was used to warm temperatures and to heat, she wasn't used to
his
heat. His body was so hard and hot—even with the layers of clothes between them, his skin seemed to burn her.

She tried not to think about it—the way she fit against him, the way the hard planes of muscle pressed against her, how small and safe she felt, even dangling off a rope ladder hanging over dangerous waters.

As he moved higher, she became very aware of another part of his body that was just as hot, hard and insistent as the rest of him. Her cheeks ignited, and she knew that even in the dark, her face would be scarlet.

He didn't stop to apologize or make excuses or even acknowledge all the intimacies that were now between them. This was just a job to him and his arousal was just another bodily function.

Damara didn't know him, but she knew his kind. He may be there to help her, but he was still a mercenary. Still a man paid to kill. She rather imagined a man like him would have to be cut off from attachment to anything. Even himself.

She exhaled heavily and pushed all of those thoughts out of her head. She didn't have the time or the luxury to think about anything but escape, if the muffled sounds of a struggle were any indication.

Damara bit her lip to keep from calling out to him.

Every second dragged on for what felt like hours as doubt and fear filled her until he reached over the side and grabbed her arm to help her up. His knuckles were bloody, but he was otherwise unharmed.

The image of his hands, though—it burned itself into her brain like a brand. They were broad and strong, scarred, purposeful. They were the hands of a man who'd had to fight for everything he had. The way he moved, helping her, still using those hands even though he'd split his knuckles open, it was as if he didn't even notice the pain, if there was any. It was as if he'd simply chosen not to feel it.

Damara found that impossibly noble.

And it made her blush hotter.

She had to stop thinking of him as a man and think of him as what he was—a means to an end.

Another echo of voices spurred him to action, and he lifted the cover off a lifeboat so they could crawl inside.

She could barely see him in the darkness, but the moon was bright enough overhead that a tiny bit of light shone through the canvas tarp. He held a finger up to his lips to indicate she should stay quiet.

Something sharp needled her back and hip. Damara wanted to stay still and silent, but it quickly became agony. Hawkins seemed to know and he pulled her tight against his body.

Time stopped again, just as it had on the ladder. She was stiff and frozen, but this time his fingers pushed her hair out of her face.

Those same bloody, damaged hands touched her gently, soothed her. This man said so much without saying anything at all. It was all there in that one simple gesture.

You're safe.

I'll protect you.

And she believed he would.

There was a part of her that didn't want him to protect her. Part of her that wanted him to be a bastard. She didn't want to get caught, but she couldn't stop thinking about his hands. What they'd feel like on the rest of her body, what they'd look like on her skin.

Her face was so hot now she was sure that her cheeks would explode. She was embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts. It was all just fantasy anyway. She'd read too many forbidden books and been denied reasonable human contact for too long all in the name of purity. Her body might be untried, but her mind certainly wasn't.

Damara shifted carefully to make herself more comfortable, but she was at a loss for what to do with her arm. If this was a lover's embrace, she'd have clung to him, but he was a stranger. It was as if her own arm was this awkward part of her that didn't belong on her body.

“It's okay.” His breath tickled against the shell of her ear. “You can touch me. There's nowhere else to go.” His voice was so low, she could barely hear it.

Heart hammering against her chest, she did as he suggested and wrapped herself around him.

The hard length was still there and it occurred to her that it might be a gun instead of— She was such a silly girl. She'd been so caught up in the fairy tale of being a princess he had to save, she'd imagined this whole attraction between them like some stupid movie. She'd even romanticized his indifference. Another reason why she had to get her head back in the game. She couldn't afford to be a princess now. She had to be a leader. Damara had learned there was a big difference.

Except, he went through the motions of pushing her hair out of her face again. It was a caress, a touch for the sake of touch.

“Sleep, Princess. It's a long ride to Marseille.”

She didn't bother to tell him that there was no way she'd be able to sleep. Not with his nearness, his heat, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins from the events of the day. Or the possibility of being discovered.

Damara tried not to notice how strong he was, tried not to think about how good he felt under her hands, his strength wrapped around her. No, she was certain she'd never sleep. Especially when he'd said,
It's okay, you can touch me.
It made her think about touching him. A lot. Being touched by him.

What if his hand strayed just a bit, and what if she arched into his touch. What if— No, there was to be no sleep for her.

But she was wrong, because it was some time later that she was startled awake by gunfire.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE
SOUND
OF
SEMIAUTOMATIC
gunfire launched Byron into high alert. He'd been enjoying the feeling of holding Damara in the dark and the quiet. It was as if there were no other people in the world but them. She'd been pliant and warm, and she smelled of things like hope, things he dared not name. She'd quieted that buzz of guilt that played almost constantly in his head.

He heard yelling now but no return fire. They were being boarded.

They'd been at sea for several hours and piracy was more common in the waters to the east of them. The shipping lane they were on was largely unmolested. He'd made sure of that.

Stomping, banging on the side of the ship and loud voices echoed through the tiny space. He recognized the language as Russian. Byron only had a rudimentary knowledge of the language. But there was a heavy presence of Russian mob on Cyprus and in Greece, so he'd encountered several factions in his work for the DOD.

But as of yet, he didn't have any intel that they were involved in piracy—at least not outright. They were subsidizing some of the Somali crews but not Russian crews. Shit, this was about to get dicey. The imagery of her face peering out from the body bag haunted him.

Just let me keep her safe. Just let her live through this.

When she started awake, he pressed his palm over her mouth gently to keep her from shrieking. “We've been boarded, but everything is going to be fine. Just remember to keep quiet and do as I say,” he reassured her.

Her eyes were wide and luminous, still so trusting.

He started processing their situation from every angle—each scenario that was within the immediate realm of possibility. He strategically moved them around the chessboard, trying to figure out the safest and most expedient course of action.

Until he heard
Castallegna.

Renner had told him there were international and unsavory buyers for the Jewel.

For Damara.

He'd kill them before he'd let them touch her.

A calm came over him. His heartbeat slowed and the peace he'd been seeking filled him. Because this was his purpose; this was what he'd been born to do. And in this, he could keep her safe.

“Don't leave me,” she whispered. It was the second time she'd sensed what his actions would be before he took them.

“I'll be back.” He shifted carefully, hoping to make his exit from the lifeboat unseen.

“What if you're not?” Damara asked.

“Then stay here. And when you dock, get to the American Consulate. Ask them to get in touch with Renner.”

She grabbed his hand.

He smiled in the darkness. “This is what I'm for, remember?”

“There's too many of them to kill them all,” she pleaded.

“I like a challenge.” He didn't say “trust me” because that was the last thing she should ever do, but this, this he could handle. Byron slid out onto the deck and crouched behind the boat, watching. No matter what he decided to do, he had to do some recon to see what exactly they were dealing with.

He saw the captain of the ship—his contact Miklos Sanna speaking with one of the boarders.

“Ah, Grisha! You should have told me you were coming. There was no need for the display of firepower,” Miklos said as he clasped the man's shoulders.

The man he'd called Grisha, a hulking beast with narrow eyes, grinned. “I need to let my dogs run free now and then. Or they will get soft.” He shrugged. “But I don't have time for pleasantries. Do you have the Jewel?”

Miklos nodded to the stairs that led to the hold—where they would've been hiding had the deck been clear when they'd boarded. “They should be below.”

That bastard,
Byron thought, even though he wasn't surprised.

“They?” Grisha arched a simian brow.

“You didn't think the princess escaped Tunisia alone, did you? A hardcase mercenary helped her. American.”

“A cowboy?” Grisha said the word as if his mouth were full of marbles, as if his tongue couldn't wrap around the syllables.

“A real John Wayne motherfucker,” Miklos agreed genially. “He won't be bought. You'll have to kill him.”

Again, Byron wasn't surprised at the betrayal—that's what people did. The only person that could be counted on was oneself. And even that was sometimes sketchy. He thought about their options again.

Damara was right. He couldn't kill them all—at least not while he still had to keep her safe, and that was his number one priority. It would be a dangerous game of cat and mouse to hide until they made port. It was possible Miklos would weigh anchor until they were found.

The Russians had several smaller boats that were unmanned while the crew was aboard the
Circe's Storm.

He had enough C-4 he could create a diversion and disable the cargo ship, but that wouldn't stop the other boats from pursuit. From the position of the stars, Byron judged that they were about ten hours away from Marseille.

There was one other option.

He could let Grisha take Damara.

As soon as the thought entered his head, everything in him screamed in protest—except for his logic.

Grisha wanted her to control Castallegna. She was a princess schooled in diplomacy. She could keep herself safe for however long it was until they made port and they could escape. Byron didn't see any other way that didn't put her life at risk. Grisha wouldn't kill her.

That's not to say it wouldn't be uncomfortable for Damara. But they were outgunned and outnumbered here. A firefight on open water could lead to her injury or her death. It was like when an animal had locked its jaws on you, you didn't pull away because the animal would just bite harder. You pushed yourself into its mouth to force its jaws wider until you could break them.

He didn't like his options, but they were all they had.

Byron had to make decisions with his head, not his feelings. His rage had gotten his men killed in Uganda, and he hoped that this would save her.

If not, he'd die trying.

Byron crept back to the lifeboat and found Damara gone.

A string of profanity hovered on his tongue, but he didn't dare speak for fear of raising alarm and alerting them to his presence.

Where was she? Had they caught her already?

What if she was afraid?

But what he really meant was what if he had to add the sounds of her screams to the loop in his head.

“You don't have to kill anyone,” he heard her say. Pride and anger swept through him. He was so proud of her for being strong and brave, but he was angry that she'd revealed herself to protect him.

Byron knew he was completely at odds with himself. That it was okay somehow for her to face Grisha only if he told her to, but the fact that she'd done it on her own made it foolhardy.

He watched her. Even in dirty fatigues, she had a regal bearing.

“I think I do. You belong to me, you see.” Grisha grinned.

She flashed him a look that made the temperature around them drop several degrees. “No, I don't. You haven't paid my brother for the privilege. Until you do, anything that you do to me could be considered an act of war on Castallegna.”

“A tiny country with no allies.” Grisha shrugged.

She smiled. “Perhaps. Or perhaps my brother has had other offers for my hand from stronger, more powerful men than you. There are sheiks and princes who would marry me for Castallegna's diamond mines.”

Grisha was still smug. “Then why are you not with them?”

“Don't underestimate what I will do if you make me angry.” Damara may have been small, but she'd positioned herself in such a way that she appeared to be squaring off with the big Russian.

“Where is your guard dog? The American?” Grisha demanded.

“How should I know? I paid him to get me passage out of Tunisia. I don't need a keeper.”

“If he comes for you, I'll kill him.”

Miklos scanned the area. He seemed to sense Byron's presence. “I think you should stay aboard the
Circe
until Marseille.”

“Why is that?” Grisha asked.

“I know the American is still on board. I feel it in my bones. Here, we control the situation. There would be a lot of, shall we say,
opportunities
for him between here and Italy on a smaller craft.”

“I see your wisdom. If the princess is dead, I can't very well marry her. We'll take your cabin, Miklos.”

* * *

D
AMARA
HADN
'
T
SEEN
any possible way out of the situation that didn't involve revealing herself. Maybe it was naive of her to trust Hawkins as she did, but she knew in her gut that he'd come for her.

She could stand a few hours of Grisha's company—she'd had to endure it at home all the time. Of course, she'd always had her bodyguards and her brother and it had always been in a formal environment. But she was sure she could maneuver him to treat her gently at least until Hawkins could get to her.

Damara followed behind Grisha, wondering exactly how hard she'd have to hit him in the back of the head and with what to slow him down—if such action became necessary. She was thankful she'd asked her bodyguards to train her and even more thankful they'd agreed.

Abele would've had them put to death if he'd known. He'd thought it unfeminine and a sin for a woman to know such things. Of course, it had suited his purposes when hiring a contingent of female bodyguards to keep her secluded from men.

The captain's berth was small, but it had been outfitted with every luxury. Damara knew immediately that the cargoes transported on this ship weren't always on the manifest. If the Russians knew Miklos well, then he must have been transporting people, as well.

One of her objections to Grisha was that he'd been linked to sex-trafficking rings and she found that repulsive. How long before the young women of Castallegna began to disappear with him as their crown prince? No one would ever be safe.

It was times like this she wished she had more power. She wished she was more than a princess.

“Plotting my death?” Grisha asked conversationally.

She studied him for a moment. “Of course not. It's no secret I don't want to marry you, but I don't wish you dead.”

“Why
don't
you want to marry me, Damara? I have money and power. I can trace my lineage back to Catherine the Great.”

She doubted his royal lineage, but she wasn't going to say so. “You're a bad man, Grisha.”

“All great men are.”

She shook her head. “I must marry for my people. You know that. What would you bring to Castallegna? Convince me.” If she could keep him talking, maybe she could buy some time.

He grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall, but she shoved at his shoulders. “I said convince me for Castallegna. My body may come as a gift with the responsibilities of my people, but it has nothing to do with the decision of who will lead them.”

She prayed he heard her. His hands were just as strong and just as damaged as Byron's, but they were not noble and they turned her stomach. Damara held her body stiff and immobile. She didn't close her eyes, and she didn't look away from him. Not even when he dipped his head to kiss her.

Grisha paused when they were eye to eye. Damara didn't flinch, didn't hide from what was about to happen. Something he saw there caused him to pull back. “Perhaps you are not as useless as your brother says.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed.

“How is it that you make even your acquiescence sound like a challenge?”

“I assure you, it's not. You're obviously the one with the power. You've caught me. I have nowhere to go and no one to turn to for help,” Damara said calmly.

“But you're not afraid of me.”

“Should I be? Would you like me to be?”

“You said I was a bad man.” He studied her.

“Just because you're bad doesn't mean I should fear you. Fear is a waste of imagination. You will do what you must and I will do as I must.”

He eyed her, hard. “I meant what I said about the mercenary. I will kill him.” As if she'd somehow said otherwise.

“I've no doubt. Which is another reason I can't marry you. You kill someone because they disagree with you? My father had a dream for Castallegna.”

Grisha snorted. “A dream of democracy?”

“Yes. Being born into a family doesn't make a person any more fit to lead than any other.”

“I did not expect to drag you to the captain's quarters to talk politics.” Grisha scrubbed a hand over his face.

“No? What did you expect? To haul me down here, make me cower in fear and then force yourself on me so I'd be so humiliated that I would have no choice but to marry you? If my brother told you that would work, you are sadly mistaken.”

“And yet if we were on Castallegna, we would be legally married if I did.”

“That's another thing that's gotta go.” Tendrils of fear unfurled in her belly, but she ignored them. It didn't matter what he did to her. She was still the Jewel of Castallegna. But her brother and men like him were convinced that her only worth lay between her legs. No man would want her if she wasn't a virgin.

“What if I agreed to all these things you wanted?” Grisha surprised her.

“In writing? A contract that would be for all the world to see?”

“No, not in writing.” He unbuttoned his shirt and she gritted her teeth, fear blooming like a rancid flower. But he didn't pounce on her. Instead, he showed her the tattoos on his chest, his belly. His arms. His shoulders. “I already have a contract in writing, you see.
Bratva.
If I am ever found unworthy of the ink on my skin, it will be removed for me.”

She found herself looking at the art on his skin. The stars on his chest. The church with the spires on his belly. “I don't understand.”