Escape from Cabriz. Linda Miller Lael

animals in the woods?”

      “Umm-hmm.”

      “Suppose they come after us? I mean, since we don’t have a fire or anything—”

      Zachary yawned. “Between the two of us, princess, we ought to be able fend off a squirrel attack. Now quit talking and go to sleep—tomorrow’s going to be a hard day.”

      Kristin wriggled farther inside the bag. It was made of some kind of space-age material; although it was thin and light, she was perfectly warm. The ground was a little hard, though. “What do you suppose Jascha’s doing right now?”

      “Planning our executions. Go to sleep, Kristin.”

      She closed her eyes, but sleep was elusive. Every sound in the woods seemed to be magnified. “I left my camera at the palace,” she said with real despair.

      Zachary rolled onto his side, turning his back to her. She saw the familiar mole between his shoulder blades and barely resisted the urge to touch it with the tip of one finger.

      “Next time I carry you out of a prince’s bedroom,” he said between yawns, “I’ll give you a chance to pack a few things first.”

      The urge to touch Zachary’s mole was replaced by one to give him a kidney punch. “I had taken some very important pictures,” she told him, struggling to keep her voice even.

      His reply was a theatrical snore.

      Kristin rolled onto her stomach in a vain effort to get comfortable, and burrowed down deep into the bag. She fully intended to cry, feeling she had every right after the day she’d put in, but she was too tired. In five seconds she was asleep.

      She awakened hours later, in the depths of the night, to find herself cuddled close to Zachary, enfolded in his strong arms. For just a few moments she thought she was back in their apartment, that their breakup had never taken place.

      She sighed softly and ran one hand along his muscular thigh; he stirred in his sleep and spread one hand over her bottom, fitting her against him. The size and power of him jolted her back to reality and she jerked away, reaching blindly for her clothes, ready to spend the night sitting bolt upright if it came to that.

      But Zachary caught hold of her wrist and stayed her efforts. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said clearly.

      Kristin knew she couldn’t fight him; her strength didn’t begin to compare with his. If he were to imprison her under his weight and take her, there wouldn’t be a thing she could do to stop him.

      She was horrified when a thrill of pure lust moved through her, leaving her to shudder in its wake. The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Make love to me, Zachary.”

      His reply was like a slap in the face. “Not in a million years, princess. I don’t travel in your social circles.”

      Kristin didn’t know who she hated more—Zachary for cutting her to emotional ribbons or herself for inviting the intolerable, crushing pain of his rejection. To make her humiliation complete, she began to cry.

      “Oh, damn,” she sobbed miserably. “Damn!”

      To her utter surprise, Zachary took her into his arms and held her close. “Go ahead and cry,” he said raggedly, his lips moving against her temple. “If anybody’s earned the right, it’s you.”

      “I’m not crying because you wouldn’t make love to me!” Kristin wailed, clinging to her pride even in the depths of indignity. “Don’t you dare think that I am!”

      He chuckled and laid a light kiss on her hair. “Whatever you say, princess.”

      She cried until her grief was spent, her head resting on Zachary’s shoulder. Then she hiccuped. “Is there somebody—are you—?”

      “No,” Zachary answered. “I’m not involved with any particular woman.” He patted her bare bottom lightly.

      She swallowed. She didn’t know why it was important to tell Zachary, but it was. “I never slept with Jascha,” she said softly. “In fact, there was never anybody but you.”

      He didn’t reply, and Kristin couldn’t decide whether he didn’t believe her or he’d fallen asleep again. And she was afraid to find out.

      Pure exhaustion rendered her unconscious in the next few moments, and she awakened, hours later, to find herself alone in the sleeping bag. Zachary was up and dressed, and he tossed her another packet the moment she sat up.

      “Here’s your breakfast,” he said cheerfully.

      Kristin looked at the packaged food with a baleful expression. “What is it?”

      “Dried fruit. Keep your chin up, princess. Tonight we sleep in a cabin, with a real fire on the hearth.” He threw Kristin her clothes and calmly led the horses toward the stream.

      3

      Kristin held on grimly as her horse plodded along behind Zachary’s, scaling hillsides so steep that only scrub brush grew there. She would have given her passport for a cup of hot coffee and a powdered sugar doughnut. If she’d still had her passport—it was back at the palace, with her camera and journal and other personal possessions.

      She tilted her head back, saw that the sky had turned the color of charcoal.

      “Aren’t we sort of out in the open?” she called after Zachary, mainly to make conversation. She was much too tired to be alarmed.

      “Yes,” he answered, “so hurry it up.”

      Resentment simmered in Kristin’s cheeks as she spurred the panting horse. After all, she hadn’t been the one to pick this route. If it had been up to her, they would have left the country in an airliner, or a helicopter at the very least. Before she could frame a retort, however, a blood-freezing ping rang in the air.

      Zachary yelled something, and Kristin’s horse took off at a breakneck pace with no urging from her. She very nearly fell off, and in her mind she saw herself rolling end over end down the slope, backpack and all.

      They gained a grassy plateau, with trees, and once he was certain Kristin was safe Zachary leaped off his horse and crept back to the edge of the slope with a formidable pistol grasped in one hand.

      “Who are they?” Kristin asked, crawling up beside him as she’d seen soldiers and cowboys do in movies.

      Zachary’s eyes were narrowed as he surveyed the apparently empty countryside. “Rebels,” he speculated with a shrug of one shoulder, “or maybe bandits.”

      Kristin shivered. “You mean we have to worry about crooks, besides rebels and Jascha’s soldiers?”

      “Stay back,” he growled, still scanning the wooded area at the base of the steep incline they’d just climbed.

      “You didn’t answer my question.”

      “Excuse me,” was the brusque response as he checked the chamber of the pistol and then produced more bullets from his jacket pocket and thrust them into place with a practiced thumb, “but I’m a little busy at the moment. Maybe we could chat later.”

      Kristin was about to accuse him of being ridiculous when a second bullet struck the ground not half a dozen feet from where they lay. She scooted closer to Zachary. “I’m scared,” she whispered.

      “Smart girl,” Zachary answered, drawing a bead on something at the edge of the woods. “The good news is, these guys are either lousy shots or they don’t want to hit us. We were vulnerable as ducks in a rain barrel while we were climbing the hillside.”

      Just as Kristin was about to comment, he squeezed the trigger, and the explosion seemed deafening. She covered her ears with both hands and moved closer still to Zachary’s side. “Did you hit anything?” she asked, peering toward the trees.

      “Probably