To Protect a Princess. Gail Barrett

be willing to break.

      By the time they reached the bluff above the abandoned bridge an hour later, his frustration was reaching the flash point. He slowed the horse, then reined him in by a eucalyptus tree, glad for the short reprieve. “We’ll stop here for a minute.”

      He helped her off, winced when she staggered away from the horse. But he bit back his words of sympathy. She might be stiff now, but the ride would get harder yet.

      He leaped down after her, pulled his binoculars and rifle from the pack, while she hobbled toward a bush. He didn’t loosen the gelding’s cinch. If someone was out there, they had to be ready to ride.

      His nerves ratcheted tight now, he crept as close to the edge of the cliff as he dared, and crouched behind a rock. The canyon was deep, hedged in by bluffs stripped bare by the constant wind. A hundred feet below him, the ancient rope bridge swayed over the plunging gorge like a stringy, tattered net.

      Still using the boulder to shield him, he rose, scanned the opposite ridge for signs of life, careful not to let the afternoon sun catch the binoculars’ lens. The trail leading down to the bridge was steep, treacherous even before the landslide had blocked it off. Now it would be suicidal to even try.

      He charted a path through the landslide debris, angled the binoculars down.

      And stopped. Right there, picking his way through the rubble, was a man leading a mule.

      Logan’s lungs went still. He zeroed in on the man, noted the ammo pouches on his assault vest, the Dragunov sniper rifle slung over his chest. Former military. Moved like a professional.

      And he’d come armed to kill.

      Logan didn’t believe in coincidence. That man was hunting them. But why? The dynamite in his packs wasn’t worth much, except to the miners who needed supplies. And he wasn’t hauling silver or gold.

      Which left the woman.

      His mouth thinned. The renegades wanted her for obvious reasons. There weren’t many females around. And a terrorist might try to hold her for ransom, to fund some personal war. But a sniper? Why would a sniper pursue an archeologist?

      Unless the woman had lied.

      Her footsteps crunched behind him, and he rose. His face burning, so angry he couldn’t speak, he seized her arm and yanked her back through the trees, his vision hazing with every stride.

      “What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding breathless. She trotted beside him to keep up. “Is someone there?”

      “You might say that.” He stalked to the horse and released her arm, his blood rushing hard through his skull.

      She’d lied. The damned woman had lied. Just what the hell was she up to?

      “So what are you going to do?” she asked, her voice anxious, high. “Blow up the bridge?”

      “No.” The cliff was too unstable, too exposed. And that sniper would pick him off before he could set the charge.

      Which left two choices. They either outran that man or they died.

      He sprang into the saddle, jerked her up behind him. “We’re going to ride hard,” he warned. “You can use the time to think.”

      “Think?” Her hands clutched his waist.

      “About the truth.” He twisted in the saddle, and his gaze nailed hers. “Because when we stop, you’re going to tell me what you’re really doing out here.”

      Chapter 5

      Dara had never seen a more furious man. Tension vibrated off Logan’s shoulders and powerful back as he stood in the rocky ravine, watering his horse at the creek. His jaw was clamped in a rigid line, his profile as unyielding as the granite slabs on the towering peaks. Anger simmered in every move.

      The cool wind gusted up the narrow canyon with a rumble of thunder, and she shivered and rubbed her arms. For the past two hours they’d climbed at a reckless pace, cutting across plunging hillsides, backtracking through shallow stream beds, edging around valleys so steep she’d grown dizzy when she’d braved a glimpse down.

      And Logan hadn’t spoken the entire time. He’d been restless, alert, checking frequently for signs of pursuit, his AK-47 at hand.

      The thunder rolled again, drumming through her aching forehead, and she glanced uneasily at the darkening sky. The land had stilled, the air hushed as the storm approached, turning as ominous as Logan’s temper.

      And just as ready to explode.

      He left the creek and prowled back to her then, leading his hulking horse. She eyed the barely leashed power in his forceful strides, the dark eyes burning beneath the brim of his weathered hat.

      And a sudden flutter skimmed through her nerves, hummed in her blood. Angry or not, everything about this man appealed to her. Just the memory of that kiss made her body pulse with heat.

      He stepped close, forcing her to look past his steel-hard chest to meet his eyes. And that virile maleness swamped over her again, that electric awareness that made her forget to breathe. She pressed her hand to her belly to quiet her nerves.

      “All right, let’s have it.” His deep voice broke the charged silence. “What are you doing out here? And I want the truth this time.”

      She turned to the gelding, stroked the elegant nose sloping beneath the silver brow band, buying time while she chose her words. Her colleague had warned her not to tell anyone about the dagger, not even Logan Burke. The danger of theft was far too great.

      But Logan didn’t care about treasure. He helped the miners, made a living hauling silver and gold. She slid him a glance, eyed the taut grooves bracketing his masculine mouth, the implacable planes of his face. And she knew that she could trust him. This man was honest, honorable. She felt it down to her bones.

      “I told you I need to find Quillacocha, the lost Inca city,” she said. “And that’s true. I do need to find it. But not to study the tomb. I’m looking for the dagger, the Roma dagger. The one from the legend—the Gypsy’s Revenge.”

      He didn’t blink, didn’t move. He continued to watch her, alert, intent, like a dangerous predator studying his prey. Only a slight narrowing at the corners of his eyes indicated he’d heard.

      “You probably know the story if you’re part Roma,” she said. It was a standard childhood tale. The Indian goddess Parvati, impressed with an eleventh-century king’s courage in battle, rewarded him with three sacred possessions—a necklace, a dagger, and crown. Combined, these treasures gave the Roma king the power to rule the world.

      But then a hot-headed prince rose to the throne, lusted after a forbidden virgin, and misused those powers to take her. Heartbroken and disgraced, the woman cursed the Roma king and condemned the Gypsies to roam.

      Soon afterward, the Roma were driven out of India, their priceless treasures lost. Generations of archeologists and fortune hunters had searched for the treasures ever since.

      Logan shifted, made a low, rough sound of disgust. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Who hasn’t? That necklace was in the news for months.”

      Dara nodded. The discovery of the necklace in a Spanish bank vault had rocked the world—and not just because it was Nazi war loot. It was proof that the treasures existed, that the legend had a kernel of truth. And when the Spanish government decided to return the necklace to its rightful owners—the Gypsies—experts from around the world had converged on the palace to get a closer look.

      She’d been there that fateful night. She’d stood behind her parents as they waited to receive the necklace—and watched them die.

      The memory surged, catching her unprepared, and she clutched the gelding’s neck. She closed her eyes, struggled to ward off the inevitable parade of images—their splattered flesh, their pooling blood, her mother’s vacant eyes.

      She