Her Last Protector. Jeanie London

didn’t know his true identity.

      And Drew had no idea she would feel as if she belonged in his arms.

      “Hovno!” A gravelly voice spat out the curse.

      A Czech or Slovak curse, and a clue to the identity of their enemy.

      The footsteps marked the perimeter of the room. Drew could make out the path, hear the intruder searching behind the chairs that ran the periphery of the chapel beneath the icons adorning the walls in all their Orthodox glory.

      The resurrection of Christ.

      The Blessed Mother.

      Michael the archangel.

      A buffet of saints, all of whom Drew sincerely hoped were praying for their escape right now.

      Mirie shuddered, but Drew pressed his lips to her cool cheek, the only reassurance he could offer as seconds ticked by, each one stretching into another, protracted and tense. He inhaled fur from her ushanka until he was forced to knock the hat from her head with his chin before he sneezed.

      Then he was treated to the full impact of her hair, a crisp, clean scent that filtered through his consciousness, made him aware of each strand against his skin.

      “Any luck?” the Slovak speaker asked.

      Definitely Slovak. They were near the gate.

      “Bah!” another voice ground out, sounding like cigarette smoke over gravel. “They did not come down here.”

      “You break that news to Ratko.”

      A gruff snort, and the sound of retreating footsteps. Drew filed away that name and hoped the NRPG might neutralize the threat so they could ride out the danger in this hideaway. Could they be so lucky?

      But one exchange over the audio transmitter reminded him that Ninsele’s resources were no match for well-funded paramilitaries. The effects of a decade-long civil war would be felt for a long time.

      “Incoming, General.”

      “Secure the village gate,” General Bogdanovich shot back.

      “Roger that.”

      Then silence.

      Drew was out of choices. He couldn’t lie in wait until the church was surrounded or a villager tortured into revealing the church’s escape route. He had to protect Mirie until the NRPG had a lock on this situation or could spirit her to safety. He could make no other choice, take no chances with Mirie’s life.

      * * *

      THE METAL DOOR snapped into place with a gunshot crack that echoed forever. Mirie’s heart pounded in time with the sound, so hard that her chest ached from the rapid-fire beat and her ears throbbed with a steady tat-tat-tat-tat-tat like automatic gunfire. She couldn’t tell if the sound was real or some adrenaline-fueled trick of her imagination.

      The memory of gunfire from long ago.

      Sinking against the wall, she felt every muscle turn to liquid and her strength drain away.

      Drei’s attention was on sealing the door, so their pursuers wouldn’t follow. From inside the chapel, the decorated metal panel was a showcase for the gold tabernacle with its locked door and keyhole concealed in an apostle’s pocket.

      The panel concealed a spring-hinged door.

      By the time he turned around, Mirie had gotten a hold of herself. With a hand on her arm, he led her into the narrow tunnel, barely high enough for her to stand upright. Drei was forced to hunch over, and kept a step ahead of her as the passage wasn’t wide enough to walk abreast.

      Only after they had traveled a distance did he dare switch on a light. The red beam gleamed on rough-hewn walls as he whispered, “Talk to me, Your Royal Highness. How are you holding up?”

      Her staccato heartbeat and the stale air suffocated her. She swallowed back a cry when her fingers sank into some sticky substance on the wall.

      A spider’s web? Sweet Lord. If only the remnants of a web and the creature within were the worst of her troubles....

      “I’m okay.” A lie.

      She was bone-cold and shaking. Retrieving the glove in her pocket, she slipped her fingers inside and willed away thoughts of the men with rounds of ammunition strapped to their vests and the sound of gunfire outside.

      Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

      Drei didn’t reply. She could barely see his face, only the pinpoint beam of light that sliced through the endless darkness.

      “Frightened,” she finally admitted. “Worried about the villagers.” And so, so guilty because she had been advised not to make this trip.

      “The general has secured the gate and called for reinforcements.” Drei’s deep whisper embraced the dark, soothed with its tone. He liked this answer much better than the first one she had given. “He and his unit will capture these thugs.”

      “You think they’re criminals?” That surprised her. Why would criminals bother with an attack when they could all too easily cross Ninsele’s borders—one more problem that hadn’t yet been solved?

      “They’re thugs no matter who finances them.”

      Ah, Mirie understood. Of course they were after her. Why else would anyone bother this sleepy village? And Drei would take any attempt against her personally.

      She should never have risked leaving Briere, no matter how much she had wanted to be here for Bunică. Her selfish decision would impact everyone now because the NRPG could not deploy aircraft to pursue their attackers. The nearest air base was at the country’s western border and it belonged to Hungary. And Ninsele didn’t need the bad press. Not now. Not so close to the arrival of the European Commission’s representatives. Would they call off the talks, fearing for their safety? Had she just sabotaged all the progress they’d made toward the stabilization plan?

      Was it any wonder she was struggling to breathe?

      “The people expected a meal with a princess,” she said. “A celebration of a life lived with love.”

      Was it really so much to ask for the princess they had treated as their own to speak at a funeral?

      “They’ll have tales to tell their kids,” Drei said. “And they will celebrate life. Geta’s memorial and their own escape. The meal is already prepared.”

      If they escaped. Mirie prayed he was right, appreciated his effort to reassure her.

      But words and kindness couldn’t take away the guilt. She was responsible for her selfish choice to leave the safety of the royal compound. Now people were running for safety and fleeing armed paramilitaries.

      How many would be killed like the priest?

      “The general will make inquiries,” Drei continued, clearly determined to reassure her. “We’ll know by the time we get back to Briere. Who knows? Maybe some group will claim responsibility and save us the trouble of a search.”

      “You hope.”

      That made his gaze soften just a bit.

      “I do.”

      They both knew the trouble with assassins and revolutionaries was that they usually didn’t want to be identified. Secrecy gave them power. A terrorist cell would claim responsibility immediately and whip the media into a frenzy to frighten people.

      “Let’s keep moving.” Drei locked his fingers around her wrist and guided her hand around his waist. His touch was solid, a reminder against worrying about things they could not control. Drawing her close, he pointed the red beam of his flashlight into the darkness.

      Mirie kept pace beside him, concealed by his broad chest, chiding herself for her weakness. She had known the risks when deciding to make this journey. Yet she had hoped for the best, had felt she deserved to make this trip. She had survived when