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