Page 22 of Dalla's Royal Guards
“What year is this?” she asked.
Another shudder ran through her body when he murmured the date. Over one hundred years—she had been floating between existences for over one hundred years. This was the longest space of time between her returns.
“The world survived,” she murmured.
“What do you mean… the world survived?”
The question came from the man who had been driving. He squatted down on the other side of her. She curled a handful of sand and let it slowly slide out between her fingers. The gritty texture grounded her.
“It survived,” she repeated in a tone that warned she wouldn’t elaborate.
After a pause, the man who had been sitting behind her said in a gentle voice, “My name is Nasser.”
Dalla nodded, putting off the moment that she would have to look into those eyes that reminded her so much of Gerold. She rose and swayed. Nasser gently steadied her. A shiver ran through her at the heat of his fingers through the thin linen cloth of her tunic.
When was the last time I felt a man’s touch? Any touch at all?
“How are you feeling?” Nasser asked.
“Better. Where is the woman and child?” she asked.
“They are safe.” The other man spoke.
Dalla turned to look at the man. Shock coursed through her. This man… this man was the spitting image of Pascal Marchand. Dalla didn’t know if it was the heat, the result of her sudden appearance back into the world of the living followed by the adrenaline rush of combat, or just plain shock, but the world tilted at an odd angle.
“My sweet Pascal…,” she murmured, reaching out to touch his cheek before the world turned dark.
Musad glanced in the rearview mirror and then at the silent woman sitting next to him before focusing on the road in front of them. She was sitting with her head resting against the window, seemingly alright now, but… the confusion, the loss of consciousness, and the nausea were all symptoms of a head injury.
She had been unconscious for less than a minute, but her collapse had shaken them both. Musad’s first thought had been that she had a gunshot wound. Nasser had been thinking the same. They had both seen men fight like crazy for hours before suddenly collapsing from a wound they didn’t even know they had.
Musad had caught her and carried her to the SUV. Even poor Colin had been so concerned that he struggled to help. They’d had to order the man to be still, lest he aggravate his own injuries. Luckily they could see no blood on the woman’s limbs or clothes besides what came from Colin, there was no blood or bump found on her head, and her pupils seemed to be the same size. Those were good signs.
Perhaps it wasn’t an injury. Now that he considered the evidence, it seemed likely that woman had PTSD. She seemed a seasoned warrior, unflinching in the face of death, perhaps even seeking death given how she had made herself such a prominent target. It made sense. Musad didn’t quite know how to keep her mind on happier things, but he could try.
“We’ll be at the rendezvous within an hour,” he said. “Colin, how are you holding up?”
“I’ve had better days,” Colin admitted. “Miss, I never did thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome,” she murmured.
“I’ve never seen anyone handle a bow like you did,” Colin continued.
Musad’s focus narrowed on the way her fingers caressed the smooth wood. He gritted his teeth when his body reacted as if she were stroking him. Since when did he react to something soinnocent? He returned his attention to driving—which left only her voice to affect him inappropriately.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” she replied.
“Where?” Nasser asked.
She straightened in her seat—which Musad saw because somehow he was still struggling to keep his gaze from returning to her. More importantly, Musad wasn’t sure if she was going to reply, and he very much wanted to know the answer to Nasser’s question.
She mumbled, sighed, and mumbled again. Musad’s lips twitched in amusement. The combination of her surliness and coyness… it had him feeling something incredibly strong… giddy almost. His low chuckle earned him a heated glare from her before she quickly looked away again.
“Vinland, Albion, the Ottoman Empire, Alkebulan, the Greeks, and the Roman Empire. The last two were not so bad… as long as you stayed out of their politics. I remember…” her voice faded, and she fingered the loose string of her bow.
Her words made no sense, and Musad’s brow furrowed as he scrutinized them.
Was she referring to the books where she’d learned those techniques?
