“I would like a child...

Will you agree to father it?”

Part of Princesses of the Alhambra. Princess Alba longs for a life away from her tyrannical sultan father. She craves a happy family of her own, away from the palace walls she’s been imprisoned in all her life. So when honorable Lord Inigo comes to her rescue, she’s spellbound! The Spanish knight is betrothed to another, but could he be her only hope of realizing her dream?

CAROL TOWNEND was born in England and went to a convent school in the wilds of Yorkshire. Captivated by the medieval period, Carol read History at London University. She loves to travel, drawing inspiration for her novels from places as diverse as Winchester in England, Istanbul in Turkey and Troyes in France. A writer of both fiction and non-fiction, Carol lives in London with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at caroltownend.co.uk.

Also by Carol Townend

Knights of Champagne miniseries

Lady Isobel’s Champion

Unveiling Lady Clare

Lord Gawain’s Forbidden Mistress

Lady Rowena’s Ruin

Mistaken for a Lady

Princesses of the Alhambra miniseries

The Knight’s Forbidden Princess

The Princess’s Secret Longing

And look out for the next book coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Princess’s Secret Longing

Carol Townend

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08953-1

THE PRINCESS’S SECRET LONGING

© 2019 Carol Townend

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To the RNA London Chapter.

Thank you for the many wonderful talks

and much writerly chat.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
1396—the Alhambra Palace in the Emirate of Granada

Princess Alba lay in the dark, an unfamiliar noise had dragged her from her dreams. She turned restlessly, unable to work out what had woken her. All she could hear was a trill of birdsong. In her mind’s eye, she saw birds flying over lawns and terraces and flitting in and out of shrubs in the wilderness beyond the palace wall. They sounded happy. Free!

A lantern glowed softly in a niche, casting a gentle light on the sleeping forms of Alba’s sisters, Princess Leonor and Princess Constanza. Their black hair was loosely tied back for sleep, just like hers, and their eyelashes lay like dark crescents against their cheeks. Princess Alba and her sisters were triplets, identical triplets.

Alba yawned and, as she looked at her sisters, she was gripped by an odd fancy. It was as though she was looking at other versions of herself, versions which had yet to waken. Irritated, she brushed the thought aside. Her sisters’ features might mirror hers, but their characters—oh, so very different.

The bedchamber shutters were closed, and it was so early that nothing was visible through the star-shaped patterns cut into the wood. The Princesses hadn’t been long in their father’s favourite palace—only a few days—but already Alba knew that in daytime the piercings in the shutters turned bright sunlight into starry splashes on the floor tiles.

There it was again! That mysterious noise. Alba sat up. What could it be? The cry of a hawk? No, that was no hawk. That was surely—a baby.

Her breath stopped. Could it really be a baby? Whose could it be? It couldn’t belong to her father the Sultan, may God exalt him. The Sultan had only sired three children, Alba and her sisters. Sultan Tariq’s unfulfilled wish for other children—more precisely, for a son—was well known.

Alba scrambled to the window. Kneeling on a cushion, for the window was low and the floor hard, she shoved at the shutter and strained to hear more. She’d spent most of her life far away in Salobreña Castle and not once had she held a baby. A pang shot through her, violent and intense. If there was a baby in the palace, she must see it. Hold it.

Loath to wake her sisters, Alba snatched up a robe and veil and was dressed in no time. She took the lantern to light her way, crept softly downstairs and slipped out of the tower.

The stars were fading, the sky was turning pearly grey and the air was pleasantly cool.

Ahead of her, paths ran this way and that. Buildings were visible as black shapes at the end of the paths. So many walls and towers. Alba had yet to learn the layout of the grounds, but in this instance, it didn’t matter. That sound, the faintest of whimpers, was her guide. There was a baby in the palace!

Stepping on to the lawn, Alba sped past a hissing fountain. She entered a small grove of trees and was greeted by the heady scent of oranges. A section of the palace wall lay on her left hand and light glowed briefly from a guardhouse at the top. Her father the Sultan had many guards.

Mindful of the need for discretion, Alba tugged her veil tightly about her face. Sultan Tariq insisted that the Princesses wore veils, even when walking here in the palace grounds. Any man who caught a glimpse of her face would be severely disciplined. Alba wasn’t sure what form the punishment would take, it was enough to know that her father ruled with an iron hand. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if a guard suffered on her account.

God was with her, she saw no guards.

Several buildings were clustered behind a screen of myrtle bushes, the thread of sound came from the nearest. The strengthening light revealed a line of windows with arches shaped like horseshoes and a large door heavily decorated with ironwork. The door opened smoothly, and Alba entered a shadowy antechamber. An indignant wail echoed across the marble floor.

Excitement fizzing through her veins, Alba hurried towards a curtained door arch.

Since her father the Sultan only had three children, this building had to be part of Prince Ghalib’s harem. Prince Ghalib was Alba’s uncle. He was much younger than the Sultan and to say that he must find life difficult was an understatement.

Prince Ghalib was her father’s designated successor, he was an heir locked in a gilded cage. Like Alba and her sisters, her uncle wasn’t allowed his freedom. Alba understood why. Insurrections were commonplace in the long and bloody history of the Nasrid dynasty. Brother would kill brother and seize power. Doubtless, Sultan Tariq feared Prince Ghalib might stage a coup and overthrow him.

Determined to escape such a fate, Sultan Tariq had kept his brother out of the way at Salobreña Castle for years. The three Princesses had lived there too.

During that time, Alba had seen her uncle happy and she’d seen him angry. Prince Ghalib had many faces. Underneath them all lay a dark and bitter frustration. Alba sympathised, for she’d heard that the Sultan had made his brother promise after promise.

‘I’ll give you a castle, dear brother, never fear,’ the Sultan had vowed. Or, ‘I’ll put you at the head of an army.’

Her father had broken every promise. While the Sultan lived, Prince Ghalib would never be free, he was too much of a threat. It didn’t help that, unlike the Sultan, Prince Ghalib had fathered many children.

Prince Ghalib had been brought from Salobreña Castle to the Alhambra Palace at the same time as his nieces and, like the Princesses, he continued to be granted every luxury. Except his freedom.

Alba reached the curtained archway as the baby paused to draw breath. A woman was crooning softly, and her soft murmurings dragged Alba back to when she herself was little more than an infant. A sharp pain pierced her, like a lance to her heart. Mamá! Her mother, the Queen, had spoken to her in just such a voice. That was the voice of love, it was the most beautiful sound in creation and she’d not heard it in an age.

Curtain rings clinked as Alba pushed inside. If the baby was Prince Ghalib’s, it would be her cousin.

A young woman about the same age as Alba was lying on a couch with the baby. She looked across and gave a rueful smile. ‘My daughter is keeping you awake? A thousand apologies.’

My cousin. The baby’s cheeks were red with anger and she was waving chubby fists in the air. As Alba drew closer, she looked Alba’s way and the wailing cut off abruptly.

Alba’s heart squeezed. ‘What an adorable child.’ She tossed her veil over her head. Sultan Tariq’s strictures about the Princesses wearing their veils didn’t apply when the Princesses were in their private apartments because no man set foot in them. The same rule must apply in her uncle’s harem. No guard or manservant would dare enter the women’s quarters.

The woman on the couch studied Alba’s face, eyes wary. ‘I’ve not seen you before.’

‘No.’

Gathering the baby to her breast, the woman sat up. ‘May I ask who you are?’

Alba smiled and, since she only used her Spanish name when she was in the company of her sisters or her duenna, she gave her Moorish one. ‘I am Princess Zoraida.’

Her uncle’s concubine jumped up as though scalded and made a hurried obeisance. ‘Princess Zoraida!’ The baby in her arms wriggled.

‘Please,’ Alba said. ‘There’s no need for that.’

The young woman swallowed. ‘There is every need.’ Her expression was haunted as she looked Alba up and down. ‘You are the middle Princess, I believe?’

‘Aye.’

Dawn was breaking, and light was filtering into the chamber. The young mother looked past Alba towards the door arch, her expression pinched. ‘Where are the other Princesses, my lady?’

‘They are asleep. Please, do not concern yourself.’

The concubine bit her lip. ‘My lady, I doubt the Sultan, may he live for ever, would sanction your visiting Prince Ghalib’s harem.’

Alba held the girl’s gaze. ‘I shall say nothing of coming here.’

Her uncle’s concubine let out a trembling sigh. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

The baby had stopped crying, her eyes were fastened on Alba’s lantern. Gently setting it on a ledge, Alba held out her hands.

‘May I hold her?’

The girl hesitated and smiled. ‘Of course. Here, my lady. Yamina is usually very good, I don’t know what has got into her this morning.’

A warm bundle was thrust into Alba’s arms and she was transfixed by a painful emotion she could not name. Holding her cousin gave her a sense of belonging. Of completion.

‘Yamina is a lovely name.’

Alba could feel Yamina’s warmth creeping into her heart. Indeed, it seemed to fill every part of her, warming her in ways that the summer sun could never warm. She’d never felt like this before, such pain—yearning, she supposed. Such joy. Yamina was a sweetheart. Alba’s unconfessed miseries coalesced into a piercing spear of longing. A baby. This was what was missing from her life. A baby. For months Alba had felt restless and ill at ease, now she knew why. Deprived of love herself, she yearned for someone to love. She yearned for a baby.

Eyes misting, Alba cradled Yamina. She stroked her face, marvelling at the softness of her skin. Yamina was so trusting. So dear. Aching inside, Alba swallowed down a lump in her throat. ‘My cousin,’ she murmured.

Dark eyes watched her. ‘My lady, her life will be very different to yours. You are a princess. My daughter will be fortunate if she can remain in the palace. It is lucky she is a girl.’

‘Oh?’

The concubine shrugged. ‘Who can say what the fate of a male child of Prince Ghalib’s might be? However, since I have a daughter, I am hopeful she will be permitted to stay. Perhaps she will attend you, my lady, when she is grown.’

Alba stared. This child was her cousin and she might well become a lady-in-waiting. On the other hand, life was precarious and if something untoward happened to Prince Ghalib—what then? Yamina could be forced into servitude, she could be ill treated. Alba had never seen a servant beaten, but such things were commonplace, her father the Sultan was a hard taskmaster. As for his temper, it was as black as sin. Alba had witnessed his temper first-hand...

When she and the other Princesses had been riding from their old home in Salobreña Castle to their newly built tower in the Alhambra Palace, their father had almost killed three prisoners they had come across on the road. Spanish knights, they were being held for ransom. The knights didn’t speak Arabic and were ignorant of local custom, so they hadn’t understood they weren’t permitted to look at the Princesses.

Sultan Tariq had been so enraged by what he saw as the knights’ insolence, that he’d been prepared to execute them on the spot. If Alba and her sisters hadn’t begged for clemency, those Spanish noblemen would surely be dead.

There was no question but that the Sultan was inflexible and capricious. However, surely even he wouldn’t allow his niece to be beaten? Whatever happened to Prince Ghalib, she prayed her father wouldn’t force Yamina into servitude.

‘Will your daughter have a say in how she lives her life?’

‘No, my lady. Prince Ghalib, long may he prosper, will decide.’

Alba held the concubine’s gaze. ‘Then her life is little different to mine. I, too, must obey my father.’

When her uncle’s concubine looked at her, face suddenly blank, Alba knew a moment of shame. It was true that the three Princesses lived according to their father’s dictates, but their mother had been the Queen. The women living here were simply Prince Ghalib’s concubines. The life of such a woman, even one who had borne a child, was infinitely more precarious than that of a princess.

‘Men can be callous.’ Alba shook her head. ‘All they care about is their own pleasure. And war and conquest, of course.’

The concubine threw a nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘My lady, you must not speak in this manner.’ Her fingers crept to a silver bangle. ‘Prince Ghalib, may blessings rain upon him, is generous. He gives me gifts. He allows me to dress my daughter in the finest linens.’

Alba didn’t reply. The Sultan showered the Princesses with gifts too, although Alba had long suspected that the gifts were a means of their father displaying his range of influence. Frankincense and myrrh from the east, silk from Byzantium, silver from Arabia—all these and more had been given to his daughters. Not for a moment did Alba think the gifts were given out of love, Sultan Tariq didn’t know the meaning of the word. No, Alba was coming to suspect that the Sultan used gifts as a means of ensuring his daughters’ obedience. He wanted to keep them sweet. He wanted them to know how powerful he was. The question was why?

Alba pursed her lips and wondered if she would still be living in the palace when Yamina became an adult. The thought was unpleasant on several levels. The Sultan appeared to be in no hurry to arrange marriages for his daughters. Alba had had her fill of palace life—of the endless intrigues, of the constant tiptoeing around her father’s anger. If her father wasn’t going to arrange a marriage for her, she would have to find a way to escape.

Pressing her lips firmly together, Alba hugged her cousin. A sturdy leg had escaped its wrappings. Heart hurting, she stroked it gently.

‘Your daughter is beautiful,’ she said. ‘You are very blessed.’

‘Thank you.’

Soft voices reached them. A woman laughed. Her uncle’s harem was coming to life.

‘I ought to leave.’

‘That would be wise, my lady.’

Alba handed Yamina back and the young mother’s face softened into an expression of love and acceptance. It was then that the realisation hit home. Men didn’t understand love, they didn’t need it. Alba couldn’t be more different, she needed love as she needed air. She craved it. Love was what was missing from her life. This tiny child had shown her as much. If she had a baby...

Her days had felt empty because she had no one to love and care for. Naturally, Alba had her sisters, but she had come to fear that the love she felt for her sisters was all that she would ever have. She was a woman grown and sisterly affection was no longer enough.

Her mind raced. Given the number of concubines that must live in this harem, the bond between men and women must be weak indeed.

How many women lived in her father’s harem? She’d heard he kept a harem and had often wondered if that had been true in her mother’s time. How long had Father spent mourning Mamá? A month? A week? A day?

The murmur of voices drifted through the arched doorway. Water was being poured. There was much splashing. A loud yawn. It was odd to think that here in Prince Ghalib’s harem, Alba had been given a glimpse of real love. The bond between a mother and her child was surely stronger than steel.

Conscious that they might be interrupted, Alba drew her veil over her face. She hesitated. Before she left, there was something she must ask. ‘Is my father’s harem close by?’

The young woman’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Why, yes, my lady, if you continue down the path, it’s the next building.’

Alba’s hands fisted in her robes. ‘Was it here when my mother was alive?’

Her uncle’s concubine blinked. ‘I was not brought to the palace until after the Queen’s death, but I believe so. Generations of sultans have kept harems here.’

‘So, it’s true,’ Alba murmured.

‘My lady?’

‘Never mind. Thank you for allowing me to hold Yamina. Farewell.’

‘Farewell, my lady. Blessings upon you.’

‘And upon you.’

Curtain rings were clattering, trailing silks were whispering over the marble floor. Another few moments and the women and children of the harem would be fully awake. If anyone saw Alba, she would face a barrage of questions, she had lingered too long. Giving the young mother a parting smile, she slipped out of the chamber.

Swiftly, she retraced her path through the orange grove. The sky was tinged with pink and the tower Sultan Tariq had built for the three Princesses loomed up in front of her. It was an imposing building, so much so, that when Alba had first seen it, she hadn’t noticed how far it was from the rest of the palace. That had not been an accident, she realised. Sultan Tariq didn’t want his daughters near the rest of the harem.

From this angle the Princesses’ tower, though glowing warmly in the rays of the rising sun, looked as forbidding as a prison. Goosebumps ran down her back.

What if the Sultan decided to keep his daughters in the tower until they were wrinkled and grey? He was so controlling, it was entirely possible. Look at what had happened to Mamá. The Queen had been born in the neighbouring Kingdom of Castile and she’d had the misfortune to be captured by the Sultan’s troops. The story went that as soon as the Sultan set eyes on his Spanish captive, he’d wanted her.

It hadn’t been love. It couldn’t have been love, as far as Sultan Tariq was concerned love was all about possession. He’d made Mamá his Queen and she’d never returned to Spain.

Had Mamá been given the chance to refuse him? Alba doubted it.

Had she missed her homeland? Most likely.

Was that why Mamá had died when she and her sisters were small? Was her father’s iron will to blame?

Briefly, Alba wondered if she was misjudging him. She burned to know whether he had plans for her and her sisters. They had reached marriageable age, and not once had he mentioned marriage. If she never married, she’d never have a child.

Unfortunately, even if the Sultan were to arrange a marriage for her, Alba didn’t trust him to find a good husband. Men were cold and, in her experience, heartless. Her father certainly was, though she ought, in justice, to accept that other men might be different.

Concubinage was another possibility. That girl in the harem had told Alba that Prince Ghalib was good to her.

Unfortunately, Alba didn’t think the Sultan would permit his daughters to become concubines. He was too proud.

Alba had done her best to learn about the world outside the palace, and what she’d discovered had made her extremely wary. Men were belligerent. Her father’s borders were never safe, there was always a new conflict to worry about. Men cared about power, they craved money, possessions and land, which was why all the great marriage alliances were made with political aims in mind. If men thought about love at all, it must come very low on their list of priorities.

She almost tripped over a paving stone as the realisation hit her. She had no need to marry to have a baby. If she could get away from her father, she could surely find someone to give her a child.

Why tie herself to a man? She would be content on her own. She had caskets overflowing with jewels. She had the means to bring up a child without a husband. Her baby would want for nothing. Most importantly, her child would know what it was to have a mother’s love. Her child would live free.

Alba’s heart ached as she stared at the top of the tower where her sisters were sleeping. That tower was a gilded cage. And there was no way she was going to waste her life in a cage. If her child was to enjoy true freedom, it must be born well away from Sultan Tariq. She must, must, must get away.

Would her sisters come with her? Alba’s pulse quickened as she thought it through. That would be wonderful, the three of them would set up home together, they would support each other as they had always done. And she could have a child. Her sisters would love it almost as much as her.

Where? Where might they go?

The Kingdom of Castile—her mother’s homeland—seemed as good a place as any. In Spain, Alba could look for her perfect man. A handsome man who would give her a beautiful child and then leave her in peace. An honourable man who would not lord over her in any way. A man who...

A memory stirred in Alba’s mind. She was looking into the grey eyes of one of the Spanish knights her father had almost cut down on the road to Granada. She’d only seen him a handful of times, and always from a distance. The first time had been when he’d limped off the prison galley at the port in Salobreña. Captured in a border skirmish, he’d barely been conscious, because of a leg wound courtesy of her father’s troops.

Alba reached the tower door, puzzled as to why the memory of that knight kept coming back to her.

The second time she’d seen him had been on the road to Granada. She’d been thankful he’d survived the privations of her father’s prison. His green tunic had been somewhat the worse for wear, but he’d been allowed to keep his gold ring—proof of his high status, no doubt.

There’d been something about the way he’d looked at her, and Alba didn’t think it was simply that she was unused to a man’s regard. He’d made no attempt to hide his curiosity. His gaze had been frank. Admiring. The knight had liked what he’d seen, and he’d made no attempt to hide it. Best of all, she’d seen not the slightest trace of the tyrant in him.

He was brave too. Her father had been bearing down on him, scimitar in hand like a vengeful demon, and that knight had stood firm. For a moment, he’d even looked amused. Amused? Sultan Tariq’s fury was never amusing.

Alba could be reading too much into a look. She was, after all, unused to men. She must take care. However, the appreciative glint in those grey eyes gave her hope. That man didn’t look like a bully. He liked women and he liked them to like him back.

If life didn’t improve here, Alba could think of no better place to settle than in her mother’s homeland, preferably with her sisters. All she had to do was to work out how to get there.

Chapter Two
A street in the city of Granada, Al-Andalus

The evening was warm. Moths were fluttering around three lanterns hanging over one of the doorways.

‘Three lanterns,’ Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville, murmured. His saddle creaked as he turned to his squire, Guillen. ‘This is the place?’

‘It must be, my lord.’

The Three Lanterns was a bathhouse. Its popularity with merchants from outside the Emirate gave Count Inigo hope that the presence of a Spanish knight and his squire wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. He was finally on the point of returning home and the last thing he wanted was trouble.

Earlier that day Inigo had been freed from Sultan Tariq’s prison in the Vermillion Towers. As Count of Seville, and lord over sizeable holdings in the Spanish kingdom of Castile, a hefty ransom had been paid for Inigo’s release. He remained uneasy. Until he left the Sultan’s territory, he wasn’t going to let his guard down. His incarceration had given him a grave mistrust of Sultan Tariq, and while there was no question that Inigo was free, he wouldn’t truly relax until he was back in Castile. One more night and they’d be on their way.

‘You have our safe conduct, lad?’ Inigo asked.

Guillen patted his saddlebag. ‘In here, my lord.’

‘Good. And you were given assurances that we may explore Granada unmolested?’

They were still within a stone’s throw of the Sultan’s palace. If they encountered prejudice, Inigo needed to know he and Guillen had protection. Having won his release, Inigo had no wish to fall foul of city authorities.

‘Indeed, my lord. Provided we leave by noon tomorrow, Granada is ours to explore.’

Slivers of light were seeping out between cracks in the bathhouse shutters. Inside, Inigo could hear water being poured. There was a faint tang in the air. Almond oil. It was beyond tempting. After months in captivity, his skin itched. With a grimace, he tugged at what was left of his green tunic. Head to toe, he was filthy. ‘I stink to high heaven.’

Guillen grinned and said not a word.

Inigo lifted an eyebrow and prepared to dismount. ‘That bad, huh?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Wretch. Here, hand me that safe conduct, I’m not about to let it out of my sight.’

Guillen unbuckled his saddlebag, drew out a scroll and passed it to Inigo.

‘My thanks. See to the horses before you come to attend me.’

Inigo rapped on the door, which opened at his touch. A tiled entrance led to a small courtyard that was starred with lamps. The bathhouse was larger than it appeared from the street, arched doorways led off in all directions. The scent of almond oil mingled with other scents—bay, sage, rose...

Inigo heard the hum of conversation and then a soft footfall. A young boy was bowing at him.

‘My apologies, I don’t speak Arabic,’ Inigo said. Conscious that his unkempt appearance might lead the boy to peg him for a beggar or a thief rather than a customer, he opened his money pouch and took out a handful of silver. ‘I am Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville, and I am hoping you speak my tongue.’

‘I do indeed, great lord.’

‘That is a relief. I would like a bath and a barber. Your name, lad?’

‘I am Mo,’ the boy said, smiling. ‘Welcome to The Three Lanterns.’

Across the courtyard a door swung wide, and Sir Enrique de Murcia stepped into the lamplight. Inigo held down a groan. Sir Enrique had been a fellow captive in the Vermillion Towers. Unfortunately, he was the last man Inigo wanted to see.

Desperate though he was for a bath and clean clothes, Inigo found himself wrestling with the urge to turn on his heel and go elsewhere. It was an awkward situation. Sir Enrique was cousin to Inigo’s close friend, Count Rodrigo Álvarez. That should have stood in Enrique’s favour, but Enrique’s foolhardiness had sparked off the border skirmish that had cost Rodrigo’s younger brother his life. If Enrique hadn’t rushed into battle, young Diego would still be alive, and Inigo and Rodrigo would never have dived into the fray in an attempt to save him. Inigo’s capture and subsequent imprisonment lay firmly at Enrique’s door.

‘Enrique,’ Inigo said. ‘Didn’t think to find you here.’

Enrique stood under an arch, swaying slightly. He was holding a wineskin and he looked drunk, which was quick work, even for him. They’d not been free for long. He lifted the wineskin to his mouth, throat working as he swallowed.

‘This wine’s not bad,’ Enrique said, tossing the empty skin aside and scowling at Mo. ‘You, fetch me another.’

‘Yes, great lord.’ Mo clapped his hands and another boy appeared and was sent in search of more wine. Mo looked at Inigo. ‘You require a private bath, great lord?’

Inigo nodded. ‘If you please. My squire Guillen is stabling our horses. He will join me shortly.’

Inigo was shown into a lamplit chamber. After the rigours of his imprisonment, it was like walking into heaven. The floor was white marble and he found himself gazing longingly at a low marble washbowl. Further in, beyond a row of horseshoe arches with red marble columns, steps led into a deep pool fed by a water spout. The water gleamed blue in the lamplight. The wall tiles were earth-coloured, and the ceiling domed. A handful of six-pointed stars were spaced about the dome. Air vents. In the day they would, presumably, admit light. A wooden couch was set against a wall.

This was his bathing chamber? It was fit for a prince.

As Inigo peeled off his clothes, filthy rags he never wanted to see again, he prayed Enrique would have the sense to realise his company wasn’t wanted.

He splashed off the worst of the filth in the washbowl before lowering himself into the pool. The water was warm and scented with sage, it felt like heaven. He closed his eyes and was easing his injured leg when a shift in the air told him someone had joined him. Hoping it was Guillen, he opened his eyes.

Enrique stood at the edge of the pool. ‘Is Rodrigo joining us?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t say,’ Inigo said, ‘I am not privy to your cousin’s plans.’

That was a bald lie. In truth, Rodrigo was due later. However, during their captivity, Rodrigo had been unable to escape Enrique’s company and Inigo was only too conscious of how difficult he must have found it. To have been compelled, day after day, to keep the company of a man whose recklessness had led directly to the death of his beloved brother must have tested Rodrigo’s patience to the limit.

In the interest of harmony, it would be best to get rid of Enrique before Rodrigo arrived.

Enrique grunted, weaved his way to the couch and sat down heavily. He was holding more wine—a bottle this time—and was toying with the cork.

Leaning against the side of the pool, Inigo probed his leg. In the battle to save Diego, one of the Sultan’s men had sliced it open. Thankfully, the wound had healed cleanly, though it still ached from time to time.

‘They have women here,’ Enrique said conversationally. ‘Girls seem to like you, I’m sure they will be delighted to accommodate you.’

Inigo cleared his throat. ‘Not interested. Enrique, you must be forgetting, I am to be married soon.’

Enrique’s lip curled. ‘You’ve been betrothed for years, that’s never stopped you before.’

Inigo shrugged. ‘Lady Margarita and I have an understanding.’

‘She knows about your...flirtations?’ Enrique asked.

‘Aye, but we will be married shortly and all that will change.’

‘You’ll be faithful after you’re wed?’ Enrique sounded incredulous.

‘Of course.’

‘Good God, man, why? You don’t give a fig for Margarita, you never have.’

Inigo was all too aware that his relationship with his betrothed was cool. Lady Margarita Marchena de Carmona was a cool woman, which was exactly why he was marrying her. He wanted a cool wife. An emotional woman wouldn’t suit him, such a woman would disrupt his household and destroy his peace of mind. When they were married, he would reward Lady Margarita for her calm by being a loyal husband.

‘I won’t shame my wife. I shall be faithful.’

Enrique’s lip curled. ‘It’s amazing you can say that with a straight face. You’re the biggest flirt alive.’

Inigo couldn’t deny that he liked women. It was the emotional baggage they brought with them that made him wary. He liked his relationships simple.

‘There will be no flirting when I am wed. It’s too much trouble otherwise.’

Idly, Enrique watched him, and a twisted smile formed. ‘Crook your finger and those girls will come. They can dry you off. Seriously, Inigo, make the most of them while you can.’

‘Guillen will be back from the stables shortly, he can assist me.’ Wishing Enrique in Hades, Inigo slid deep into the water.

Back in Castile, Enrique’s reputation with women was ugly, Inigo had heard that he had a cruel streak. Inigo had never seen Enrique with a woman, and rumours were only rumours, but having witnessed Enrique’s vicious impetuosity in battle, he feared they might be true.

Enrique lifted the bottle and drank. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he gave Inigo an unpleasant smile. ‘I’ve been married for years and I’ve never let it interfere with the real pleasures of life.’

‘The real pleasures?’ Inigo smothered a yawn.

‘I have plans, let me tell you. I’m saving myself for later tonight.’ Enrique jerked his head towards the door. ‘Otherwise I’d avail myself of the delights here.’

Despite the warmth of the water, Inigo felt a chill of foreboding. ‘Plans?’

‘I intend to avenge myself on Sultan Tariq.’

Inigo relaxed, it was hard not to laugh. Enrique was ridiculous. Sultan Tariq was safe behind the impenetrable walls of the Alhambra Palace with innumerable soldiers answering to his command. It would take more than a lone Castilian knight with vengeance on his mind to put a dent in the Sultan’s armour. ‘Oh? How so?’ This would be interesting.

‘The Sultan will regret the day he made me do forced labour.’ Enrique’s eyes glittered, and a bitter torrent of words spilled out. ‘Damn it, Inigo. I am a nobleman, we are noblemen. It’s one thing for Sultan Tariq to demand a ransom for our capture, that I did expect, it’s common in war. But when he put us to breaking rocks in that gully outside the palace, he broke every rule of chivalry. The man’s a barbarian.’

Inigo decided that an interruption might have a calming effect. ‘I don’t know, it wasn’t all bad. We saw the three Princesses up in their tower, not many can claim that. We even got to serenade them.’

Enrique took another swig from the bottle. ‘The devil was tempting us, tempting us with his daughters.’

‘I don’t believe the Sultan was aware that his daughters saw us.’

‘That wretch knows everything, he ordered his daughters to tempt us.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Enrique, it was a pleasant diversion. The Princesses noticed us, pitied us and gave us food. I truly believe Sultan Tariq had no idea what was going on.’

‘Delude yourself all you like, the devil must have known. Nothing happens in that place without his say so. He was trying to drive us mad. Inigo, I will avenge myself for the indignities I suffered, and the Nasrid Princesses will help me.’

‘How so?’

‘I’m going back to the Alhambra Palace. I’m going to abduct them.’

Inigo stared. Truly, Enrique was a madman. ‘Impossible.’

Enrique gave a triumphant grin. ‘Not so, it’s all arranged. I’ve been in touch with the Princesses’ duenna. She seems to be disloyal to the Sultan.’

‘Seems to be?’

‘I admit it could be a mistake to rely on the word of a palace servant, but my honour is at stake, so I’m prepared to risk it. Inigo, this duenna claims credit for arranging for us to serenade the Princesses.’

‘Hang on, Enrique, you’re contradicting yourself. I thought you said that the Sultan knew what was happening?’

Enrique waved his bottle and the couch creaked. ‘Details, details. The point is that I have it on good authority that the Princesses hate their father almost as much as we do. They want to run away and they’re going to run straight into my arms.’

‘When will this happen?’

‘This very night, in the gully near their tower.’ Enrique studied the wine bottle. ‘You might like to know, they’re expecting you and Rodrigo to join us.’

‘What!’

‘Aye, they’re expecting the three of us. The Princesses’ mother was Spanish, they want us to escort them to Castile to find some lost relatives.’ Enrique’s mouth tightened. ‘Fools. We’ll show them, eh?’

‘You’re insane.’ Inigo tried to hide the extent of his dismay. Inwardly, he was appalled. Surely, even Enrique wouldn’t be so reckless? ‘Have you no sense, why stir up a hornet’s nest? We need peace between the kingdoms. We need to get home. Enrique, your plan is foolhardy in the extreme. Suicidal.’

‘Rot.’

‘The wine has addled your wits, it’s suicide. Besides, where’s your gratitude? The Princesses saved our lives.’

When Enrique gave him a blank look, Inigo enlarged. ‘You can’t have forgotten the day the Sultan made us march from Salobreña to Granada.’

‘The convoy of prisoners? Walking through dust for days? Throat so parched I couldn’t swallow?’ Enrique’s jaw set. ‘I’ll never forget it.’

‘Well then, you must also remember that the Princesses rushed to our aid. The Sultan had drawn his scimitar and if it weren’t for their intervention, he would have killed us.’

‘I don’t care. I want a princess.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s only one use for a Nasrid princess that I can think of.’ Enrique made a crude and very explicit gesture.

Inigo went still. ‘Pray tell me you’re not serious.’

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Enrique’s face. ‘You are with me, aren’t you?’

‘Certainly not. Enrique, this is madness. You’re drunk. Deluded. You can’t take your anger out on the Princesses. They are innocents.’

‘Innocents? Inigo, if anyone is deluded, it’s you. There’s an entirely different view of what happened on the road from Salobreña.’

‘Go on,’ Inigo said. With every moment that went by, Enrique’s voice was becoming more slurred. If he drank himself into a stupor, it might be best for all concerned.

‘When the Sultan threatened us,’ Enrique went on, ‘the Princesses raced up to get a better view. They wanted to watch as we were carved into a thousand pieces.’

Inigo blinked, Enrique’s version of events was so warped, it was hard to believe he was describing what they had both witnessed. ‘You honestly believe that?’

‘How was I to know what they were up to? Couldn’t understand a word they were saying. They’re all heathens.’

Inigo hadn’t been able to understand what was said either, but a blind man could tell that the Princesses were in awe of their father.

‘The Princesses were pleading for the Sultan to spare us. Enrique, they put themselves at risk for us. It was obvious.’

‘Not to me, it wasn’t.’ Enrique staggered to his feet. ‘Tonight promises to give good sport. For the last time, will you come with me?’

‘No.’ Inigo looked critically at Enrique. Experience had taught him that Rodrigo’s cousin could drink most men under the table. The man did have limits—regrettably, he didn’t appear to have reached them.

Inigo’s squire clattered in. He threw a wary glance at Enrique, propped against the wall with his wine bottle. ‘Fresh clothes, my lord.’

‘Gracias. My thanks. Set them down on that couch, would you?’ Inigo said.

Enrique weaved his way to the door. ‘I’ll be off then. If you’re not joining me, doubtless I’ll see you back in Córdoba.’

Appalled though he was, Inigo kept his voice cool. ‘Enrique, don’t do this.’ Somehow, he must get Enrique to listen to reason.

‘I will have my revenge.’ Enrique’s voice was slurred and his eyes unfocused. ‘I admit I can’t take all three of them, but at least one Princess will be coming with me.’

‘You would despoil an innocent girl? You talk of honour—what of your chivalric vows? You make me ashamed to be a knight.’

Enrique’s laugh echoed around the chamber, harsh and ugly. ‘A Nasrid princess has no innocence. And she certainly won’t when I’ve finished with her.’

‘No woman should be forced, innocent or otherwise,’ Inigo said tightly. He felt like throttling the man. ‘Enrique, have you forgotten you are married?’

‘Your point being?’

‘How would Lady Berengaria feel?’

‘She’ll never find out.’

‘And that makes it right?’

Enrique gave an incoherent reply and fell clumsily against the door frame.

Inigo’s squire had listened to their exchange with wide, shocked eyes. Inigo exchanged looks with him, gestured for a drying cloth and climbed out of the pool.

When sober, Enrique was a foolhardy bully. Half soused, he wasn’t likely to be very effective. His plans would surely come to nothing. Notwithstanding, Inigo wasn’t prepared to take any risks. Peace between the Emirate of Granada and the Kingdom of Castile was shaky at best. If, by some miracle, Enrique managed to spirit away even one of the Nasrid Princesses, there’d be hell to pay.

Enrique straightened as though struck by a sudden thought. ‘Inigo, about my lady wife, there’s something in what you say, she mustn’t hear of this. Give me your word you’ll say nothing.’

Half an eye on Enrique, Inigo tossed the drying cloth at Guillen and dragged on fresh clothes. ‘It’s simple, forget the entire idea.’

‘Never. I will have vengeance.’

Realising outright confrontation with Enrique would achieve little, Inigo reached for his sword belt. Apart from the Princesses’ largesse, Inigo and his companions had been surviving on siege rations. If he could get decent food into Rodrigo’s cousin, perhaps he’d see sense. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. We could have supper before you set out.’

Enrique looked blearily at him. ‘You’re offering to pay?’

‘Certainly.’ The price of a meal in a tavern was as nothing compared to the havoc that would ensue if a Castilian knight abducted a Nasrid princess. ‘If you wait a moment, we can go together.’

‘Where are you headed?’

‘I am reliably informed that the best local tavern lies about a mile outside the town,’ Inigo said. ‘The Black Sheep.’

‘The Black Sheep.’ Enrique laughed and fumbled for the door latch. ‘How appropriate. Very well, I accept. See you later.’

‘What’s the hurry?’ Inigo frowned, he didn’t want to let Enrique out of his sight, he didn’t trust him an inch. ‘Allow me to settle up here, we can go together.’

He also needed a moment to leave a message for Rodrigo. Rodrigo would want to know about his cousin’s latest folly, he would object to this plan as much as Inigo. Sir Enrique de Murcia couldn’t be allowed anywhere near the three Princesses.

Enrique shook his head. ‘I’ve had my fill of this place, I’ll see you at the inn.’

‘Good grief, Enrique, you can surely wait until I’m dressed!’

He spoke to an empty doorway.

Tension balling in his gut, Inigo asked Mo to look out for Rodrigo and his squire, making sure Mo understood to give them clear directions to The Black Sheep.

‘Mo, his name is Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba. Please be sure he understands it’s the best inn hereabouts and that I shall meet him there.’

Mo smiled. ‘Certainly, my lord.’

‘My thanks.’ Inigo strode into the lamplit street praying that Enrique would wait for his supper. The sooner Inigo got to that inn, the better he would feel.

Guillen cleared his throat. ‘You wish to leave straight away, my lord?’ His eyes were shadowed and his voice anxious. ‘Didn’t you mention a barber?’

Inigo ran his hand ruefully through his hair and beard. ‘That will have to wait, we need to find that inn with all speed. I feel uneasy leaving Sir Enrique on his own.’

A line formed on his squire’s brow. ‘We—that is I—may have to delay. I’m sorry, my lord, one of Raven’s shoes was loose. I asked a groom to take him to a blacksmith to shoe him.’

‘A smith is working at this hour?’ Inigo asked, coming to an abrupt halt outside the stable. They ought to hurry. Left on his own, Enrique was a liability. However, Guillen looked so woebegone, Inigo didn’t have the heart to chastise him. ‘Hell burn it, Guillen, you’re not to blame, horses often cast shoes, but the timing couldn’t be worse. With Enrique set on revenge, anything might happen. I wanted to sober him up with food.’

‘I know, my lord, and I’m sorry.’ Guillen brightened. ‘If you go ahead, I can meet you later.’

Inigo shook his head, the idea of leaving his squire alone in Granada while he went tearing after Enrique didn’t sit well with him. ‘No, lad, we only have one letter of safe conduct. We’d best stick together.’

Inigo collected his horse, Soldier, and he and Guillen were soon at the smithy. Irritatingly, the blacksmith was deep in conversation with a neighbour and Guillen’s horse wasn’t ready. It was necessary for Inigo to impress upon the man that speed was of the essence. A gold dinar did the trick, and while they were waiting for Raven to be shod, they called for more lamps and Guillen was able to act as Inigo’s barber.

At length, Inigo and Guillen hauled themselves on to their horses and took to the road. The whole operation had taken far longer than Inigo had anticipated. He could only pray that Enrique had fallen into a stupor at the inn.

The lights of the town faded, and moonlight became their guide. The road was a silver thread winding through groves of orange and olive. The air hummed with cicadas.

Eventually, stronger lights gleamed, they had reached The Black Sheep. A small area of scrub had been roped off and was serving as a paddock for the tavern’s customers. A couple of old men—grooms presumably—sat beneath a tree, guarding a handful of horses. Enrique’s wasn’t among them.

Inigo held in a groan. ‘Guillen, this doesn’t look good.’

‘No, my lord.’

Leaving their mounts with the grooms, Inigo and Guillen went into the inn. It was crammed to the rafters with big-bellied, prosperous-looking men in fine brocades. Merchants. A couple of shepherds huddled in a corner. The noise was deafening.

No Enrique. And no sign of his squire, either. The innkeeper, a cloth about his waist, approached and greeted them in Arabic.

‘My apologies, I don’t understand,’ Inigo said, over the din. The smell of roasted chicken filled the air and his stomach growled. ‘Do you speak Spanish?’

The innkeeper shook his head and gestured towards the serving hatch where a boy was filling bowls from a blackened cauldron.

The boy joined them. ‘Sir?’

‘I am looking for a friend, a knight. He would have had his squire with him.’

‘They are Castilian?’ The boy hesitated. ‘And the knight had been drinking?’

Inigo grimaced. ‘You could say that.’

‘They have gone, sir.’

‘When?’

‘Not long.’

‘Which direction did they take?’

‘I heard them mention the Alhambra Palace.’

Dear Lord, Enrique had a death wish. Inigo snatched a hunk of bread from a tray and tossed it at his squire.

‘Guillen?’

‘My lord?’

‘Get back outside. Stop them unsaddling the horses and keep an eye out for Rodrigo. If he arrives, don’t let him dismount. I’ll grab provisions and follow you.’

His squire dashed off and Inigo secured a couple of bundles of food—chicken, bread and cheese. Lord, this was supposed to be his first night of freedom and it looked as though he was going to have to spend it preventing Rodrigo’s wretched cousin from despoiling an innocent girl.

Guillen reappeared. ‘My lord, Count Rodrigo has arrived.’

Inigo left the inn. Seeing Rodrigo and his squire were still mounted, he let out a breath of relief. Thank God for reliable friends.

‘Take this.’ He thrust a food bundle at Rodrigo. ‘Save it for later.’

‘Later?’ Rodrigo frowned. ‘Inigo, what in hell’s going on?’

‘Enrique’s in trouble again.’ Inigo said, hauling himself into the saddle.

‘Madre mía, this must stop. Last time we rushed to Enrique’s rescue, Diego died. Cousin or no, I’ve no wish to see him again.’

Inigo nodded. Diego’s death had upset him, and he could only begin to imagine the depth of Rodrigo’s grief. What must it be like to lose a beloved younger brother? His jaw tightened. ‘We have no choice.’

Rodrigo’s expression was bleak. ‘Don’t we? Enrique never learns, as far as I’m concerned, he can stew in his own juice.’

‘Not this time.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘He’s drunk.’

Rodrigo looked at him. ‘Is that all? Good grief, given the conditions we’ve endured, you can hardly blame him for that.’ He glanced meaningfully at the tavern. ‘I wouldn’t mind a drink myself.’

‘If only it were as simple as that,’ Inigo said. Trusting Rodrigo and the squires to follow, he dug in his spurs and cantered on to the road that led back to the Alhambra Palace. The lights of the inn fell back, they would have to rely on the moon.

Rodrigo soon caught up. ‘Slow down, man. What’s going on?’

‘Enrique’s been muttering about revenge all day. Wants to make the Sultan pay for treating us like slaves.’

Rodrigo swore. ‘There’s no way he can get to Sultan Tariq, the palace is a fortress and he rarely leaves it. Not to mention that entire battalions answer to the Sultan’s command and we are in his heartlands. Leave it, Inigo. My cousin can get himself out of the mire this time.’

Inigo grimaced. ‘You wouldn’t be so sanguine if you knew what he was planning.’

‘Surprise me.’

‘He’s going to abduct the Sultan’s daughters.’

‘What? That’s insane.’

‘I assure you, it’s true. Enrique’s going to lure them out of that tower.’

‘They’d never leave the palace.’

Inigo raised his eyebrows and, voice filled with doubt, Rodrigo repeated himself. ‘No, they’d surely never leave the palace.’

‘Rodrigo, hear me out. Enrique has made contact with someone inside the palace, a maidservant or duenna of some kind, I believe. It’s already arranged. The Princesses want to run away. They’re to meet your cousin tonight.’

‘What? We’ve only been released a day, how on earth has Enrique managed to organise it in that time?’

‘He didn’t give me any more details.’

‘You’re certain it’s tonight?’

‘That’s what he said. Rodrigo, your cousin’s a madman when the drink is in him.’

Rodrigo grunted in acknowledgement. ‘Unfortunately, he’s a madman with a will of iron.’

‘Well, he’s after vengeance tonight, and he’s decided the Sultan’s daughters will give it to him. I’ve never seen him quite so set on anything.’

‘I’ll thrash him when I see him,’ Rodrigo said curtly. ‘Those Princesses are very young. Sheltered. What do you reckon he’s after, ransom? You don’t think he’d harm them?’

Inigo gave a harsh laugh. ‘His reputation with women is not good.’

‘He’s a married man.’

‘Don’t make the mistake of judging your cousin by your standards. Enrique is roaring drunk and he wants revenge.’

A muscle flickered in Rodrigo’s jaw. ‘If my cousin carries off just one of the Sultan’s daughters, he could set off a minor war. And I’m not just referring to here in Al-Andalus. If Enrique’s father-in-law believes my cousin has slighted his daughter by carrying off a Nasrid princess, he will never forgive him. Enrique must be stopped. When did he set out?’

‘He’d gone when I got here. The innkeeper says he left about an hour ago.’

‘I take it he took his squire with him?’

‘Aye.’

Inigo and Rodrigo gave their horses the spur and they and their squires flew into the night.

Chapter Three
In the grounds of the Alhambra Palace

The night of the Princesses’ escape had arrived. Leonor and Alba were leading the way even though they had never been in this part of the grounds. The iron gate that marked the entrance to the disused sally port had been almost impossible to find in the dark, and the gardens were so quiet all Alba could hear was her own breathing, fast and flurried. Despite the warmth of the night, she shivered as she peered into the secret tunnel to the outside.

A few yards in, a torch flickered and hissed. Beyond the torch, a gloomy corridor ran deep into the earth. Alba had heard mutterings about this tunnel. Some said it was a secret passageway into the palace, others that it was an escape route for previous sultans fleeing murderous relatives. This last might well be true, many of her father’s predecessors had had their lives cut short by ambitious brothers. Her nails dug into her palms. Whatever its use, the passage smelt dank and looked terrifying. Shadowed and seemingly without end, it couldn’t have been used for centuries.

This was their route to freedom? Was it safe?

It was certainly narrow. Alba hated confined spaces, normally nothing would persuade her to set foot in a tunnel like this. Unfortunately, life in the palace had become intolerable. The sally port was her only way out. God was good though, and the rusting iron gate on the palace side was open, as her duenna, Inés, had promised.

There would be no turning back.

Alba had no regrets. No, that wasn’t entirely true. She deeply regretted having to leave Hunter, her pet monkey, behind. She’d had to do it though, Hunter was exuberant and far too noisy to come with them. He would have given them away in a heartbeat. Alba had wept when she left him in the care of a maidservant.

Another regret was the songbirds. The Sultan had given each of the Princesses a pair of songbirds in a gilded cage. Earlier that evening, Alba had released hers into the wild. Like her, they must take their chances away from the palace. Leonor, too, had freed her songbirds, Constanza had not. A maidservant would care for Constanza’s birds.

In the flare of the flickering torch, Alba noticed the tremble of Leonor’s veil. Perversely, it gave her heart to see that her brave older sister was unnerved.

‘Where’s Constanza?’ Leonor whispered. ‘We can’t leave without her.’

‘She’s just behind, stop fretting. She’ll follow us, she always does,’ Alba said.

Alba had often wondered if she and her sisters were close because they were triplets or because they had been brought up together. Had the Sultan’s policy of isolating them from the rest of the world, indeed, of isolating them from almost everyone except for a handful of servants and their beloved Spanish duenna strengthened the bond between them? The three Princesses ate together, they laughed together, they cried together. They would escape together too. Once in Spain, they would start anew. Together.

Alba gave Leonor a gentle push. ‘Hurry, for pity’s sake, Father’s guards are everywhere.’

Leonor went into the tunnel. A huge key hung on a hook below the torch, it was as rusty and ancient as the gate. Leonor grabbed it and thrust it at Alba.

‘Take this, I’ll take the torch.’ Leonor started down the corridor.

The key was cold and heavy, Alba gripped it as though her life depended on it. As she followed Leonor, she prayed that the lock in the door at the other end hadn’t rusted solid. They must escape.

Their father the Sultan was becoming more tyrannical by the day. When Alba and her sisters had asked permission to explore Granada on horseback, he had responded by locking the three of them in their tower. Later, the Princesses had been informed their ponies were no longer in the palace stables. They had been sold.

The sale of their beloved ponies had been the final straw, the moment when the Princesses understood that not only was Sultan Tariq a tyrant, but also that there was no hope for him. He was never going to change. Grimly, Alba set her jaw. She had hopes. Dreams. Her father wasn’t going to crush them.

The tunnel twisted this way and that, a dark serpent winding beneath the palace grounds. The air was stale and smelled of earth and rust, and with every step the walls closed in. It was hard to breathe. Alba’s skin prickled with sweat and she had the strangest urge to pant.

Torchlight wavered over the tunnel walls. Alba tried to imagine which part of the palace lay above. The orange grove? The lawn beloved of the palace peacocks? The Court of the Lions?

There were footsteps at her back, Constanza must be close on her heels. Gradually, her breathing eased. The three of us are in this together.

The key bit into Alba’s palm. Her veil was a nuisance, filmy though it was, it was suffocating. Alba didn’t stop to remove it though, the habit of obedience held her, even here in the tunnel.

Alba and her sisters had broken the Sultan’s rules once or twice. But tonight, even though they were, she prayed, escaping the life of restriction their father had planned for them, the veil that symbolised their oppression was peculiarly comforting—a shield as it were. There was no saying what was in store for them outside the sally port, she might want to hide.

Leonor forged on without as much as a backward look, clearly, she had no doubts. Suddenly, she stopped. ‘I can’t see the end,’ she said. ‘Is Constanza behind us?’

‘I think I can hear her. Keep going.’

Alba had strapped a money pouch beneath her clothing; it felt heavy, like a dead thing. Her chest ached for lack of air—she was all too conscious of the weight of earth and rock above them. Her palms were clammy and cold sweat trickled down her spine.

Then the air shifted, it seemed cleaner. Sweeter.

Leonor halted, she was frowning at a door so ancient it looked to have grown into the walls. ‘We’ve reached the end.’

Panting only a little, Alba reached past her, fitted the key into the lock and twisted. The handle was rusty and when Leonor wrenched at the door, the hinges moaned in protest.

‘Here, let me help,’ Alba murmured.

They pushed and shoved, and between them made a narrow crack. As it widened, fresh air wafted in. Leonor squeezed through the gap.

A soft footfall in the tunnel told Alba that Constanza was a few paces behind. Swallowing hard, she gathered her cloak about her and slipped out, breathing properly for the first time since entering the tunnel. Like magic, the tight band about her forehead eased.

They were outside the palace! The danger wasn’t past, but at least she was free of that ghastly corridor, it had felt like a tomb.

Trees made dark silhouettes against a starry sky. The moon, barely visible through her veil, glistened through a tangle of branches. In a hollow below the sally port, she could see the faint glow of a lantern.

How odd, the only person Alba could see was Leonor. Beneath her veil, she frowned. Three Castilian knights should be waiting for them. It was all arranged. Their duenna Inés had sworn that their ransom money had been paid in full. Those men should be free. Where were they? Had they, alienated by their captivity, changed their minds?

Alba wouldn’t be surprised; her father had treated those knights abysmally. They’d spent weeks clearing a rock-choked ravine outside the palace walls, the same ravine that was overlooked by the Princesses’ tower. The Princesses, bored and angered by their confinement and the loss of their beloved ponies, had been quick to notice and recognise them as the self-same men they’d seen first at Salobreña, and again in a convoy of prisoners marching from Salobreña to Granada.

Fuelled by anger, the Princesses had begun a forbidden flirtation from the top of the tower. At night, when the palace was lost in sleep, they had listened to the knights singing. Realising the men were half-starved, they’d sent food baskets down on a rope. In short, they’d ignored all protocols and had behaved quite outrageously. Inés, who had come from Spain with their mother the Queen, and was herself Spanish, encouraged them.

No one had dreamed anything would come of it. It had been a rebellion, a way for the Princesses to channel their anger. Sultan Tariq had locked them in the tower; he had sold their ponies; he refused to listen to reason.

Throughout this dalliance the Spanish knights were distant, mysterious figures, prisoners of their father. Other than that, the Princesses knew next to nothing about them. It was a measure of their seclusion and desperation that they only had these men—strangers—to help them escape.

Inés had contacts outside the palace and she wanted the Princesses to be happy. She had laid her plans with care. The three knights were supposed to spirit the Princesses out of the Emirate of Granada and into the Spanish Kingdom of Castile where they would be beyond the reach of their tyrannical father.

Castile. Alba had longed to see it all her life. In the years since the Queen’s death, Inés had taught the Princesses Spanish. Sultan Tariq might have isolated his daughters, but that hadn’t stopped them from learning that they had relatives in Castile. They were determined to find them and make a new home for themselves. They would be together, and they would be safe.

Alba peered warily about. The terrain around the disused sally port was all in shadow. It was lightly wooded, resembling the scrubland overlooked by the Princesses’ tower—namely a gully, clothed with shrubs and trees, and choked with rocks.

Where were the knights? Her breath was flurried. Nerves, she supposed.

And then she saw them. Six men. Three she recognised as the knights, the others must be their squires. The knights were arguing, their words were sharp and angry. Alba’s stomach knotted. Angry men wouldn’t be much use. The dark wood seemed to tilt, she was dizzy with an overwhelming mix of excitement, exultation and fear. She had escaped the palace. She and her sisters were free. Could they trust these men? Were they dangerous?

The odd phrase reached her.

‘For pity’s sake, Enrique,’ one of the knights ground out. ‘Will you see sense?’

A second knight cut in. ‘Enrique’s my cousin, I’ll deal with him. Rest assured, no one will be hurt.’

Alba recognised the second knight as Count Rodrigo. Leonor had managed to speak to him in private once, and she’d told Alba his name some days ago.

In the distance, dogs were barking. Alba’s heart jumped. Had her father released his hunting dogs? Filled with fear, she tried to see through the trees. It was impossible.

With a start, she realised that Count Rodrigo was standing next to Leonor and he too must have heard the dogs, for he cocked his head to listen, took command of Leonor’s torch and put it out.

The dark intensified. One of the other knights approached and bowed over Alba’s hand. He was touching her.

Alba froze. Save for her father, in her whole life no man had presumed to touch her. She willed herself not to react. This knight was her means of escape. He was not a palace guard, he was Spanish like her mother, and Inés had explained that a Spanish knight would not think it odd or shameful in any way to touch a woman. In the Kingdom of Castile, men often greeted women by bowing over their hands in this manner. For a princess who’d been shielded from men, it was disquieting.

‘My lady, I believe you can ride?’ the knight said.

Please, sir, be kind.

Alba found her voice. ‘Certainly, my lord.’

‘This way, if you please. You must ride astride, I’m afraid.’

Alba peered through her veil, but with the torch extinguished she could hardly see. Even so, she knew him. It was the knight her father’s men had wounded, the one who had hobbled off the captives’ galley when it had made port at Salobreña. He had spent weeks as Sultan Tariq’s prisoner and she had no idea how he would treat her.

Would he seek revenge for his imprisonment? He was a nobleman, he was bound to have pride, pride her father’s treatment must have dented. At best, he was bound to resent the weeks spent away from Castile.

His tall masculine shape made a black silhouette against the night sky. He was waiting for her decision. Realising she must accept his assistance—and swiftly—if she was to win her freedom, Alba allowed him to help her on to his horse.

Her entire body quivered as he mounted behind her and took up the reins. She was sharing a horse with a Spanish nobleman. A nameless foreigner. Her father’s enemy. Yesterday, it would have been unthinkable.

‘Your name, sir?’ she whispered.

‘Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville,’ he murmured. Then, as a blood-curdling howl cut through the dark, he urged his horse on.

God be merciful.

They forged on through undergrowth that prickled and scratched. The stars and moon were gone, the darkness thickened. The air was close and muggy. Alba clung to the saddle, praying the horse didn’t stumble. The last thing they needed was a poor horse screaming in agony because it had broken its leg. Sounds were harsh—the thud of hoofs, the baying of the hounds, an ominous rumble of thunder.

Water splashed on the back of Alba’s hands. A storm. Months of drought was coming to an end.

Count Inigo reined in. Count Rodrigo drew up alongside, Leonor sat before him on the saddle.

Count Rodrigo gestured at the ground. Small rivulets were swirling around the horses’ hoofs, rainwater from a storm high in the mountains was rushing down the gully.

Alba swallowed a groan, it had been a hot, dry summer and a flood was inevitable.

‘The riverbed is prone to flash floods,’ Lord Rodrigo said. ‘We’ll use that in our favour. Get the river between us and the palace. With luck, it’ll confuse the dogs.’

‘Good idea,’ Count Inigo said. She felt his hand on her hip, settling her more securely before him.

Leonor touched her elbow. ‘Alba, is Constanza behind us?’

Alba twisted to look along the way they had come, her rain-sodden veil clinging to her neck. There was no sign of Constanza. Ominously, other than the two knights and their squires, she could see no one else.

‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen her.’

Leonor turned towards the squires. ‘And you, sirs, have you seen my other sister?’

‘No, my lady.’

Leonor looked at Count Rodrigo. ‘My lord?’

Lord Rodrigo held up his hand. ‘A moment, if you please. Inigo, our chances of escape will be better if we separate. I’ll head south-west. They won’t be expecting that.’

Count Inigo shifted. ‘Understood.’

‘God willing, I’ll be in Córdoba in a week.’

‘Very well, I’ll meet you there.’ Lord Inigo gave his horse the spur and they surged up the riverbank.

Drenched with rain, they pelted into the unknown with Lord Inigo’s squire keeping close as a shadow. Alba felt the drumming of the horse’s hooves in every bone and kept praying that they didn’t lose their footing. May God preserve us. Most of all, she focused on keeping her seat. Panic was a breath away. She had no wish to end up alone in this storm-soaked wilderness so close to the palace. The Sultan’s troops might catch them. This time Father’s punishment would be...

Her mind refused to go down that road. They had done the right thing. They would get away. But what had happened to Constanza?

Lord Inigo’s chest pressed against her back. His arms were locked firmly around her.

Was he a kind man? Did such a thing as a kind man even exist outside a fairy tale?

Lord Inigo was a warrior. He’d been caught fighting her father in the recent conflict on the border. He’d been wounded and imprisoned, and the Sultan had demanded a ransom payment, doubtless a large one, for his release from captivity. At best, Lord Inigo was bound to be resentful.

And this was the man she was reliant on to make good her escape?

If only she knew more about him.

However, as the sodden landscape wheeled past—stubby trees, dark bushes whose leaves slapped wetly at her—Alba realised that she wasn’t entirely ignorant as to Lord Inigo’s nature. Lord Inigo was clearly close to Count Rodrigo whom Leonor trusted. Leonor had only met Lord Rodrigo the once, and he’d made a good impression. Why else would she have been so eager to escape?

What do I know about Lord Inigo?

He’d been wounded by her father’s men. He’d come to her rescue. Why? Behind her sodden veil, Alba grimaced. Could she trust him?

Inigo was cursing the day he had set foot in Al-Andalus. The going was appalling, the sudden downpour had turned what had lately been dust into mud, yet he had no choice but to urge his stallion to greater speed. Soldier slipped, found his footing and charged on.

Riding hard at night was a risky business when visibility was good and now, with moon and stars lost behind a curtain of rain and cloud, not to mention the poor terrain, it was downright foolhardy. Inigo prayed his luck was in. Soldier was the best of horses, he had no desire to lose him.

This race to freedom was, Inigo realised, even more dangerous than when he had dashed into battle to save Rodrigo’s foolhardy cousin, Enrique.

As for the slight, feminine form Inigo was wrestling to keep safely in front of him—he couldn’t in all honour blame her for his predicament. He hadn’t been forced to get involved. The trouble was that as soon as Inigo had got wind of Enrique’s plans, Inigo’s fate had been sealed. He couldn’t stand by while Enrique avenged himself on the Princesses. They weren’t responsible for Sultan Tariq’s misdeeds.

Thunder shook the heavens and the occasional pause was filled with insistent howling. Inigo focused his mind, he would think about the Nasrid Princess later. He had saved her from Enrique, which was the main thing. The rest—what on earth was he to do with her?—must wait. Other problems were more pressing.

Glancing back to ensure that Guillen was keeping pace, Inigo jabbed Soldier’s flanks.

Guillen’s background was humble, he mustn’t fall into the Sultan’s hands. The sole reason that Inigo had survived the Sultan’s hospitality was because he was a nobleman and could afford the ransom demanded for his release. Should Guillen be captured, Inigo would be more than willing to pay to get his squire home in one piece, but he doubted that the Sultan’s officers would pause long enough to find that out. Guillen must not be caught.

They gained higher ground on the other side of the fast-filling river, and Inigo searched the heavens for a guiding star. Unfortunately, the rain was unremitting and there wasn’t as much as a glimmer, he would have to rely on instinct. Summer storms were generally brief, the light must improve soon. He blinked water from his eyes and prayed for the skies to clear. If necessary, he would alter course when the stars reappeared.

They forged on. A flurry of wind caught the Princess’s veil and Inigo found himself batting yards of wet, jewel-encrusted fabric out of his face. Swearing under his breath, he slowed, one-handedly gathering the exotic fabric into a bundle. The Princess half turned.

‘My lord?’ A slender hand pulled at the veil. ‘You’re strangling me.’

‘My apologies, Princess, the wretched thing is blinding me.’ Ruthlessly, Inigo tugged. ‘It must come off.’

There was a brief pause before her head dipped in agreement and that small hand came up, to fumble with ties or pins, he knew not what, but the veil came free.

Ruthlessly, he gathered the soggy mass into a ball and prepared to toss it aside.

She caught his hand. ‘No!’

Inigo lifted an eyebrow. ‘It’s a nuisance.’

Somehow, she wrested it from him. ‘It’s a valuable nuisance, my lord. I shall have need of it later.’

Nodding brusquely, Inigo relieved her of the veil and bundled it into a saddlebag. ‘I dare say you’ll find the ride easier without it.’

Wrapping his arms about her again, Inigo gathered the reins. Inevitably, the movement brought them closer and she didn’t face forward immediately. He felt her gaze on him and wondered if she could make out as little as he. He’d seen the faces of all three Princesses, while moving from the prison in Salobreña to hard labour in Granada. It had only been a glimpse, enough to confirm that the stories about them were true. The Princesses were triplets, identical triplets. They were also very lovely. Inigo wouldn’t mind seeing Princess Alba’s face properly, if only to confirm that she couldn’t be quite as beautiful as his memory painted her.

The Princesses had intervened to save Inigo and his comrades from a beating—or worse—when they had inadvertently run foul of the Sultan’s orders on the march from Salobreña to Granada. For that he would be eternally grateful. He was also grateful for the food they had sent down in baskets during their time clearing the ravine near the Princesses’ tower.

None of which meant that Inigo welcomed having been forced to rescue her. He was betrothed, the last thing he needed was to return to Seville with a Nasrid princess. That would make explanations to Margarita interesting, to say the least. He and the Princess would be parting ways at Córdoba.

‘My lord...’ her whisper reached him through the dark and wet ‘...my name is Alba.’

‘Princess Alba, I am honoured.’ Inigo bowed his head. ‘Hold tight.’

‘Where are we going, my lord?’

‘North. The border’s closest there. With luck we’ll reach Córdoba before very long.’ He wondered how stoic she was. ‘It’s a fair ride, you understand.’

‘It will take more than a day?’

‘It could take several days, we are largely in God’s hands.’

‘Several days?’ With a sigh, she faced forward. ‘I shall not let you down.’

Inigo dug his heels into Soldier’s flanks.

They rode in what he trusted was a northerly direction with the Princess’s words—I shall not let you down—echoing in his mind. Even though he hadn’t wanted this, he felt a reluctant admiration for her.

All Inigo had been able to think about since his release was that his days in Sultan Tariq’s prison were over. Even though he knew it was common for lords to be held for ransom after capture in battle, there’d been moments when he’d feared he would never see Seville again. His injured leg still throbbed occasionally. The wound had made him delirious for days. If it hadn’t been for Rodrigo, Inigo would doubtless have breathed his last. Thanks to Rodrigo securing the services of a doctor, Inigo’s leg had slowly healed. And Sultan Tariq had eventually settled on a ransom.

Fortunately, Inigo’s coffers were deep. He wouldn’t be crippled, physically or financially, by his ill-fated excursion into Al-Andalus.

The storm rolled on. Inigo swiped water from his face and frowned into the night. Rodrigo had far more cause for regret than he did. Rodrigo’s graceless cousin, Enrique, had a lot to answer for. Inigo had merely come away with some grim memories, an ache in his leg and the knowledge that his coffers were slightly lighter. Rodrigo, on the other hand, had lost a beloved younger brother. Inigo didn’t envy Rodrigo his homecoming. His mother, Lady Isabel, would be beside herself with grief.

They continued steadily uphill, crossing land that was lightly wooded. The baying of the Sultan’s hounds faded and other, less hostile, sounds took over—the startled bleat of a sheep, the thud of their horses’ hoofs, the cry of an owl.

The Princess—Alba—held fast. Thankfully, the trembling had stopped. She appeared to be sitting easily before him. Occasionally, a light scent flirted with Inigo’s senses. It was flowery and exotic. Jasmine? Inigo wasn’t sure, though it was pleasant. As was holding her. How long had it been since he had held a woman in his arms? Too long, clearly.

The face of Inigo’s betrothed formed in his mind. Lady Margarita Marchena de Carmona. They had been betrothed for an age. Inigo was uneasily aware that he’d not seen her in years. That must change, and quickly. His brush with death had brought home to him the importance of marriage. Of getting heirs. He had dallied long enough.

He fixed his gaze on where he thought—prayed—north was and grimaced. In Córdoba, he would have to see the Princess safely stowed before he arranged his marriage. He had no clue how to deal with her. She was a Nasrid princess, for pity’s sake. He would consult with Rodrigo, between them they would think of something. Then, with the Princess safe, Inigo could seek out his betrothed.

He’d marry before the year was out. He needed sons, someone to steward the family lands. After Margarita had given him a son or two, he could rest easy in the knowledge that her greedy brother, Baron Fernando, would never lay claim to his lands.

Baron Fernando Marchena de Carmona had a reputation for deviousness and double-dealing. Put bluntly, Inigo didn’t trust him. He’d never liked him. While Inigo understood his father’s wish to forge an alliance with their close neighbours, the idea of Baron Fernando becoming his brother-in-law filled him with misgivings.

If Inigo’s marriage to Margarita proved childless and Inigo were to die without an heir, Baron Fernando wouldn’t hesitate to stake a claim to Inigo’s lands. Neighbour or no, Baron Fernando wasn’t fit to rule. Inigo wanted better for his land and his people.

Inigo tightened his hold on the Nasrid Princess, brought his face closer to her damp hair and inhaled gently. Jasmine. Yes, he’d take his oath Princess Alba’s hair was fragranced with jasmine.

The rain slackened, the storm was blowing itself out. When the stars reappeared, Inigo was thankful to see they were, as he had hoped, headed in a northerly direction.

The Princess remained quiet, apparently resigned to the length of the ride and her slightly ignominious mode of transport. She had to be finding this an ordeal, when Inigo had seen her on the road to Granada, she’d been riding a delicate grey mare bedecked with silver bells. The attendant entourage had been huge. Knights. Servants carrying sunshades. Sultan Tariq himself...

Inigo glanced over his shoulder, God help him, Guillen was trailing, they might have to slow down. Had Raven’s shoe worked loose? It might not be the shoe though; Raven wasn’t as fast or robust as Soldier.

He reined in to allow Guillen to catch up and the Princess looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes glittered, in the dusky light of the stars and moon, they were enormous.

‘I haven’t heard the hounds for a while, my lord. Do you think we have outrun them?’

Her voice had a soft, husky quality that sent a frisson of awareness down Inigo’s spine.

‘I believe so, my lady.’

Inigo studied her, or tried to. The light wasn’t strong enough for him to make out much more than her face and her eyes, which were framed by dark eyelashes. The glimpse he’d had of her on that pretty mare had revealed her to be extraordinarily lovely. However, it had been but the briefest of glimpses and Inigo was conscious that he’d been starved of feminine company for so long that he might have exaggerated her appeal.

While he waited for Guillen, Inigo smiled down at her. ‘You must be missing your grey mare.’

Those long eyelashes swept down, and she stiffened, an almost imperceptible movement but he could hardly miss it, given how close they were.

‘Alas, the grey mares are no longer in the palace stables,’ she murmured. ‘My father sold them.’

‘Oh?’

The Princess didn’t choose to enlarge and as Guillen drew abreast, Inigo didn’t press her.

‘Are we going to stop, my lord?’ Guillen asked in his hopeful voice.

‘Is Raven’s shoe giving you trouble?’

‘No, my lord. Raven seems fine.’ Guillen gave a loud yawn.

‘I’m sorry, lad, I know you’re exhausted,’ Inigo said. Guillen hadn’t been prepared for this race through Al-Andalus any more than Inigo had. ‘We’ll rest soon. Sir Enrique’s folly caught us all unawares.’

‘Sir Enrique’s folly?’ The Princess laid a delicate hand on Inigo’s forearm and a dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Are you saying that you didn’t plan to come to the sally port, Lord Inigo?’

Inigo saw no reason to lie. ‘My lady, I had no such plans until the last moment. My sole aim was to leave Al-Andalus and get back to Castile as quickly and safely as possible.’ Conscious of the Princess’s innocence, Inigo picked his words with care. If Princess Alba had spent her days cloistered with her sisters, she would have no experience of life outside the palace. She must be afraid, and he didn’t want to add to her fears. ‘However, when Sir Enrique, Lord Rodrigo’s cousin, you understand, revealed he was planning to...er...to help you and your sisters escape, I decided that Lord Rodrigo and I should join him. We wanted to ensure all went smoothly.’

At first the Princess didn’t respond. In the east, the horizon was shading to dawn. As Inigo looked at it, he could feel those small fingers, clenching and unclenching on his sleeve.

‘My lord, I am sorry to have inconvenienced you,’ she said coolly. ‘Please be assured, you will be rewarded for your assistance.’

Inigo almost choked. She thought he wanted a reward? What kind of man did she think he was? ‘I want no reward.’ The only reward he craved was to return to Seville in one piece and get on with his life. ‘It is my pleasure to take you to Córdoba where you may join the other Princess.’

Her dark eyebrows snapped together. Her fingers dug into his arm. ‘My lord, you must remember there are three of us. Leonor went with your friend, Lord Rodrigo. Did you see Constanza?’

Inigo hesitated. ‘I am not sure I saw your other sister,’ he said carefully. Rodrigo had sworn to deal with Enrique. Inigo hoped nothing had gone amiss. He caught the gleam of white teeth; the Princess was biting her lip.

‘Constanza never left the palace? I could have sworn she was following.’ Her voice was small. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d lost heart though, Constanza is, well, wary of change.’

‘It saddens you to think of her living alone in the palace.’

She shot him a startled look and nodded. ‘We have always been together.’

Inigo nudged Soldier into a walk. With the dogs no longer hot on their heels, speed was less important. It was just as well, the horses needed a change of pace. Hearing a stifled yawn, he said, ‘We shall rest soon, my lady.’

‘As you wish.’

Inigo was himself fatigued. His leg gave a twinge, a slight discomfort that was, he realised with a rueful smile, keeping him alert. And thank heaven for it, he must keep his wits about him until he had found somewhere safe for them to recover their strength. A secluded campsite would be better than nothing. It would have to be soon; the light was strengthening.

They set off again and Inigo was eyeing the terrain, peering into a small olive grove at the side of the road, when Princess Alba pointed.

‘My lord, look.’

A dilapidated shack took shape, half hidden by the trees. A shepherd’s hut, if he wasn’t mistaken.

‘Could we stop there?’

‘I wouldn’t risk it. It’s too near the road.’ He prepared to ride on when a faint, mewling sound caught his attention.

The Princess gripped his arm. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Sounds like a cat,’ he said.

The Princess gripped his arm. ‘That is no cat.’ Her voice held a note of urgency. ‘It’s a baby. My lord, a baby is in distress, we must stop.’

Inigo looked at the Princess and back at the hut. It really was too close to the highway. ‘My lady, we can’t stop here.’

‘Yes, we can.’

Before Inigo realised what she was about, the Princess leaned back full against him, slipped lithely to the ground and hurried into the hut.

Exchanging a disbelieving glance with Guillen, Inigo handed him his reins. ‘Wait here, lad.’ He dismounted, jarring his injured leg as his boots hit the ground.

What the devil did she think she was doing, walking boldly into a shepherd’s hut dressed like a concubine from a harem? If anyone saw her, the entire area would be awash with rumour, and the world would quickly work out that one of Sultan Tariq’s runaway Princesses had come this way.

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