This had happened again and again. She’d heard men talking, though none of them had addressed her directly. As far as they’d been concerned, she didn’t exist. She’d been a ghost. There’d been much jolting and banging and then, after a particularly long sleep, a rocking motion. The only good thing she could remember was the smell of the sea.
Had she been on a ship? She must have been, the smell of the sea was most distinctive, she remembered it from when she’d lived at Castle Salobreña.
Her head thudded. Why couldn’t she tell reality from fantasy? Everything was such a jumble. Everything except...
Jasim! Where was Jasim?
Thirst temporarily forgotten, she sat up so fast, her head swam.
‘Maura?’
The chamber in which she was lying came slowly into focus and goosebumps formed on her skin. The ceiling above her, with its froth of delicate plasterwork, was chillingly familiar. She must still be dreaming. There was no Maura, not here. Maura was in Madinat Runda, whilst she...
She was in her tower bedchamber in the Alhambra Palace.
Jasim was miles away in the west.
A carafe and glass of juice sat by the bedside. Hand trembling, for Zorahaida didn’t think she’d drunk fruit juice in an age, she reached for the glass. It was orange juice and it tasted like heaven. Shakily, she poured another glass, drank it and fell back against the pillows, exhausted. She was as weak as a kitten.
Her father had brought her back to the Alhambra. He’d had her drugged.
Tears prickled at the back of her eyes. Was this how Jasim had felt after she’d given him the poppy juice? Utterly wretched?
No wonder he’d been so angry.
The questions went round and round, blurring in her mind like a fleece of wool before it had been spun into yarn. Where was Jasim? Had he tried to follow her?
God let him come after me. Please.
But, no, that wouldn’t do. Even in her bruised and wounded state, Zorahaida was hopeful her father wouldn’t kill her. But Jasim? Jasim was another matter. If he had the temerity to appear in the palace, his life would end. Pain pierced her. Jasim mustn’t die! It would be far better if he remained in the west and forgot she ever existed.
Zorahaida pushed the sheet away. She must see her father. It was imperative she knew his state of mind, his plans... Stifling a groan, she rolled out of bed. Her head thumped and waves of blackness swam across her vision. She could barely see.
She picked up the silver handbell. Who would come? Sama? Or had her father, in his fury, dispensed with Sama? She rang the bell.
Merciful heaven, let Sama answer this summons.
It was a while before anyone came. While she waited, she forced herself to stumble about the chamber. Her legs had lost all strength, it was as though she hadn’t used them in days. And that, she realised, was most likely the truth. Had her abductors drugged her the entire time?
She reached the spot where the gilded birdcage had once stood. Cleared of her belongings, the chamber looked empty and impersonal. There was no lute, no Hunter peering out from beneath the bed. No colourful shawls draped across the window ledge, nothing to show that the room had once been hers.
At length a footstep sounded on the stairs. A key grated—she had been locked in!—and the door opened.
‘You rang, Princess?’ a veiled maidservant asked.
The maidservant was tall and strongly built. Zorahaida didn’t recognise her voice. She took a slow, steadying breath. ‘I should like to speak to Sama.’
‘Sama is not here,’ the maidservant said.
‘Where is she?’
‘Princess, I have no idea. Your handmaid has disappeared.’
The maidservant stepped towards her and a bunch of keys at her waist chinked. This was no maidservant, Zorahaida realised. This was her jailer. She kept her head high and her voice steady.
‘To whom am I speaking?’
‘I am Amira.’
‘Amira, I should like to see my father the Sultan.’
‘Very well. If you are ready, I have instructions to take you to the bathhouse. After that you may see the Sultan.’ Amira turned briefly towards the door and lowered her voice. ‘I should warn you, Princess, you must brace yourself. Your father is very ill.’
That turn to the door suggested that Amira was wary of being overheard. Was she or wasn’t she her jailer? Confused and still struggling to order her thoughts, Zorahaida decided to withhold judgement. If Amira felt like talking, she might prove useful.
‘My father didn’t wish to lose me,’ Zorahaida murmured. ‘It is possible he is feigning his illness to get attention.’
‘Princess, I haven’t been in service here long, but I understand Sultan Tariq is genuinely ill. He asks for you every day. Sometimes, he seems to have forgotten you are married. There have been many days when he appears to believe you never left this tower.’
‘And on other days?’
‘On other days he appears relatively well. Overall, I have no doubt he is pining for you.’
* * *
Clad once more in the finest Granada silk, Zorahaida passed line after line of guards and was bowed into one of the smaller throne rooms.
The Sultan was alone, seated on a cushioned couch. In the weeks since Zorahaida had seen him, he was much changed. He looked gaunt and grey. Shrunken. His white robes swamped him. The enormous ruby glinted in his turban, but today its size served only to belittle him. Sultan Tariq looked lonely and sad and very, very old.
Holding back a gasp of shock, Zorahaida prostrated herself on the cool tiles.
‘My dove, at last.’ Her father’s voice, thinner and higher than she would have thought possible, floated over her head. ‘Where have you been? Please, come and sit beside me.’
Concern warred with shock. The word ‘please’ wasn’t usually in her father’s vocabulary.
Rising, unable to take her gaze from her father’s face, she went towards him. Amira hadn’t lied. Her father was seriously ill.
Was he dying?
Tossing back her veil, the better to see him, Zorahaida approached the couch.
Her father’s mouth turned down as he, in turn, studied her. ‘You are too thin, my dove,’ he said. ‘Have you not been eating?’
‘No, Father, I don’t believe I have.’
‘That won’t do.’ Smiling weakly, he gestured at a golden dish on a stand. It was filled with sugared almonds. ‘Your favourite sweetmeats are waiting for you. Please, help yourself.’
Again, that ‘please’ was disturbing. Zorahaida’s head throbbed as she stood before him, struggling to work out what was wrong.
‘Father, those men you paid to abduct me—’
His head jerked. ‘You were abducted?’
His expression was one of shock and innocence and it looked convincing. Whatever was wrong with her father, Zorahaida would swear that at this moment he truly had no memory of what he had done.
‘Father, you must remember. Your men drugged me. They dragged me hither and yon for days without food. I believe I was bundled on to a ship, but whatever they gave me was so powerful that I cannot be sure. When I came back to myself, I found myself in my tower apartment.’
She received a look of utter bemusement. ‘Weren’t you here, all long, my dove?’
‘No. I am married. Father, you must remember. I went to live with my husband.’
Her father gave her a helpless look and it came to her that Sultan Tariq had become a bear without claws. He was sitting alone in his den, waiting to die.
‘No sweetmeats, my dove?’
‘No, thank you, I need something a little more sustaining. Father, I shall return to my apartment.’
I need to think.
A wrinkled hand reached out. It shook pitifully. ‘You will visit tomorrow?’
‘I shall
try.’ Perhaps by then she would feel a little stronger. There was so much to absorb and in her weakened state, she was overwhelmed. Grief. Anger. No, not anger, frustration. Fury. Her father had coldly set about separating her from Jasim, yet it felt wrong to challenge him on it when he was so ill. That would be beyond cruel.
‘You will eat?’ he said, plaintively. ‘I can’t have you fading away.’
‘Be assured I shall eat.’ Torn, Zorahaida drew in a breath. Her father might be ill, but he must surely have some memory, and although she was faint with hunger, she couldn’t leave without mentioning Jasim. ‘Father, do you remember Jasim?’
‘Jasim?’ Slowly the Sultan shook his head. ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Jasim ibn Ismail, he is a knight, a champion and he—’
‘Ismail?’ Her father’s eyes turned to slits. ‘I remember Ismail ibn Osman. Damned renegade.’
‘Jasim is his son. I married him; do you remember?’
The Sultan stiffened and his dark eyes flashed with a hint of the old fire. ‘Madinat Runda. You deserted me and went to Madinat Runda.’ The fire faded as quickly as it had appeared, and he gave a sickly smile. ‘Still, you are back where you belong and that pleases me, very much. My dove, are you sure you won’t have a sugared almond?’
Zorahaida drew down her veil and turned away. Her father’s voice came after her, weaker than it had been when he was in his prime, but audible, none the less.
‘Daughter, you will be pleased to know what you will not be returning to Madinat Runda. Ever. You will forget Jasim ibn Ismail. If you as much as mention his name in my presence, an assassin will be dispatched to the west with orders to kill him. And, champion or no, Jasim ibn Ismail will die.’
Chapter Fourteen
Jasim tipped his head back and frowned at the dark shape that was the Princess’s tower. A stiff breeze had been blowing through Granada all day and a mass of cloud obscured the moon and most of the stars. Autumn was on its way.
Tonight, the change in season was a blessing. Light glimmered faintly in the top window and his spirits lifted. Jasim had got a message to and from Captain Yusuf ibn Safwan, so he knew that Zorahaida was back in her tower. That light was a beacon of hope. She was up there.
It was time his luck turned. When Jasim and his party of knights had reached the coast, autumn had been working against them. Frustratingly, they had missed the mercenaries by the narrowest of margins and when they’d tried to board the next ship to Salobreña, a sudden squall had prevented their ship from casting off. Even more frustrating, a quick succession of storms had followed, further delaying their departure. Jasim and his knights had been forced to spend several days in port.
In short, the mercenaries—and Zorahaida—had escaped them. However, as Jasim’s brother Usayd had pointed out, since they knew Zorahaida was being taken to the Alhambra, her destination was scarcely a secret.
Jasim had no wish to encounter Sultan Tariq. He’d given the man enough chances, but over and over he had shown himself to be a tyrant and a bully. The Sultan had no sense of honour and not a shred of decency.
Zorahaida’s abduction proved without doubt that negotiating with the Sultan was impossible. Her father was governed by self-interest and whim—dealing with him was like walking on shifting sands. What the Sultan agreed to one day was likely to be overturned the next.
Which was why Jasim was, once again, standing in the dark at the foot of the Princess’s tower, listening to the grasses rustle in the dusk. He put his hand on the rope, preparing to climb.
Usayd’s doubtful whisper reached him through the gloom. ‘Jasim, this is madness.’
‘Have faith, Brother. I’ve done it before and survived.’
Usayd sighed. ‘That’s a mercy, but are you sure there’s no other way?’
‘Her apartments are in this tower.’
‘Well, I am thankful you have found someone to love,’ Usayd responded in his matter-of-fact voice. ‘Although I’d rather there was another way of getting her back.’
‘If there were, I wouldn’t be doing this.’ Jasim paused. The word ‘love’ was ringing in his mind like an alarm bell. ‘Usayd, how are you so sure I love her?’
Usayd snorted. ‘I’ve been watching you since we left Madinat Runda. You’ve been your usual single-minded self, but I’ve never seen you gnashing your teeth quite so much. Frankly, you’re a wreck. You adore that woman. You wouldn’t be going to this trouble if you didn’t love her.’
Jasim’s mind raced. Did he love Zorahaida? For days he’d been conscious of an urgent and terrible need to see her again. To hold her. To make her safe for all time. The feeling was relentless, it had him in its grip and he was coming to see it would never let him go.
‘She is my world,’ he said slowly.
‘That’s it. That is love. It is exactly how I feel about Aixa.’ Usayd gripped his shoulder. ‘Have you told her?’
‘We’re usually too busy arguing,’ Jasim admitted ruefully. Could what he felt for his wife truly be love?
‘You’re an idiot, Jasim, a stubborn idiot.’
‘Most likely.’
Jasim tested the rope. It held firm. Captain Yusuf ibn Safwan was proving to be a staunch and efficient ally; he had sent word that the rope would be in place, and so it was. Training his gaze on the top of the curtain wall, Jasim marked the places where lights were showing. If his memory served, each light signified a guard post.
‘Usayd, swear to me that if you hear an alarm, you’ll take to your heels.’
By way of response, his brother indicated a small basket sat at his feet. He’d brought it from Madinat Runda, Jasim had noticed it tied to his brother’s horse before this, though he’d been too eaten up with worry to concern himself about the contents.
‘Jasim, I need to warn you, I’d like to—’
Jasim made his voice firm. ‘Whatever you’re about to suggest, no. No heroics, and no delays. Aixa would have my head if you came to harm. The first sign of trouble, get out of here.’
Clapping his brother on his shoulder, Jasim started to climb. He took it slowly and steadily even though he felt as jumpy as a cat. His nerves were torn to shreds. The last time he’d done this he’d been obsessed with trade agreements and full of noble ideas. He’d been gambling on the possibility that winning the Princess would bring hope to his district and free the Princess from her tyrant of a father. Fired up after winning the Sultan’s tournament, he’d been playing the hero.
This time, far more was at stake. He was fighting for the woman he loved.
Usayd was far too perceptive.
I love Zorahaida.
The realisation was so disconcerting Jasim almost lost his grip. He paused for a moment and hung at the midpoint with the rope shifting from side to side and his knee bumping against the wall.
I love Zorahaida.
Jasim had always assumed love wasn’t for him. Having lost his mother as a babe, he couldn’t claim to understand it. Long ago, he’d concluded that such feelings were an indulgence. An indulgence? Zorahaida was far more than a mere indulgence. Having her at his side was a necessity.
I love her.
He smiled.
‘Jasim, all is well?’ Usayd hissed from the base of the tower where a small light glowed. His perceptive fool of a brother had opened the lantern.
‘Never better. For pity’s sake, shut off that light.’
* * *
A creaking noise caught Zorahaida’s attention. It was vaguely familiar. Her heart leaped and she stared in disbelief at the window facing the mountain range and the wilderness beyond the palace wall.
The shutters were ajar. Her gaze fixed on a sturdy-looking rope fastened around the central pillar. Heart in her mouth, she nudged a cushion to the window and dropped to her knees. The rope was rough to the touch and pulled so taut someone must be climbing it.
&
nbsp; Jasim! Holding her breath, she pushed the shutters open the rest of the way and leaned out over the window ledge.
A light flickered briefly below. Zorahaida glimpsed a rope trailing down and a man climbing up. Another man was standing in the gully, lantern in hand. Then the light went out and all she could see was the top of the rope, secured to her window. The creaking resumed. The wilderness beyond the palace wall was dark. Apart from the groan of the rope it was unusually quiet.
Jasim, it must be Jasim.
A laugh bubbled up inside her. Joy. He had come for her. He had found her.
A hand appeared and gripped the central column. She backed away to give him space and watched his red-gold hair appear. Wide shoulders squeezed through the gap. She was smiling so much her face felt strange.
He stepped into the chamber and bent over, hands on his thighs, catching his breath. Amber eyes devoured her.
She swallowed. ‘You’ve lost another turban.’
‘So I have.’ Straightening, he opened his arms. ‘Are you ready to come home?’
With a sob, Zorahaida flew towards him. His arms closed about her and everything was right with the world. Jasim was nuzzling her hair and kissing her neck. Being in his arms was like being given a taste of paradise—a paradise that had been stolen from her and unexpectedly restored. Frantic with need, acting on instinct, she kissed every bit of him she could reach. They exchanged mindless, blissful kisses that were more potent than any drug.
She kissed him to let him know how he filled her mind. Somehow, Jasim had become part of her. She kissed his chin and the pulse at his neck, again and again. She couldn’t stop. When she nibbled the muscle at the top of his shoulder, she was rewarded by a deep groan she felt in her toes. He smelt delicious, strong and male and incredibly reassuring. Jasim.
‘Zorahaida.’
He nipped her ear. His hands were busy, sending sparks of delight all over her body. He explored her waist, he caressed her buttocks, he cupped her breasts. Abruptly, he lifted his head and frowned.
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