‘She is my only daughter,’ Hassam said simply. ‘I do not wish that for her.’
Again Reynaud nodded. ‘You want me to protect her.’
‘Aye.’ Hassam grinned. ‘That is the price.’
Reynaud groaned under his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be saddled with Hassam’s daughter. He had not laid eyes on her for a score of years, but even as a child she had been a handful for her nursemaids and tutors, even for her father. She was irrepressible. And more clever than any young girl should be.
Besides, he had other, more important business in Moyanne. Business that would be hampered by keeping an eye on Hassam’s daughter. He opened his mouth to protest, but his uncle suddenly rose.
‘Ah, she is here. Leonor, we have a visitor.’
A slim young woman in an ankle-length scarlet tunic glided through the latticed entry, and Reynaud’s heart stopped. Dumbstruck, he gazed at her as if in a dream.
It was the street woman!
Chapter Two
Reynaud rose from the sofa as courtesy demanded, his body on fire. They had met not an hour before, on the dark streets of Granada. Why could he not draw breath?
Did his uncle know that Leonor…?
No, it was not possible. Hassam would not allow it.
His uncle cleared his throat politely. ‘Daughter, do you not remember your cousin Reynaud?’
As her father’s words registered, her face changed. The feathery black lashes brushed her cheek, then lifted, and beneath the dark, arched brows her grey eyes widened. She stared at him, her mouth opening to speak, her lips trembling.
‘Reynaud?’ she whispered. ‘Is it truly you? After all these years?’ She reached to touch him, then faltered.
‘It is,’ he said, his voice clipped. His head spun. It mattered not who she was; his physical response to her made him light-headed.
She stepped closer and peered up at him. Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘What has happened to you?’
‘After I left Granada I was made a squire in Vezelay, and taken on crusade to the Holy Land. Etienne de Tournay knighted me in the field.’
With a cry she took his face in her hands and stretched up to kiss his cheek. ‘You sent no word, not one. Not a messenger, not even a letter in all these years. I thought you were dead!’
His throat closed. He wished he were dead. As custom dictated, he bent stiffly and brushed her forehead with his lips. Her skin tasted of roses.
What could he say?
With a wave of his hand Hassam motioned them both to be seated. Reynaud uneasily resumed his place on the sofa; after a covert glance at her father, Leonor perched on a square silk cushion at his feet.
A heavy, awkward silence descended. Leonor refused to meet his eyes, and in the oppressive quiet the uneven beating of his own heart pounded in his ear like a Saracen war drum.
After an interminable minute, she raised her head. ‘Now that you have returned—’
‘I have not returned,’ he said shortly. ‘I travel the world on missions for the Templar Grand Master. This is but one chapter in an ever-changing book. I belong nowhere.’
‘You are welcome always in Granada,’ Hassam interjected.
A rush of warmth swept through him. Under his surcoat his heart swelled with a bittersweet pain. He must leave this place, and soon. He would not dishonour Hassam’s daughter by revealing what he knew of her, yet he could not lie to his uncle.
Leonor wrapped her arms around her folded legs, resting her chin on her knees. ‘Perhaps you would tell me now of your adventures?’ Still, she would not look at him.
He frowned at the edge in her voice. ‘I will not. The things I have seen are not fit for a woman’s ears.’
‘My ears are not so delicate,’ she murmured. She lifted her head and pinned him with her gaze. ‘Not all women are weak.’
‘And in truth,’ he muttered, ‘you are not like all women.’
Her grey eyes sparked with anger. ‘So, you are now a Templar knight. It was always your dream to become a knight, was it not? That is why you left Granada. Was it not?’
He ignored the bite in her question.
‘Have you other dreams beyond fighting battles? It must take great courage to impose your will on others,’ she said. The venom in her tone made him flinch. Hassam stared at his daughter with puzzled eyes.
‘Courage I still have,’ he said quietly. ‘But as for dreams, I…I no longer believe in dreams. I believe in nothing save my horse and the bite of my sword.’
She sat motionless, her grey eyes clouding. ‘Then you are adrift, like a boat with no sail, tossed on the sea.’
Reynaud groaned inwardly. He was more than adrift. He had lost more than hope in his journeys. He had lost the sense of belonging. Of knowing who, or what, he was.
And now, of knowing who she was. Was Leonor his uncle Hassam’s treasured daughter? Or a woman of the streets?
Her lips curved in an odd little half-smile. ‘I long to see the world and its wonders. To do this, I must leave my father’s house.’
Reynaud held her eyes. Did she comprehend none of what he had said earlier? Did she not care about her proper place as a woman? True, his own restless life made him feel as if he were drifting, a twig carried on a river that flowed he knew not where. She, at least, had a home.
‘The world is not a pretty place.’
She smiled again, and his heartbeat stuttered. How he wondered at her physical effect on him!
‘I understand that all too well,’ she said, her tone cool. ‘I am often at Emir Yusef’s court.’ She held his gaze, daring him to betray her to Hassam. ‘I speak three languages, and I am invited to the palace to play chess and join the musicians. Life is to be enjoyed. Do you not think so?’
‘You live in a household of wealth and learning,’ he said tightly. ‘You have no idea of life outside of Granada.’
Her eyes flashed fire. ‘Do not lecture me as if I were a child.’ She glanced at her father, then looked down, crushing the silk of her tunic in her fist. ‘I do want to see the outside world. To learn. Is that wrong?’
‘No. Not wrong. But foolish.’ He studied her flowing red tunic, the sheer face veil she had again drawn to one side. ‘Outside of Granada, you would stand out, like a blossoming orange tree in the desert.’
‘That I know. It is because I am…different.’
She was certainly that. Like an exquisite jewel among rubble, enticing and unattainable.
‘You are only half-Arab,’ he reminded. ‘And you have grown up in the privileged household of Hassam. Benjamin the Scholar tutored you in history and philosophy, and I recall that your Christian mother taught you writing and languages before you could walk properly.’
‘And music,’ she added, her eyes glowing.
He tore his gaze away from her. ‘You are old enough to be married,’ he said bluntly. ‘How is it you are not?’
Her soft smile sent a wave of prickly sensation straight to his groin.
‘Were it not for the Emir’s protection…’ she shot a look at her father ‘…I would have been married off long ago, a plum in some prince’s garden of wives. As it is, I am fortunate to have attained seven and twenty winters yet untouched by a man.’
‘Hassam must have an understanding heart,’ he said drily.
She gave her nodding father a wry smile. ‘I think my father’s heart is not the reason. Benjamin says it is because my mind is one hundred years old and sharp as a wolf’s teeth. Suitors leave my father’s receiving room tongue-tied and shaking their heads.’
‘You know little of men,’ he said. ‘They are not so easily deterred.’
She raised her chin in a gesture he remembered from long ago. ‘Doubt me not, Reynaud. I know a great deal about men. I have studied my father and the men who visit him. And guests and dignitaries, both Christian and Arab, who flock to the vizier’s palace. I watch and I listen, and I evaluate.’
‘Why?’ The question grated past stiff lips.
H
assam rose and moved to the latticed entrance and signalled for more coffee. Leonor shot a glance at his back.
‘Because,’ she said in an undertone, ‘if I cannot have a man to whom I can give my whole heart and soul, then I want no man at all.’
Reynaud rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and shifted uncomfortably on the pillow-strewn couch. Was she in truth untouched? That was hard to believe, considering where he had encountered her earlier this evening.
His attraction to her disturbed him more than he could admit. He gritted his teeth against the insistent swelling of his manhood.
‘And Hassam agrees to this…this dream of yours? Freedom to choose one’s own husband is rarer than swords of Byzantine silver.’
She studied the retreating figure of her father and lowered her voice. ‘He does not yet know of it. But I also make other choices,’ she said, pronouncing the last word with special care. ‘Not one word of this to my father,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘The man has worries enough with the fate of Granada balanced on his plate.’
Reynaud jerked his head up and caught her pleading gaze. ‘Not one word about what? Tell me the truth, Leonor.’
‘I…’ She leaned closer. ‘I visit the gypsies at night. That is why I was on the street earlier.’
Unconsciously he clenched his fists against his thighs. ‘What? Why?’
‘I wish to learn their songs. Gypsy songs.’
‘Why?’ he snapped again.
‘Because I love their strange, sad music. And I plan—’ She broke off.
Suspicion lowered his voice to a growl. ‘What do you plan?’
She studied the satin slippers peeking from under her tunic.
‘Tomorrow I begin a journey, as I’m sure Father told you. He will fuss and pace about his quarters until he receives word that I am safe in Moyanne with Great-Aunt Alais, but he agrees to let me go. Not for all the jewels in Persia would I add to his worries.’
‘And what,’ Reynaud said carefully, ‘might those worries be?’
Leonor ignored the question and tipped her head to one side, resting her cheek against her bent knees. ‘Father need not know of the adventure I dream of,’ she murmured. ‘That is for myself alone.’
Adventure? Reynaud’s spine tingled. She had not changed a jot since she was a child. She was far too clever for her own good. She was headstrong. And more stubborn than the worst of Hassam’s pack mules.
‘Tomorrow,’ she continued, her voice distant, ‘when the sun spreads apricot light—oh! Isn’t that a lovely word, “apricot”? When the sun spreads apricot light across the sky, I will spread my wings outside the walls of Granada.’
No wonder Hassam wanted protection for her. Her head was full of dreams. She must never seek the outside world. It was ugly, dirty, full of depravity. Leonor was yet untouched by the degradation he had seen, by the sins and selfish manoeuvring of men. He would save her from that world.
If he could.
The problem was she did not want to be saved.
He sighed in defeat. She was an exquisitely beautiful woman, her skin smooth as fine ivory, her every movement graceful. Sensual.
He did not like her talk of adventure. What was she planning to do, apart from visiting her great-aunt? He would have to watch her every moment. Clenching his teeth, he turned away just as Hassam returned to the room. Like it or not, he had pledged his word to his uncle.
Therefore, so be it.
Chapter Three
Reynaud removed his sword belt and mail shirt and leggings, stretched out on the soft sleeping couch and willed himself to tame his roiling thoughts. In the years he had been away, Leonor had grown from a playful sprite of a girl into a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman. He could not forget the scent of her hair, the sheen of her skin.
And he could not forget how foolishly eager she was to leave the safety of Granada. Her innocence was dangerous. She knew nothing of the harsh world outside this luxurious palace in this enlightened kingdom. In truth, he himself felt out of place surrounded by the opulence of his Uncle Hassam’s home.
In truth, he no longer knew where he belonged. He laid his head wherever his Templar orders took him, even to Hassam’s spacious home with its brightly tiled courtyards and the sound of splashing fountains in every room. He was to deliver the Templar proposal to Emir Yusef, then await orders for his next destination after Moyanne, to be delivered by someone in Yusef’s employ. But he did not yet know who. Neither did he know the final destination of the Templar gold he carried.
He tried to soothe his restless spirit with the trickle of fountains and the carefree chirping of night birds nesting among the branches of tamarisk trees, but memories of battle followed him wherever he went. The bloodshed, the unending senseless slaughter, the stench of burning fortresses and rotting corpses—it sickened him. With all his heart he wished he could be washed clean of his sins.
Abruptly he sat bolt upright. Was he still a pious follower of Almighty God? Or was he now a mercenary killer available to the highest bidder? At some point he needed to know what, and who, he really was. Otherwise, he could forge no other future for himself.
The next morning Reynaud gazed across the flat brown plain into the hazy distance, then reined in his grey destrier and waited for the armed escort Hassam had sent to guard Leonor. The way was clear; he had already scouted ahead for bandits.
For a long while all he could see were puffs of dust rolling towards him. No sound broke the quiet but the wind whispering through the pine scrub and the thud of hoofbeats against the hard-baked ground. Some minutes later, two horses and a mule plodded into view, laden with travel chests and surrounded by the Arab warriors. He raised one hand in silent greeting.
A large dun horse carried a tall elderly man, his black robe flapping behind his bent frame like the wings of an ancient crow. Reynaud had to smile. Benjamin of Toledo, his old tutor!
The other rider, well mounted on a cream-coloured Arab mare, wore leather riding boots, a short, drab tunic and a white turban and head veil. He studied the slight figure through narrowed eyes and his heart lurched. It was Leonor!
Every nerve jolted to attention. Travelling in disguise made good sense, but by the look of Leonor’s jaunty smile she was truly revelling in her masquerade.
She had always loved masquerades.
He signalled to Sekir, Hassam’s personal bodyguard, and pressed among the Arab warriors until he came face to face with his cousin. She flicked a glance at him, studied his chainmail hauberk, then his helmet. After a long moment her shining eyes met his and his heart stuttered.
‘You are following us,’ she observed, her voice accusing.
‘True, and not true. I travel with you, but at a distance, to watch for bandits. I promised Hassam I would look to your welfare.’
She frowned. ‘I do not want you to look to my welfare. You, with your battle-scarred soul and your distrust of the world, would never let me do anything. Particularly not what I have in mind.’ With an eloquent lift of her dark eyebrows, she flapped her reins and rode on past him.
Stung, Reynaud circled his horse to block her path.
Thoughtfully she pursed her lips. The gesture sent red-hot needles dancing along the skin behind his neck.
He remembered that look. Even as a boy that gaze could make his heart thud in his bony chest like a smithy’s hammer. With Leonor he’d never known what to expect. How she had loved playing tricks.
Benjamin rode up, peering at her from under his bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Ay, Jehovah,’ he grumbled. ‘Why do you stop in the middle of the road?’ The old man paid no attention to Reynaud; apparently he did not recognise his old student.
‘I was…reviewing my plan,’ Leonor replied, a happy lilt in her voice.
Reynaud’s belly knotted. What plan? What was she up to besides visiting her great-aunt?
The old man’s black eyes rounded. ‘What, again? Can you not ride and plan at the same time?’
She laughed softly. ‘I can do many things
at the same time, Benjamin. As you well know.’
‘Do not remind me,’ Benjamin growled. He tried in vain to hide the fond look in his dark eyes.
Reynaud groaned inwardly. When she was young, Leonor had tied her father into knots. Now she was grown, and so comely that the soft curves of her body made his skin burn. Keeping an eye on her would be a challenge.
Considering his body’s response to her, it would be an ordeal by fire! He nodded to Benjamin, kicked the grey warhorse into a trot and turned his face towards the rocky grey hills to the west. What devil had prompted him to agree to protecting her?
He circled around behind the party of riders to make sure they were not followed through the remote mountain pass leading to the walled town of Moyanne.
He knew the town. As a youth, in Moyanne he had learned about wine from Burgundy and women from…everywhere.
The old hunger bit into his loins and he straightened in the saddle and willed his thoughts elsewhere. He had fought too hard to become a Templar knight to sacrifice his honour for a mere itch of the flesh.
With undisguised relish Leonor studied the moss-covered stone walls enclosing the small village of Moyanne, then peered upward at the dark stone castle on the hilltop beyond. After the bustling streets and brilliant-coloured tiled buildings of Granada, this pretty little town looked as if nothing had changed for a hundred years. Surely Great-Aunt Alais must lead a peaceful life in such a place.
The flock of sparrows in her belly fluttered to life, and she nudged the cream-coloured mare forwards. Some minutes later the two horses and the mule clopped over the castle’s planked drawbridge and through the raised portcullis to enter a cobblestone bailey surrounded by a hodgepodge of wooden buildings. From the closest drifted the sound of clanging metal, followed by the hiss of steam. The smithy’s quarters.
She studied the inhabitants of the bailey. Stable boys, washing women, even a sour-faced priest. Unconsciously she looked for an even more sour-faced Reynaud, but there was no sign of her moody cousin.
Templar Knight, Forbidden Bride Page 2
