A Warriner to Seduce Her
Page 24
The sea stretched on for ever, it seemed, its surface gleaming like beaten metal. The sun sparkled on the swell and gilded the leaves of the palm trees. Best of all, Leonor could feel the breeze caressing her cheeks. It was cool, a touch of paradise and infinitely better than her stupid fan. Bliss. When a gust of wind caught a lock of hair and tugged it free of its pins, she held in a delighted laugh.
Below her on the wall walk, the thud of heavy boots sounded a warning, a guard was doing his rounds. Hand over her mouth lest she draw his attention her way, Leonor held herself still. Her heart thumped in time with the marching boots. If the guard heard anything and leaned over that merlon, he might catch sight of her. For her sake as well as his, it wouldn’t do to be seen, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the harbour below. Paradise was surely looking at the world without a veil. Just this once. There was so much to see. A large galley had docked and was unloading its cargo. No, not cargo exactly. Merciful God, the men walking down the gangplank were chained together in a long line. Chained.
Goosebumps ran down Leonor’s back. Was it a slave ship? There were slaves in the castle, but they were well cared for. Leonor had never seen anyone chained like this and what she saw appalled her.
Those men...poor things. Their bruises spoke of heavy-handed beatings by the brutes in charge of them. A powerful-looking prisoner in a crimson tunic was helping one who looked to be barely conscious. The beaten man stumbled, fighting the drag of his fetters, and it was clear that he was only standing thanks to his friend’s supporting arms. It was odd though, something was very out of place. Most of the prisoners were remarkably well dressed.
Leonor’s gaze was drawn back to the man in crimson. He stood taller than his companions, with strong, wide shoulders. As she studied him, the word ‘warrior’ jumped into her head. Not that Leonor had ever seen a warrior close to—her father, the King, may he live for ever, would never permit it. But that man, yes, he must be a warrior, his physique was truly remarkable. The wind was playing in his wavy dark hair, teasing the edge of his crimson tunic.
Leonor glimpsed a flash of gold and her eyes went wide. He was wearing a gold ring. Goodness, who was he? Why hadn’t the ring been stolen by his captors? As she stared harder, she noticed that the man’s crimson tunic was embroidered with gold thread. She looked at his neighbours and found more signs of wealth. Silver gleamed on the belt buckle of a man in a blue tunic. The man who was hurt also had a gold ring on. These three looked more like princes than slaves. Why were they chained? It didn’t make sense.
Angry voices floated up from the quayside. An overseer cracked his whip and Leonor bit her lip as an agonised groan reached her ears. The injured man stumbled again, the chains jerked and the line of prisoners came to an abrupt halt.
Leonor quite forgot her place and leaned right out of the window. She was no longer the Princess Leonor who should know better than to show her face outside. She was simply a soft-hearted young woman frowning at a sailor for whipping a man who could barely stand.
She wasn’t the only one to be so affronted. As the whip lifted a second time, the tallest captive, the one in crimson, rounded on the overseer.
Leonor’s nails bit into her palms. Anger darkened the face of the warrior-like figure and he stepped directly into harm’s way. The whip snaked towards him, and when it struck, he made no sound. He looked furious. Furious and proud. Something lodged in Leonor’s throat. Even in his anger, that man was devastatingly handsome. No slave, he.
Who were these men?
Leonor suddenly recalled hearing her duenna, Inés, muttering to one of the servants. There had been talk of Spanish noblemen chipping away at the edges of her father’s territory. There had been fighting and prisoners had been taken.
Thoughtfully, Leonor stared at the quayside. Prisoners, not slaves. Likely they were being held hostage for the ransom they would bring. Her father, the Sultan, peace be upon him, owed tribute to the neighbouring kingdom of Castile. Ironically, the tribute was intended to serve as a sign of goodwill between the Kingdom of Al-Andalus and the Spanish kingdom. That clearly didn’t stop her father capturing Spanish lords and using them to gain ransom to pay that tribute.
Behind her came the rustle of Granadan silk, her sisters were awake.
‘Leonor, your veil!’ Princess Alba’s voice held censure. ‘Come away from the window!’
Leonor shot a glance over her shoulder. ‘If you lean out far enough, you can see the harbour,’ she said casually.
‘But your veil! What if Father finds out?’
The youngest Princess, Constanza, came to stand at Alba’s side. ‘Father would be very angry. Inés has warned us about what might happen if—’
Leonor made an impatient gesture. ‘Forget the veil, it’s impossible for anyone in the castle to see this window, the line of sight is quite wrong.’ She beckoned her sisters over. ‘A galley has docked, and I think it’s brought captives from the fighting.’
Princess Alba caught her breath. ‘Spanish knights? Here in Salobreña?’
Princess Constanza simply stared.
Leonor smiled. The Princesses’ mother had been a Spanish noblewoman and Leonor’s sisters were as curious about Spain as she was. Sadly, the Queen had died before the Princesses had reached their third birthday and they could barely remember her. Leonor had faint recollections of a dark-eyed woman holding her hand; of a soft voice singing lullabies; of the tinkle of golden bracelets and the whisper of silk slippers on marble floors. Shadowy memories that prompted a strong interest in the part of her heritage that was lost to her. Her mother—a captive—had become the Sultan’s favourite. He had made her his Queen. Leonor ached to know what her mother’s life had been like before she had been captured.
All their companion Inés would tell them was that their mother’s Spanish name had been Lady Juana. Inés had been their mother’s duenna—her governess and companion—before they’d been taken by the Sultan. After the Queen’s death, Inés had been given charge of the little Princesses. Unfortunately, she was closed as a clam, and she refused to reveal Lady Juana’s birthplace, just as she refused to give the Princesses their mother’s full name.
Inés must have been sworn to secrecy. Perhaps she was afraid.
None of which stopped Leonor wondering. What family had Lady Juana left behind? Had she fought to return home? Had she found it easy to adjust when their father had made her his Queen?
‘Spanish knights?’ Alba took a tentative step towards her. ‘Leonor, are you sure?’
‘Look for yourself. You can see quite clearly from the window.’
Alba twisted her fingers together. ‘Leonor, if you can see the ship and the quayside, it follows that someone down there might see you. Put on your veil!’
With a shrug, Leonor turned back to the window. ‘The people on the quay will be ignorant of Father’s rules about veils. And even if they are not, how will they know who we are? We are too far away.’
Leaning out quite shamelessly, she watched the chained men, focusing once more on the man in crimson as he helped his friend limp along the quayside. She couldn’t seem to help herself, he fascinated her. It was somewhat unsettling. Vaguely, she was conscious of first Alba and then Constanza coming to kneel beside her. A couple of swift, sidelong glances told her that her sisters were not in as rebellious a mood as she, their veils remained firmly in place.
She hid a smile. Veils notwithstanding, both sisters were leaning out over the windowsill, just as she was. They too stared down at the quayside.
‘We must be quiet,’ Leonor murmured. ‘The guards...’
Alba nodded and the Princesses watched in silence.
Alba let out a soft sigh. ‘One of them is injured.’
‘The man in the green tunic, aye.’
‘He is fortunate to have friends with him.’ Alba paused, she sounded rather breathless. ‘They are handsome, don’t
you think?’
Leonor’s cheeks warmed as she gave a quiet laugh. ‘Aye. Not that I am an expert in such things.’
‘I wonder who they are.’
Leonor kept her voice low. ‘Inés mentioned border skirmishes, that’s why I think they’re Spanish noblemen. Knights who’ve been captured.’
‘Could they be related to Mamá?’
‘Who knows?’
On Leonor’s other side, Constanza kept her lips firmly shut. She too seemed to be watching the captives, but with Constanza one could never be sure.
* * *
Rodrigo wrestled with his fetters, caught Inigo’s arm and kept him steady. Already Enrique, distracted by something on the ramparts of the tyrant’s castle, had let go of him. Surely even Enrique could see that Inigo was on the point of losing consciousness?
‘For pity’s sake, Enrique, show some gratitude, lend Inigo a hand.’ Rodrigo’s voice was brusque, he couldn’t help it. Grief and anger were taking their toll; it was hard to think of anything save the awful truth.
Diego was dead. His brother was dead.
Rodrigo’s guts rolled. He was having a hard time accepting it, but his brother—no more than a boy—had been killed over a few yards of thistles on a patch of barren borderland. He narrowed his gaze on Enrique and tried not to think about the fact that it had been Enrique’s foolhardiness that had got them into the mess in the first place. Recriminations wouldn’t help. If they were to get out of this in one piece, they must stick together. Pointedly, Rodrigo rattled the chain that linked prisoner to prisoner. ‘For pity’s sake, Enrique, think. If Inigo stumbles again, that whip will fall on us all.’
Enrique threw a surly look in his direction and grasped Inigo’s other arm. ‘Inigo should have stayed at home. You all should have done. I would have been all right.’
Rodrigo’s chest ached. That almost sounded like an apology. Certainly, it was the closest Enrique had come to admitting that if he hadn’t filled young Diego’s head with dreams of glory, Diego would be here today. It was too late. Whatever Enrique said, it was too late for Diego.
Enrique was responsible for Diego’s death and their party’s capture. Fool that he was, he’d hurled himself into battle early and Diego—too green to know better—had followed. Rodrigo had flung himself into the fray in a vain attempt to save his brother; Inigo had joined him, and shortly afterwards they’d all been captured.
However, there was nothing to be gained by raking over old coals. They were the tyrant’s prisoners, they needed each other. Who knew what Sultan Tariq might do? Until they were free, they had little choice but to stick together.
Rodrigo and Enrique half-dragged, half-carried Inigo along the quay.
Shadows were short, the port of Salobreña was hotter than an oven. As the captives were herded along, then made to stand next to a pile of fishing nets, Rodrigo suppressed a sigh. The sun was almost directly overhead. His scalp itched and his red tunic was dark with sweat. He swallowed painfully, his throat dry as parchment. ‘I’d sell my soul for a drink,’ he muttered.
Inigo mumbled something that might or might not have been agreement and sagged a little. Rodrigo propped him up.
‘What will they do to us, do you suppose?’ Enrique murmured, a slight crease in his brow.
‘The Sultan’s treasury is empty,’ Rodrigo reminded him. ‘He is desperate for money so he can pay his tribute. I’m confident we will be taken into honourable captivity until our ransom is paid.’
Enrique’s brow cleared. ‘Negotiations shouldn’t take long. Mother won’t allow Father to sit on his hands. I reckon I should be free in a couple of weeks.’
Speechless at Enrique’s self-interest, Rodrigo shook his head and drew in a steadying breath. Enrique was his cousin, but if it weren’t for the family connection, Rodrigo would have nothing to do with him. Particularly now Diego was gone.
Enrique glowered. ‘What?’
‘I was thinking about Diego.’
Enrique flinched and Rodrigo was taken by a powerful urge to hit something. Preferably his cousin. Grief. Fury. Telling himself that starting a family brawl on the quayside would get them nowhere, Rodrigo turned his attention to their surroundings.
Diego would want him to keep his wits about him. His brother would want them—yes, even Enrique—to get away from Al-Andalus in one piece. If a chance to escape presented itself, he’d take it.
Methodically, Rodrigo studied the port. He was looking for weakness, for anything he might turn to their advantage. There hadn’t been many guards on the ship, but chained men weren’t hard to control. It might be different here.
He swore under his breath. Hell burn it, even if they were presented with the chance to escape, they couldn’t take it. Not until Inigo’s leg healed. Not with Enrique proving so unreliable.
After their capture by the Sultan’s forces—Rodrigo sent Enrique another dark look—the three of them had taken pains to stress their noble lineage. The grim reality was that they’d been caught fighting to win back land on the tyrant’s borders, and to avoid summary execution they’d told the Moorish commander that they’d pay handsomely for their release.
Salobreña Castle loured over the port, solid and imposing. It looked impregnable, not that Rodrigo wanted to break in. If they were to be lodged in honourable captivity in the castle whilst they waited for their ransoms to be paid, he would be looking for a way out. Inigo might heal quickly.
A flag hung limply from a flagpole, the colours—red and gold—those of the Nasrid dynasty. Rodrigo ran his gaze along the length of the curtain wall as it wound down the cliffs. There were several watchtowers, the nearest of which was close to the port. Interesting. If they were to be lodged in the castle and if they did make their escape, the location of that tower might be useful.
‘Dios mío.’ Enrique gave a low whistle, he had followed Rodrigo’s gaze and was staring at the nearest watchtower. ‘There are women up there. Look, a shutter is open.’
Something fluttered up at the top of the tower. For once, Enrique was right. A latticed shutter was indeed open and three women were leaning out of the embrasure, watching the harbour. Two of them were wearing veils, the other—Lord, if Rodrigo’s imagination wasn’t playing tricks with him and at this distance he couldn’t be sure—the one without a veil was a beauty.
Rodrigo caught the flash of dark eyes, of a jewelled bracelet and a shining black twist of hair. A low murmur reached him. He’d probably imagined the murmur—the tower was surely too far away for him to hear anything over the lap of the water and the clanking of prisoners’ irons. The dark-eyed woman seemed to be watching him. Her friends too were looking their way.
‘Who the devil are they?’ Enrique asked.
Rodrigo made an impatient sound. ‘Saints, Enrique, how would I know?’ He made his voice dry. ‘They could be the tyrant’s daughters.’
Enrique’s mouth fell open. ‘The Princesses? Truly?’
‘Enrique, I wasn’t serious.’ The Sultan was rumoured to have three identical daughters whom he kept in pampered seclusion in Salobreña Castle. Personally, Rodrigo was sceptical. He stared at his cousin. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that folk tale about the three Princesses.’
Their conversation roused Inigo from his stupor and he squinted up at the tower window, blinking sweat from his eyes. ‘Princesses? Where?’
Rodrigo sighed. ‘There are no princesses, Inigo, it’s just a story.’ Surely no man, not even a tyrant like Sultan Tariq, would incarcerate his daughters in a castle and never allow them to be seen?
Inigo stared up at the tower. ‘Three princesses, Lord.’
Inigo’s voice was little more than a drunken murmur, which was understandable. He was drunk—on pain, on fatigue, on thirst. They all were.
‘There are no princesses, Inigo,’ Rodrigo said firmly. ‘Likely those girls are the castle cooks.’
Enrique let out a bark of laughter.
Rodrigo sighed. ‘Inigo, you have a fever.’
Enrique’s chain rattled. The line was moving again, they were being prodded and gestured towards a paved square that opened out just off the quayside. Rodrigo took Inigo’s arm to help him keep pace.
‘How’s the leg?’ he asked, more to keep Inigo conscious than in expectation of any reply.
‘Throbs like fury.’
Inigo looked like death, sweat was pouring from him and, despite the heat, his face was pale. At least he was making sense, Rodrigo was amazed he’d remained conscious this long. ‘When we get to our lodgings, I’ll see they fetch you a healer.’
‘You think I’ll get one? Don’t want infection to set in. I’d like to keep my leg.’
‘You’ll keep it, never fear.’
Inigo’s gaze held his. ‘You’re certain?’
Despite his doubts, Rodrigo put lightness in his voice. ‘Certain. Only one leg, only half the ransom. They need to keep you whole!’
Inigo’s lips twisted and he glanced back at that window. ‘What do you think his daughters look like close to?’
It was on the tip of Rodrigo’s tongue to say that the Princesses would probably be ugly, buck-toothed hags when it occurred to him that Inigo probably needed a little fantasy. They all did.
He kept his voice light and smiled. ‘Eyes dark as sloes and lips like rosebuds. Their hair will reach beyond their waists—it will be smooth as black satin and scented with orange blossom. Their bodies will be soft and curved, and their skin—’
Madre mía, what was he doing? Clearly the shock of Diego’s death was taking its toll. Sultan Tariq’s troops had killed his brother; Inigo was wounded; a ransom was being demanded for their safe release and here he was fantasising about three princesses who might not even exist.