The Warrior's Princess Prize

by Carol Townend

  Alba set her mint tea on the table with a clack. ‘Inigo, I don’t think Zorahaida will toss us into the streets for a day or so. You’ll have plenty of time to talk politics. First, I’d like to know about her marriage. Zorahaida, I have no need to ask if you are happy, I can see from your face that you are.’

  Zorahaida felt herself blush. ‘I’ve never been so content.’

  Alba reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘It is wonderful to see. Now you must tell us how you came to marry your champion.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Zorahaida launched into an account of their father’s decision to hold a tournament, and of his rash and very public promise to present the champion of the day with the finest gem in his collection.

  ‘As you have heard, Jasim won the tournament,’ she finished slowly. ‘He turned down a casket of gold then, instead, he asked to take me as his bride!’

  ‘I’m surprised Father let him have his way,’ Leonor said.

  Zorahaida shrugged. ‘He felt he had to. Once he had sworn before witnesses that the champion could choose between the casket of gold and the most prized jewel in his collection, he couldn’t back down.’

  ‘He was afraid of losing face,’ Leonor muttered.

  ‘That’s it exactly.’

  ‘It sounds very romantic,’ Leonor said, reaching for a sliver of almond cake. ‘Except that Jasim was a stranger and you’ve always been rather shy. Were you happy to marry a stranger?’

  Zorahaida laughed. ‘Jasim is very enterprising. By the time we married, we were no longer strangers. He contrived to speak to me once or twice before the tournament, and he understood the difficulties I’d been having with Father. Furthermore, after he’d won Father’s agreement to the marriage, he climbed up into our tower and came to see me. That was before the ceremony.’

  Leonor looked at her, open-mouthed. ‘Jasim did what?’ she asked faintly. ‘Why?’

  ‘He wanted to make sure I was content to marry him.’

  Alba’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And how, pray, did he persuade you?’

  Zorahaida felt herself flush. ‘That, my dear sister, is private.’

  A shadow fell over them.

  Jasim was standing beneath the arch, quietly observing them. Sama must have told him that Zorahaida’s sisters had arrived with their husbands, for he was wearing his wedding finery, the dazzlingly white turban and his princely cloth of gold tunic. His jewelled belt gleamed as he stepped towards them, smiling.

  ‘Exactly what is private, my heart?’

  Zorahaida’s flush deepened and everyone laughed.

  Jasim had honoured their guests by speaking Spanish. Despite this, Zorahaida found herself holding her breath. Her sister’s husbands were Castilian noblemen, and thanks to the Sultan there had been years of bloody fighting in petty border disputes between the Emirate and the Kingdom of Castile. Count Rodrigo had lost a much-loved younger brother. At best, this could be an uncomfortable moment.

  Amid the laughter, Count Rodrigo and Count Inigo got to their feet. Zorahaida and her sisters remained seated. There were different traditions between the Kingdom of Spain and the Emirate, but there were also similarities. In a meeting like this, it was traditional for the men to introduce each other before presenting their wives. Zorahaida and her sisters might be princesses, but it was a man’s world.

  The three knights, though hailing from different cultures, had much in common. They were extremely protective. And being protected by a loving husband, Zorahaida had learned, was not the same as being controlled by a tyrannical, power-hungry father.

  ‘You must be Jasim ibn Ismail,’ Count Rodrigo said.

  His smile was so easy, so sincere, that Zorahaida felt her tension ebb away.

  The Count gripped Jasim’s arm, in the way of men. ‘Your reputation for chivalry has reached Córdoba. I wish you good fortune in your marriage.’

  Count Inigo nodded and then he too clasped Jasim’s arm. ‘You have my thanks for rescuing Constanza.’

  ‘Constanza?’ Jasim asked.

  ‘Constanza is my Spanish name,’ Zorahaida explained. She smiled at Lord Inigo. ‘I rarely use my Spanish name. Here, I am Zorahaida.’

  Lord Inigo nodded. ‘I understand.’

  Jasim bowed towards her sisters. ‘I hope your journey was an easy one.’

  Leonor pulled a face. ‘Far from it. We didn’t know that Father is no longer in power and Rodrigo was so concerned about what might happen if we were caught, that he made Alba and I travel in a coach. We weren’t permitted to ride, not even for a mile, and we had to wear veils for the entire journey.’ She sighed. ‘I’d quite forgotten how restricting they can be. And the coach was fearfully uncomfortable. I’m bruised all over.’

  ‘I know all about uncomfortable journeys,’ Zorahaida said, with a shudder. She brightened. ‘However, next time you come, you may travel in style. Prince Ghalib says you will not be penalised for visiting the Emirate.’

  Alba gave her an arch look. ‘Next time we meet, which I hope will be soon, you will have to visit us in Seville.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Alba put her hand to her belly in the age-old gesture of a woman who was with child.

  ‘You’re going to have a baby!’ Zorahaida said. ‘Oh, Alba, I know how you long for children. That is wonderful news.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alba looked pointedly at Leonor. ‘Your turn.’

  Zorahaida’s eyes widened. ‘You too?’

  Leonor laughed. ‘I already have a baby. Diego is almost a year old.’ She smiled across at her husband. ‘We named him after Rodrigo’s brother. So you see, Zorahaida, you and Jasim will have to come to Castile, so you can meet our growing family.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jasim said. ‘We would so enjoy that. I have long wished to see Castile.’ He took Zorahaida’s hand and slanted her a meaningful look. ‘What say you to making a show of it, as we did with our marriage procession?’

  Zorahaida caught her breath as she worked out what he was telling her. ‘You’re going to accept your uncle’s offer?’

  Jasim smiled quietly and nodded.

  Leonor was watching them, eyes puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Zorahaida looked at everyone in turn. ‘What Jasim is saying is that his uncle the Governor wishes to nominate him as his successor. God willing, you are looking at the future Governor of Madinat Runda.’

  Count Inigo and Count Rodrigo exchanged glances.

  ‘I told you good could come of this visit,’ Inigo said. ‘With the Sultan ineffective and our wives’ sister married to the successor of the Governor of Madinat Runda, peace might finally be within reach.’ He shrugged. ‘And once peace is achieved, trade will surely follow.’

  ‘Madre mía, Inigo,’ Alba said, expression pained. ‘Save the politics for later.’

  Jasim arched an eyebrow at the three sisters. ‘It seems to me that our ladies would like to continue exchanging their news.’

  ‘If you please,’ Zorahaida said. She had no wish to turn this reunion into a trade discussion.

  ‘Very well.’ Jasim gestured the Spanish knights towards the door arch. ‘I should like to further my acquaintance with our Spanish guests, and I am sure my uncle the Governor would be pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Lead on,’ Count Inigo said.

  ‘After that,’ Jasim continued, ‘if you and Count Rodrigo are interested, I can give you a tour of the palace and you can meet the rest of my family. My brother Usayd will assuredly want an introduction.’

  As her sisters’ husbands proceeded through the arch, Jasim looked back at the three Princesses and bowed. ‘Ladies, for now, adiós. We shall see you later.’

  Briefly, he held Zorahaida’s gaze and his expression softened into a loving smile. Unable to speak her heart was so full, Zorahaida watched him guide her sisters’ husbands past the pomegr
anate trees.

  When the men had gone, she saw that Leonor and Alba were watching her, wreathed in smiles.

  Alba took her hand and sighed dreamily. ‘The way that man looks at you.’

  Leonor lifted an eyebrow. ‘Not to mention the way Zorahaida looks at him. It’s positively scandalous!’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Zorahaida said, laughing. She had escaped her father, she had the best of husbands, and the freedom to visit her sisters whenever she wished. ‘It’s—wonderful.’

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, be sure to read the first two books in the Princesses of the Alhambra miniseries

  The Knight’s Forbidden Princess

  The Princess’s Secret Longing

  And why not check out Carol Townend’s

  Knights of Champagne miniseries, starting with

  Lady Isobel’s Champion

  Unveiling Lady Clare

  Lord Gawain’s Forbidden Mistress

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Highlander and the Wallflower by Michelle Willingham.

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  The Highlander and the Wallflower

  by Michelle Willingham

  Prologue

  Scotland—1806

  His brother was dead.

  Dalton St George walked out of the church, feeling as if his guts were frozen within a block of ice. His parents were in shock, grieving at the sudden loss of their heir, only two days ago. For him, it was a sense that nothing was real. He could almost imagine his responsible brother opening the casket, sitting up, and apologising for the inconvenience of dying.

  His guilt churned in his stomach, and he slipped away from the mourners, not wanting to see his brother buried. No one noticed that he’d left.

  Then again, no one ever really noticed him. Brandon had always been the beloved son, whereas Dalton was the black sheep of the family. He hadn’t cared. There was glorious freedom in being able to do whatever he wanted. He was eighteen years old—independent and carefree.

  He had lived a lifetime of unbridled sin over the past year, indulging in whatever he wanted. No one cared if he disappeared at midnight and didn’t return until dawn.

  Once or twice, he wondered if they would notice if he didn’t come back at all. But then again, he’d been the spare son, hardly of any importance. He’d spent most of his time in Scotland while Brandon had been fulfilling his duties as Viscount Camford and the future Earl of Brevershire.

  Dalton trudged through the tall summer grasses, loathing the blackcloth coat and waistcoat he’d been forced to wear. He unbuttoned them both and tossed the garments on the ground, still walking towards the loch. The morning sun was hotter than usual, and it blazed across a brilliant blue sky. The day was flawless—except that they were burying his brother.

  A raw ache spread through his heart. His saintly brother had paid attention to him, though Brandon had never understood Dalton’s intense need to cast off the trappings of nobility and wander through the Highlands. And now, he would never again hear Brandon’s calm voice, chiding him not to do something reckless.

  Right now, he wanted to be reckless. He wanted to tear off the rest of his clothes and swim in the loch until his muscles burned. He needed the frigid water to punish him as he churned through the surface.

  His face was wet, though he didn’t know when he’d begun to weep. Strange, that he could feel so numb inside, and yet, he had managed to grieve.

  From behind him, he thought he heard footsteps. He didn’t turn around, not wanting to see who had followed him. But a moment later, his foxhound, Laddie, pressed his nose against Dalton’s leg.

  The animal’s compassion was his undoing. He knelt on the ground, clutching the dog’s smooth body as the loss roared through him. He was utterly alone. And God above, he wished that it had been him who had died. It should have been his heart that had stopped beating, not Brandon’s. He could never be the man his brother had been, selfless and kind.

  He heard the whisper of moving grass behind him, and Laddie barked a warning. This time, he did turn around. A young woman, hardly older than himself, stood behind him, her red hair slipping free from her braid. Clear blue eyes the colour of the sky’s reflection stared at him with sympathy. She had an otherworldly beauty, as if she’d been conjured from the water.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. His dog went to sniff at her feet, and his tail wagged in approval.

  Dalton didn’t even know how to answer that. No, he wasn’t all right. But she could do nothing to help, so there was little point in answering. He swiped at his eyes, not wanting her to see him like this. All he could do was nod.

  ‘I am Regina Crewe,’ she said quietly. ‘My father is the Earl of Havershire. We were visiting friends at Locharr when we heard about your brother’s death. My father thought we should stop and offer our sympathies.’

  Dalton nodded. Vaguely he recalled seeing Tavin MacKinloch, the Laird of Locharr, among the guests, along with his wife. ‘Was Lachlan gone, then?’ he asked. If Lachlan had been in Scotland, he would have attended the funeral. They had been schoolmates and friends for years.

  ‘He was, yes. But the laird thought we should come.’

  He nodded again, not really knowing what to say. The heaviness of grief had stolen away his ability to hold a conversation.

  ‘I don’t think you and I have met before,’ Lady Regina continued. ‘I would have remembered.’ A faint blush stained her cheeks, and then she added, ‘You still haven’t told me your name. Though I think I know who you are.’

  ‘I am Dalton St George,’ he told her.

  ‘Then I was right,’ she answered. ‘I guessed who you were, after I saw you leave.’ Her face turned soft with sympathy. ‘I know I should have stayed for the burial, but... I didn’t think you should be off alone.’ Her words trailed off. ‘I am sorry you lost your brother.’

  He gave a third nod, feeling like he was made of stone.

  ‘I’m not supposed to be here without a chaperon,’ she said, but there was a tinge of irony in her tone. ‘My mother would be furious. You won’t tell, will you?’

  ‘No. I won’t tell.’ It was strange to be so tongue-tied around this beautiful creature. He’d flirted and laughed with many of the village girls before he’d stolen kisses or enjoyed their charms. But the earl’s daughter reminded him of a princess, so far out of his reach. Around her throat she wore an amethyst necklace on a silver chain. She couldn’t be older than sixteen.

  Lady Regina walked towards the edge of the loch, where several large limestone boulders lined the shore. His dog scampered at her side, and she laughed, leaning down to ruffle his ears. Laddie rolled to his back for her to rub his belly, and she glanced back at him. ‘I’ve always loved dogs. They seem to know people better than anyone.’

  He watched as she picked up a stone and hurled it as far as she could. It sank beneath the water with a loud splash.

  ‘Why did you follow me?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I saw your grief, and it bothered me. So I came.’

  Her words seem to reach deep within him, and he stared at her in disbelief. This girl had noticed his sorrow and wanted to console him. He hardly knew what to say or do. But her presence was an unexpected balm.

  Before he could say another word, she added, ‘Show me how far you can throw a rock.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, feeling stupid at the question.

  ‘Because it’s a good distraction. We’ll stay a little while, and we won’t go back until it’s over.’

  Until his brother was buried, she meant. Numbly, he nodded and picked up a stone. He threw it as far as he could, and it
landed deep in the loch. Then he found another and threw it hard. This time, it didn’t travel as far, but the splash was stronger.

  ‘It’s all right to be angry,’ she told him.

  And with that, cold rage came rushing out. He was angry. Angry that someone as good as his brother should die so young. It wasn’t right or fair.

  Dalton let the next rock fall from his hands, and suddenly, she reached for his hand. Though she wore gloves, he could feel the warmth of her palm in his.

  He gripped her hand, as if she were a lifeline. This girl’s quiet strength was what he needed right now. And as he stood beside her, he felt that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t alone.

  Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Willingham

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  ISBN-13: 9781488065880

  The Warrior’s Princess Prize

  Copyright © 2020 by Carol Townend

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.