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.
Inigo ducked into the shack, the roof was so low he couldn’t stand upright. Straw was strewn over a beaten earth floor and a box cradle stood by a crude bed. Smoke spiralled from a sullen fire and a blackened cooking pot stood on a nearby stone. It was all very primitive.
Save for the Princess, the hut was deserted. Almost. A baby was indeed crying, Inigo could see a chubby fist waving back and forth inside the cradle. He watched in disbelief as Princess Alba perched on the edge of the bed and reached for the baby.
‘Come to me, little one. Don’t cry,’ she murmured.
The door was ajar, and the first rays of the rising sun fell on the Princess’s face. Her long black hair hung about her—it was slightly dishevelled from their ride, yet it in no way detracted from her beauty. Princess Alba was every bit as lovely as Inigo had remembered. Her face was a perfect oval. As she looked down at the baby, her luxuriant eyelashes lay like dark crescents against her cheeks. Her skin looked smooth, there wasn’t a blemish in sight. Her mouth softened as she looked at the baby, it made her seem vulnerable in a way that was impossible to define.
Inigo forgot to breathe. Princess Alba was stunning. Gold gleamed at her throat, gemstones sparkled on her clothes and the sight of her cradling a baby in so humble a setting closed his throat. Such tenderness... His guts knotted with an emotion so primal he couldn’t name it.
Swallowing hard, he found his voice. ‘My lady, we must go on. We’re still in your father’s territory and we need to be discreet.’ He waved at her jewel-spangled clothes. ‘You are rather conspicuous. It is not safe for us here.’
Babe in arms, the Princess pushed to her feet. Her dark eyes sparked.
‘This child needs its mother, I will not leave until she returns.’
Inigo ran his hand round the back of his neck. The past few months had been hell. He’d done battle with her father’s army. He’d been thrown into prison with a leg wound that had festered. He’d survived the weary trudge from Salobreña to Granada, not to mention weeks of forced labour in the bramble-strewn crevasse outside the Alhambra Palace. He was tired and hungry, and his clothes were damp from the storm. Even so, he was not proof, it seemed, to the pleading in the Princess’s eyes.
‘My lord, we cannot abandon a baby.’
‘The mother won’t have gone far,’ he said firmly.
During his imprisonment, Inigo had only had glimpses of Princess Alba. He didn’t have a clear grasp of her character and he was ruefully aware that his imagination had filled in the gaps of his knowledge. His mind had painted her beautiful, and so she was. Now it would seem that, unbeknown to him, it had also painted her gentle, wise and loving.
Well, she was certainly handling that baby carefully. But as to the rest, Inigo had no clue. What was she really like? As he searched her face, all he could see was determination. Her chin was lifted, and her black eyes held fire.
‘My lord, you would not be so cruel as to leave a frightened baby alone.’
He held in a sigh. This fierceness was most inconvenient.
And yet, standing in front of that crude bed like the Queen of Heaven with a baby in her arms and her eyes so intense, she was bewitching. So protective. It was obvious that she would guard that infant with all that was in her.
Princess Alba had courage. Life in the palace could not have prepared her for the world at large, but her bravery was unquestionable. She disarmed him utterly.
She searched his face and what she saw must have satisfied her, for her fierceness faded. She bent over the baby, rocking it. Cooing gently. To Inigo’s relief the crying stopped. He hated it when children cried, he felt so helpless.
Inigo wasn’t good with babies or children. Never had been. He wanted his own, of course, a man must have heirs. Fortunately, Margarita would have charge of their children if they were so blessed. In Inigo’s experience, children, especially infants, were best viewed from a distance.
The Princess frowned at the smoking fire. Her foot tapped.
‘The mother can’t be far away,’ she said, expression clearing. ‘I shall find her. It’s my belief this child is hungry. My lord, if you please, hold the baby.’
To Inigo’s dismay, she thrust the child into his arms and squeezed past, leaving him blinking helplessly after her. He juggled inexpertly with a warm, suspiciously damp bundle.
‘My lady, no. Take the baby.’
He found himself staring helplessly at the Princess’s back. Moving to the door, he glanced warily at the child. Thumb in mouth, its eyes were open and fixed on him.
The Princess was shading her hand against the morning sun, staring through the olive trees. She must have seen something, for she looked back.
‘This won’t take a moment,’ she said, and made to leave the pathway. ‘Someone is coming.’
Inigo hurried over, wrestling with the child. ‘My lady, for pity’s sake, have a care. It’s unwise to draw attention to ourselves. Come back inside. And you had best take this baby before I drop it.’
She looked enquiringly at him. ‘Babies disturb you?’
Inigo felt a muscle tick in his cheek. ‘Not precisely.’ He had no wish to delve into his past and finally settled for, ‘Children don’t take to me. Come inside, please.’
The Princess relieved him of the child and settled it in the crook of her arm. He had no idea what experience she might have of babies, she was obviously a natural.
The light chime of bells announced the arrival of a small flock of sheep and their shepherdess. Inigo and the Princess watched her approach from the doorway.
Princess Alba’s face relaxed. ‘Here is our baby’s mother.’
Our baby. Her choice of words had an unsettling resonance. Our baby.
The mother hurried up and Inigo felt a flicker of unease. How would Princess Alba—a Nasrid princess—deal with a simple shepherdess? More importantly, how best to get her to hurry? He wasn’t entirely sure they had lost the Sultan’s men. The sooner they were outside Al-Andalus and back in Castile, the better. Before that though, they had to find somewhere safe to rest, somewhere Guillen’s mount could be examined.
Conflict between the two women seemed inevitable. There the Princess stood in her harem finery, holding the shepherdess’s baby. What would the shepherdess think? He stood casually by the door, braced to intervene.
The baby started to cry. Princess Alba smiled, spoke softly in Arabic and handed the child back to its mother.
Inigo couldn’t be certain what was said, though the shepherdess didn’t seem the least bit perturbed to have a visitor clothed in silks and hung about with a king’s ransom
