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Inigo was cursing the day he had set foot in Al-Andalus. The going was appalling, the sudden downpour had turned what had lately been dust into mud, yet he had no choice but to urge his stallion to greater speed. Soldier slipped, found his footing and charged on.
Riding hard at night was a risky business when visibility was good and now, with moon and stars lost behind a curtain of rain and cloud, not to mention the poor terrain, it was downright foolhardy. Inigo prayed his luck was in. Soldier was the best of horses, he had no desire to lose him.
This race to freedom was, Inigo realised, even more dangerous than when he had dashed into battle to save Rodrigo’s foolhardy cousin, Enrique.
As for the slight, feminine form Inigo was wrestling to keep safely in front of him—he couldn’t in all honour blame her for his predicament. He hadn’t been forced to get involved. The trouble was that as soon as Inigo had got wind of Enrique’s plans, Inigo’s fate had been sealed. He couldn’t stand by while Enrique avenged himself on the Princesses. They weren’t responsible for Sultan Tariq’s misdeeds.
Thunder shook the heavens and the occasional pause was filled with insistent howling. Inigo focused his mind, he would think about the Nasrid Princess later. He had saved her from Enrique, which was the main thing. The rest—what on earth was he to do with her?—must wait. Other problems were more pressing.
Glancing back to ensure that Guillen was keeping pace, Inigo jabbed Soldier’s flanks.
Guillen’s background was humble, he mustn’t fall into the Sultan’s hands. The sole reason that Inigo had survived the Sultan’s hospitality was because he was a nobleman and could afford the ransom demanded for his release. Should Guillen be captured, Inigo would be more than willing to pay to get his squire home in one piece, but he doubted that the Sultan’s officers would pause long enough to find that out. Guillen must not be caught.
They gained higher ground on the other side of the fast-filling river, and Inigo searched the heavens for a guiding star. Unfortunately, the rain was unremitting and there wasn’t as much as a glimmer, he would have to rely on instinct. Summer storms were generally brief, the light must improve soon. He blinked water from his eyes and prayed for the skies to clear. If necessary, he would alter course when the stars reappeared.
They forged on. A flurry of wind caught the Princess’s veil and Inigo found himself batting yards of wet, jewel-encrusted fabric out of his face. Swearing under his breath, he slowed, one-handedly gathering the exotic fabric into a bundle. The Princess half turned.
‘My lord?’ A slender hand pulled at the veil. ‘You’re strangling me.’
‘My apologies, Princess, the wretched thing is blinding me.’ Ruthlessly, Inigo tugged. ‘It must come off.’
There was a brief pause before her head dipped in agreement and that small hand came up, to fumble with ties or pins, he knew not what, but the veil came free.
Ruthlessly, he gathered the soggy mass into a ball and prepared to toss it aside.
She caught his hand. ‘No!’
Inigo lifted an eyebrow. ‘It’s a nuisance.’
Somehow, she wrested it from him. ‘It’s a valuable nuisance, my lord. I shall have need of it later.’
Nodding brusquely, Inigo relieved her of the veil and bundled it into a saddlebag. ‘I dare say you’ll find the ride easier without it.’
Wrapping his arms about her again, Inigo gathered the reins. Inevitably, the movement brought them closer and she didn’t face forward immediately. He felt her gaze on him and wondered if she could make out as little as he. He’d seen the faces of all three Princesses, while moving from the prison in Salobreña to hard labour in Granada. It had only been a glimpse, enough to confirm that the stories about them were true. The Princesses were triplets, identical triplets. They were also very lovely. Inigo wouldn’t mind seeing Princess Alba’s face properly, if only to confirm that she couldn’t be quite as beautiful as his memory painted her.
The Princesses had intervened to save Inigo and his comrades from a beating—or worse—when they had inadvertently run foul of the Sultan’s orders on the march from Salobreña to Granada. For that he would be eternally grateful. He was also grateful for the food they had sent down in baskets during their time clearing the ravine near the Princesses’ tower.
None of which meant that Inigo welcomed having been forced to rescue her. He was betrothed, the last thing he needed was to return to Seville with a Nasrid princess. That would make explanations to Margarita interesting, to say the least. He and the Princess would be parting ways at Córdoba.
‘My lord...’ her whisper reached him through the dark and wet ‘...my name is Alba.’
‘Princess Alba, I am honoured.’ Inigo bowed his head. ‘Hold tight.’
‘Where are we going, my lord?’
‘North. The border’s closest there. With luck we’ll reach Córdoba before very long.’ He wondered how stoic she was. ‘It’s a fair ride, you understand.’
‘It will take more than a day?’
‘It could take several days, we are largely in God’s hands.’
‘Several days?’ With a sigh, she faced forward. ‘I shall not let you down.’
Inigo dug his heels into Soldier’s flanks.
They rode in what he trusted was a northerly direction with the Princess’s words—I shall not let you down—echoing in his mind. Even though he hadn’t wanted this, he felt a reluctant admiration for her.
All Inigo had been able to think about since his release was that his days in Sultan Tariq’s prison were over. Even though he knew it was common for lords to be held for ransom after capture in battle, there’d been moments when he’d feared he would never see Seville again. His injured leg still throbbed occasionally. The wound had made him delirious for days. If it hadn’t been for Rodrigo, Inigo would doubtless have breathed his last. Thanks to Rodrigo securing the services of a doctor, Inigo’s leg had slowly healed. And Sultan Tariq had eventually settled on a ransom.
Fortunately, Inigo’s coffers were deep. He wouldn’t be crippled, physically or financially, by his ill-fated excursion into Al-Andalus.
The storm rolled on. Inigo swiped water from his face and frowned into the night. Rodrigo had far more cause for regret than he did. Rodrigo’s graceless cousin, Enrique, had a lot to answer for. Inigo had merely come away with some grim memories, an ache in his leg and the knowledge that his coffers were slightly lighter. Rodrigo, on the other hand, had lost a beloved younger brother. Inigo didn’t envy Rodrigo his homecoming. His mother, Lady Isabel, would be beside herself with grief.
They continued steadily uphill, crossing land that was lightly wooded. The baying of the Sultan’s hounds faded and other, less hostile, sounds took over—the startled bleat of a sheep, the thud of their horses’ hoofs, the cry of an owl.
The Princess—Alba—held fast. Thankfully, the trembling had stopped. She appeared to be sitting easily before him. Occasionally, a light scent flirted with Inigo’s senses. It was flowery and exotic. Jasmine? Inigo wasn’t sure, though it was pleasant. As was holding her. How long had it been since he had held
