am not sure.’ Leonor stared at the ground. She couldn’t bring herself to admit that the Spanish Count had indeed guessed her to be a princess. ‘I said nothing of who I was.’
‘Yet you asked him about Lady Juana and you addressed him in Spanish.’ Inés let out a great sigh. ‘Dear Lord, our idyll is ended.’
‘Idyll? What idyll?’
Inés released her and straightened her back. ‘I shall see you later. My lady, I shall destroy this letter and then I must write to the Sultan myself.’ She gave another sigh. ‘I have delayed writing to him, I should probably have written some months since. However, I can delay no longer, the three of you have outgrown my tutelage.’
Leonor felt as though a shadow had passed over the sun. She caught her duenna’s sleeve. ‘What do you mean we have outgrown your tutelage? Inés, what will you tell him?’
‘Sultan Tariq made me swear to tell him once the three of you reached a marriageable age. Clearly, that time is upon us. I shall inform him that he is best advised to visit his daughters as soon as his duties allow.’
Marriage. Leonor toyed with her remaining bangle. Part of her was relieved that her letter would never reach her father—the last thing she wanted was for anyone to suffer for her desire to learn about her mother. On the other hand, she wasn’t ready for marriage. Neither she nor her sisters had any experience in dealing with men. Other than bearing a man heirs—and even on that score Leonor was woefully ignorant as to how that might be achieved—the Princesses knew little of what a man might require in his bride.
‘Father will arrange for us to be married?’
Inés grimaced. ‘Possibly,’ she murmured. ‘Although it is equally possible that the Sultan will want to keep you pure.’
Leonor felt herself tense. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The King might not wish you to ever marry,’ Inés said. She wasn’t meeting Leonor’s eyes and somehow that was more worrying than anything.
‘Please continue.’
‘I am not certain I can. It was something I was told years ago, and I am not sure I believe it.’
Leonor had never liked not knowing what her future might be. If her father was arranging her marriage, she hoped to have a say in the choice of her future husband—she wanted to get to know him before they married. She had fretted about this for years and in all that time it had never occurred to her that her father might not want his daughters to marry at all.
Father might not want us to marry? Inés must be wrong. What were they to do, if they weren’t to marry?
‘Inés, for the love of God, you can’t leave it at that. What were you told? Does Father plan to have us married or not?’
Inés stared bleakly at her feet. ‘After the three of you were born, Sultan Tariq consulted his astrologer and your horoscopes were cast. The Sultan was advised that once you and your sisters reached marriageable age he should be watchful. The astrologer warned him to gather his daughters under his wings.’
Leonor frowned, it all sounded extremely ominous. ‘To gather us under his wings? What on earth might that mean?’
‘I’m sorry, my lady, I have no idea. However, since you have clearly reached marriageable age, I have no choice but to write to the Sultan and inform him of that.’
Worry scored lines on Inés’s face. Leonor forced a smile. ‘I understand; you must write to Father.’
Her heart felt like lead. What would the Sultan do? Were she and her sisters to be kept closeted all their lives? Was that why they’d been kept so ignorant of the world? She touched the back of her hand where Count Rodrigo had kissed it and, for the first time in her life, looked into the future with fear in her heart.
Leonor had always assumed she would one day be married. Never in her worst nightmares had it occurred to her that all that lay in front of her might be a life of pampered imprisonment.
Such a life would shrivel her soul...it would kill her. She must have some say in her future. She must.
* * *
No one told captives anything. A month had dragged by and Rodrigo was tramping wearily along a dusty highway, one in a long line of prisoners headed for God alone knew where. He was covered in grit and his skin itched. The sky was a solid block of blue. The heat had been building all day and Rodrigo’s clothes were drenched with sweat, he felt as though he was locked in an oven.
Instinct told him this was the road to Granada, but the terrain was unfamiliar and the guards resolutely uncommunicative. Not to mention that there was the language difficulty, neither Rodrigo nor his friends knew more than a couple of dozen words of Arabic.
Inigo walked along in front of him. And Enrique? Rodrigo trained his gaze on the front of the line, but his cousin was lost behind a curtain of dust. The three of them had spent most of the time since their capture trying to keep together and it wasn’t easy. Just then, Inigo glanced over his shoulder and sent him a terse smile.
Praise God, Inigo’s leg was improving every day; the wound hadn’t festered and his limp was barely noticeable now.
Salobreña lingered in Rodrigo’s mind as a stinking hellhole, he wasn’t sorry to leave it. His lips twisted as he thought back to when they’d been herded into the prison yard. Inigo hadn’t come back to his senses until long after that mysterious young woman had given her jewelled bangle to pay for further treatment. Rodrigo hadn’t told Inigo about her largesse, although since then not a day had passed without her slipping into his thoughts.
That husky voice was unforgettable. And, despite his mystery lady’s veil, he’d been able to tell that she had a slender body and a proud bearing.
It was strange how the veil made her more fascinating rather than less, a man couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath it. Something about her told him that despite her proud bearing, she was young. And frighteningly innocent. Rodrigo’s lips twisted as he recalled the outrage in her tone when he’d kissed her hand. It hadn’t been his finest hour. He’d kissed her to distract her; he’d kissed her out of anger.
It had been surprisingly stimulating. He was unlikely to see her again, although if he did, he would enjoy testing her with a more measured kiss. Since talking to her in that cell, he’d spent many nights with her scent twisting through his dreams. Orange blossom and woman. It had been tantalising and very frustrating.
Could the stories of three identical Nasrid Princesses be true? Might his mystery lady be one of them? Her questions had all concerned Sultan Tariq’s dead Queen, Lady Juana, so it was possible.
Guilt preyed on his mind. Rodrigo had told the truth when he’d said that he didn’t know any Lady Juana. He’d never met her, though he had heard of her. All of Christendom knew of Lady Juana’s scandalous abduction, and Rodrigo more than most had reason to regret it. Should he have told that girl what he knew?
He grimaced. Her questions had caught him off guard. They had opened old wounds, wounds which, despite the passing of many years, still smarted. By the time Rodrigo had himself in hand again, the girl had swept out of the cell.
I frightened her off.
Should
