Chapter Two
Reynaud rose from the sofa as courtesy demanded, his body on fire. They had met not an hour before, on the dark streets of Granada. Why could he not draw breath?
Did his uncle know that Leonor…?
No, it was not possible. Hassam would not allow it.
His uncle cleared his throat politely. ‘Daughter, do you not remember your cousin Reynaud?’
As her father’s words registered, her face changed. The feathery black lashes brushed her cheek, then lifted, and beneath the dark, arched brows her grey eyes widened. She stared at him, her mouth opening to speak, her lips trembling.
‘Reynaud?’ she whispered. ‘Is it truly you? After all these years?’ She reached to touch him, then faltered.
‘It is,’ he said, his voice clipped. His head spun. It mattered not who she was; his physical response to her made him light-headed.
She stepped closer and peered up at him. Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘What has happened to you?’
‘After I left Granada I was made a squire in Vezelay, and taken on crusade to the Holy Land. Etienne de Tournay knighted me in the field.’
With a cry she took his face in her hands and stretched up to kiss his cheek. ‘You sent no word, not one. Not a messenger, not even a letter in all these years. I thought you were dead!’
His throat closed. He wished he were dead. As custom dictated, he bent stiffly and brushed her forehead with his lips. Her skin tasted of roses.
What could he say?
With a wave of his hand Hassam motioned them both to be seated. Reynaud uneasily resumed his place on the sofa; after a covert glance at her father, Leonor perched on a square silk cushion at his feet.
A heavy, awkward silence descended. Leonor refused to meet his eyes, and in the oppressive quiet the uneven beating of his own heart pounded in his ear like a Saracen war drum.
After an interminable minute, she raised her head. ‘Now that you have returned—’
‘I have not returned,’ he said shortly. ‘I travel the world on missions for the Templar Grand Master. This is but one chapter in an ever-changing book. I belong nowhere.’
‘You are welcome always in Granada,’ Hassam interjected.
A rush of warmth swept through him. Under his surcoat his heart swelled with a bittersweet pain. He must leave this place, and soon. He would not dishonour Hassam’s daughter by revealing what he knew of her, yet he could not lie to his uncle.
Leonor wrapped her arms around her folded legs, resting her chin on her knees. ‘Perhaps you would tell me now of your adventures?’ Still, she would not look at him.
He frowned at the edge in her voice. ‘I will not. The things I have seen are not fit for a woman’s ears.’
‘My ears are not so delicate,’ she murmured. She lifted her head and pinned him with her gaze. ‘Not all women are weak.’
‘And in truth,’ he muttered, ‘you are not like all women.’
Her grey eyes sparked with anger. ‘So, you are now a Templar knight. It was always your dream to become a knight, was it not? That is why you left Granada. Was it not?’
He ignored the bite in her question.
‘Have you other dreams beyond fighting battles? It must take great courage to impose your will on others,’ she said. The venom in her tone made him flinch. Hassam stared at his daughter with puzzled eyes.
‘Courage I still have,’ he said quietly. ‘But as for dreams, I…I no longer believe in dreams. I believe in nothing save my horse and the bite of my sword.’
She sat motionless, her grey eyes clouding. ‘Then you are adrift, like a boat with no sail, tossed on the sea.’
Reynaud groaned inwardly. He was more than adrift. He had lost more than hope in his journeys. He had lost the sense of belonging. Of knowing who, or what, he was.
And now, of knowing who she was. Was Leonor his uncle Hassam’s treasured daughter? Or a woman of the streets?
Her lips curved in an odd little half-smile. ‘I long to see the world and its wonders. To do this, I must leave my father’s house.’
Reynaud held her eyes. Did she comprehend none of what he had said earlier? Did she not care about her proper place as a woman? True, his own restless life made him feel as if he were drifting, a twig carried on a river that flowed he knew not where. She, at least, had a home.
‘The world is not a pretty place.’
She smiled again, and his heartbeat stuttered. How he wondered at her physical effect on him!
‘I understand that all too well,’ she said, her tone cool. ‘I am often at Emir Yusef’s court.’ She held his gaze, daring him to betray her to Hassam. ‘I speak three languages, and I am invited to the palace to play chess and join the musicians. Life is to be enjoyed. Do you not think so?’
‘You live in a household of wealth and learning,’ he said tightly. ‘You have no idea of life outside of Granada.’
Her eyes flashed fire. ‘Do not lecture me as if I were a child.’ She glanced at her father, then looked down, crushing the silk of her tunic in her fist. ‘I do want to see the outside world. To learn. Is that wrong?’
‘No. Not wrong. But foolish.’ He studied her flowing red tunic, the sheer face veil she had again drawn to one side. ‘Outside of Granada, you would stand out, like a blossoming orange tree in the desert.’
‘That I know. It is because I am…different.’
She was certainly that. Like an exquisite jewel among rubble, enticing and unattainable.
‘You are only half-Arab,’ he reminded. ‘And you have grown up in the privileged household of Hassam. Benjamin the Scholar tutored you in history and philosophy, and I recall that your Christian mother taught you writing and languages before you could walk properly.’
‘And music,’ she added, her eyes glowing.
He tore his gaze away from her. ‘You are old enough to be married,’ he said bluntly. ‘How is it you are not?’
Her soft smile sent a wave of prickly sensation straight to his groin.
‘Were it not for the Emir’s protection…’ she shot a look at her father ‘…I would have been married off long ago, a plum in some prince’s garden of wives. As it is, I am fortunate to have attained seven and twenty winters yet untouched by a man.’
‘Hassam must have an understanding heart,’ he said drily.
She gave her nodding father a wry smile. ‘I think my father’s heart is not the reason. Benjamin says it is because my mind is one hundred years old and sharp as a wolf’s teeth. Suitors leave my father’s receiving room tongue-tied and
