are not so easily deterred.’
She raised her chin in a gesture he remembered from long ago. ‘Doubt me not, Reynaud. I know a great deal about men. I have studied my father and the men who visit him. And guests and dignitaries, both Christian and Arab, who flock to the vizier’s palace. I watch and I listen, and I evaluate.’
‘Why?’ The question grated past stiff lips.
Hassam rose and moved to the latticed entrance and signalled for more coffee. Leonor shot a glance at his back.
‘Because,’ she said in an undertone, ‘if I cannot have a man to whom I can give my whole heart and soul, then I want no man at all.’
Reynaud rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and shifted uncomfortably on the pillow-strewn couch. Was she in truth untouched? That was hard to believe, considering where he had encountered her earlier this evening.
His attraction to her disturbed him more than he could admit. He gritted his teeth against the insistent swelling of his manhood.
‘And Hassam agrees to this…this dream of yours? Freedom to choose one’s own husband is rarer than swords of Byzantine silver.’
She studied the retreating figure of her father and lowered her voice. ‘He does not yet know of it. But I also make other choices,’ she said, pronouncing the last word with special care. ‘Not one word of this to my father,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘The man has worries enough with the fate of Granada balanced on his plate.’
Reynaud jerked his head up and caught her pleading gaze. ‘Not one word about what? Tell me the truth, Leonor.’
‘I…’ She leaned closer. ‘I visit the gypsies at night. That is why I was on the street earlier.’
Unconsciously he clenched his fists against his thighs. ‘What? Why?’
‘I wish to learn their songs. Gypsy songs.’
‘Why?’ he snapped again.
‘Because I love their strange, sad music. And I plan—’ She broke off.
Suspicion lowered his voice to a growl. ‘What do you plan?’
She studied the satin slippers peeking from under her tunic.
‘Tomorrow I begin a journey, as I’m sure Father told you. He will fuss and pace about his quarters until he receives word that I am safe in Moyanne with Great-Aunt Alais, but he agrees to let me go. Not for all the jewels in Persia would I add to his worries.’
‘And what,’ Reynaud said carefully, ‘might those worries be?’
Leonor ignored the question and tipped her head to one side, resting her cheek against her bent knees. ‘Father need not know of the adventure I dream of,’ she murmured. ‘That is for myself alone.’
Adventure? Reynaud’s spine tingled. She had not changed a jot since she was a child. She was far too clever for her own good. She was headstrong. And more stubborn than the worst of Hassam’s pack mules.
‘Tomorrow,’ she continued, her voice distant, ‘when the sun spreads apricot light—oh! Isn’t that a lovely word, “apricot”? When the sun spreads apricot light across the sky, I will spread my wings outside the walls of Granada.’
No wonder Hassam wanted protection for her. Her head was full of dreams. She must never seek the outside world. It was ugly, dirty, full of depravity. Leonor was yet untouched by the degradation he had seen, by the sins and selfish manoeuvring of men. He would save her from that world.
If he could.
The problem was she did not want to be saved.
He sighed in defeat. She was an exquisitely beautiful woman, her skin smooth as fine ivory, her every movement graceful. Sensual.
He did not like her talk of adventure. What was she planning to do, apart from visiting her great-aunt? He would have to watch her every moment. Clenching his teeth, he turned away just as Hassam returned to the room. Like it or not, he had pledged his word to his uncle.
Therefore, so be it.
Reynaud removed his sword belt and mail shirt and leggings, stretched out on the soft sleeping couch and willed himself to tame his roiling thoughts. In the years he had been away, Leonor had grown from a playful sprite of a girl into a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman. He could not forget the scent of her hair, the sheen of her skin.
And he could not forget how foolishly eager she was to leave the safety of Granada. Her innocence was dangerous. She knew nothing of the harsh world outside this luxurious palace in this enlightened kingdom. In truth, he himself felt out of place surrounded by the opulence of his Uncle Hassam’s home.
In truth, he no longer knew where he belonged. He laid his head wherever his Templar orders took him, even to Hassam’s spacious home with its brightly tiled courtyards and the sound of splashing fountains in every room. He was to deliver the Templar proposal to Emir Yusef, then await orders for his next destination after Moyanne, to be delivered by someone in Yusef’s employ. But he did not yet know who. Neither did he know the final destination of the Templar gold he carried.
He tried to soothe his restless spirit with the trickle of fountains and the carefree chirping of night birds nesting among the branches of tamarisk trees, but memories of battle followed him wherever he went. The bloodshed, the unending senseless slaughter, the stench of burning fortresses and rotting corpses—it sickened him. With all his heart he wished he could be washed clean of his sins.
Abruptly he sat bolt upright. Was he still a pious follower of Almighty God? Or was he now a mercenary killer available to the highest bidder? At some point he needed to know what, and who, he really was. Otherwise, he could forge no other future for himself.
The next morning Reynaud gazed across the flat brown plain into the hazy distance, then reined in his grey destrier and waited for the armed escort Hassam had sent to guard Leonor. The way was clear; he had already scouted ahead for bandits.
For a long while all he could see were puffs of dust rolling towards him. No sound broke the quiet but the wind whispering through the pine scrub and the thud of hoofbeats against the hard-baked ground. Some minutes later, two horses and a mule plodded into view, laden with travel chests and surrounded by the Arab warriors. He raised one hand in silent greeting.
A large dun horse carried a tall elderly man, his black robe flapping behind his bent frame like the wings of an ancient crow. Reynaud had to smile. Benjamin of Toledo, his old tutor!
The other rider, well mounted on a cream-coloured Arab mare, wore leather riding boots, a short, drab tunic and a white turban and head veil. He studied the slight figure through narrowed eyes and his heart lurched. It was Leonor!
Every nerve jolted to attention. Travelling in disguise made good sense, but by the look of Leonor’s jaunty smile she was truly revelling in her masquerade.
She had always loved masquerades.
He signalled to Sekir, Hassam’s personal bodyguard,
