The Princess's Secret Longing Page 2

  Pressing her lips firmly together, Alba hugged her cousin. A sturdy leg had escaped its wrappings. Heart hurting, she stroked it gently.

  ‘Your daughter is beautiful,’ she said. ‘You are very blessed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Soft voices reached them. A woman laughed. Her uncle’s harem was coming to life.

  ‘I ought to leave.’

  ‘That would be wise, my lady.’

  Alba handed Yamina back and the young mother’s face softened into an expression of love and acceptance. It was then that the realisation hit home. Men didn’t understand love, they didn’t need it. Alba couldn’t be more different, she needed love as she needed air. She craved it. Love was what was missing from her life. This tiny child had shown her as much. If she had a baby...

  Her days had felt empty because she had no one to love and care for. Naturally, Alba had her sisters, but she had come to fear that the love she felt for her sisters was all that she would ever have. She was a woman grown and sisterly affection was no longer enough.

  Her mind raced. Given the number of concubines that must live in this harem, the bond between men and women must be weak indeed.

  How many women lived in her father’s harem? She’d heard he kept a harem and had often wondered if that had been true in her mother’s time. How long had Father spent mourning Mamá? A month? A week? A day?

  The murmur of voices drifted through the arched doorway. Water was being poured. There was much splashing. A loud yawn. It was odd to think that here in Prince Ghalib’s harem, Alba had been given a glimpse of real love. The bond between a mother and her child was surely stronger than steel.

  Conscious that they might be interrupted, Alba drew her veil over her face. She hesitated. Before she left, there was something she must ask. ‘Is my father’s harem close by?’

  The young woman’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Why, yes, my lady, if you continue down the path, it’s the next building.’

  Alba’s hands fisted in her robes. ‘Was it here when my mother was alive?’

  Her uncle’s concubine blinked. ‘I was not brought to the palace until after the Queen’s death, but I believe so. Generations of sultans have kept harems here.’

  ‘So, it’s true,’ Alba murmured.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘Never mind. Thank you for allowing me to hold Yamina. Farewell.’

  ‘Farewell, my lady. Blessings upon you.’

  ‘And upon you.’

  Curtain rings were clattering, trailing silks were whispering over the marble floor. Another few moments and the women and children of the harem would be fully awake. If anyone saw Alba, she would face a barrage of questions, she had lingered too long. Giving the young mother a parting smile, she slipped out of the chamber.

  Swiftly, she retraced her path through the orange grove. The sky was tinged with pink and the tower Sultan Tariq had built for the three Princesses loomed up in front of her. It was an imposing building, so much so, that when Alba had first seen it, she hadn’t noticed how far it was from the rest of the palace. That had not been an accident, she realised. Sultan Tariq didn’t want his daughters near the rest of the harem.

  From this angle the Princesses’ tower, though glowing warmly in the rays of the rising sun, looked as forbidding as a prison. Goosebumps ran down her back.

  What if the Sultan decided to keep his daughters in the tower until they were wrinkled and grey? He was so controlling, it was entirely possible. Look at what had happened to Mamá. The Queen had been born in the neighbouring Kingdom of Castile and she’d had the misfortune to be captured by the Sultan’s troops. The story went that as soon as the Sultan set eyes on his Spanish captive, he’d wanted her.

  It hadn’t been love. It couldn’t have been love, as far as Sultan Tariq was concerned love was all about possession. He’d made Mamá his Queen and she’d never returned to Spain.

  Had Mamá been given the chance to refuse him? Alba doubted it.

  Had she missed her homeland? Most likely.

  Was that why Mamá had died when she and her sisters were small? Was her father’s iron will to blame?

  Briefly, Alba wondered if she was misjudging him. She burned to know whether he had plans for her and her sisters. They had reached marriageable age, and not once had he mentioned marriage. If she never married, she’d never have a child.

  Unfortunately, even if the Sultan were to arrange a marriage for her, Alba didn’t trust him to find a good husband. Men were cold and, in her experience, heartless. Her father certainly was, though she ought, in justice, to accept that other men might be different.

  Concubinage was another possibility. That girl in the harem had told Alba that Prince Ghalib was good to her.

  Unfortunately, Alba didn’t think the Sultan would permit his daughters to become concubines. He was too proud.

  Alba had done her best to learn about the world outside the palace, and what she’d discovered had made her extremely wary. Men were belligerent. Her father’s borders were never safe, there was always a new conflict to worry about. Men cared about power, they craved money, possessions and land, which was why all the great marriage alliances were made with political aims in mind. If men thought about love at all, it must come very low on their list of priorities.

  She almost tripped over a paving stone as the realisation hit her. She had no need to marry to have a baby. If she could get away from her father, she could surely find someone to give her a child.

  Why tie herself to a man? She would be content on her own. She had caskets overflowing with jewels. She had the means to bring up a child without a husband. Her baby would want for nothing. Most importantly, her child would know what it was to have a mother’s love. Her child would live free.

  Alba’s heart ached as she stared at the top of the tower where her sisters were sleeping. That tower was a gilded cage. And there was no way she was going to waste her life in a cage. If her child was to enjoy true freedom, it must be born well away from Sultan Tariq. She must, must, must get away.

  Would her sisters come with her? Alba’s pulse quickened as she thought it through. That would be wonderful, the three of them would set up home together, they would support each other as they had always done. And she could have a child. Her sisters would love it almost as much as her.

  Where? Where might they go?

  The Kingdom of Castile—her mother’s homeland—seemed as good a place as any. In Spain, Alba could look for her perfect man. A handsome man who would give her a beautiful child and then leave her in peace. An honourable man who would not lord over her in any way. A man who...

  A memory stirred in Alba’s mind. She was looking into the grey eyes of one of the Spanish knights her father had almost cut down on the road to Granada. She’d only seen him a handful of times, and always from a distance. The first time had been when he’d limped off the prison galley at the port in Salobreña. Captured in a border skirmish, he’d barely been conscious, because of a leg wound courtesy of her father’s troops.

  Alba reached the tower door, puzzled as to why the memory of that knight kept coming back to her.

  The second time she’d seen him had been on the road to Granada. She’d been thankful he’d survived the privations of her father’s prison. His green tunic had been somewhat the worse for wear, but he’d been allowed to keep his gold ring—proof of his high status, no doubt.

  There’d been something about the way he’d looked at her, and Alba didn’t think it was simply that she was unused to a man’s regard. He’d made no attempt to hide his curiosity. His gaze had been frank. Admiring. The knight had liked what he’d seen, and he’d made no attempt to hide it. Best of all, she’d seen not the slightest trace of the tyrant in him.

  He was brave too. Her father had been bearing down on him, scimitar in hand like a vengeful demon, and that knight had stood firm. For a
moment, he’d even looked amused. Amused? Sultan Tariq’s fury was never amusing.

  Alba could be reading too much into a look. She was, after all, unused to men. She must take care. However, the appreciative glint in those grey eyes gave her hope. That man didn’t look like a bully. He liked women and he liked them to like him back.

  If life didn’t improve here, Alba could think of no better place to settle than in her mother’s homeland, preferably with her sisters. All she had to do was to work out how to get there.

  Chapter Two

  A street in the city of Granada, Al-Andalus

  The evening was warm. Moths were fluttering around three lanterns hanging over one of the doorways.

  ‘Three lanterns,’ Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville, murmured. His saddle creaked as he turned to his squire, Guillen. ‘This is the place?’

  ‘It must be, my lord.’

  The Three Lanterns was a bathhouse. Its popularity with merchants from outside the Emirate gave Count Inigo hope that the presence of a Spanish knight and his squire wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. He was finally on the point of returning home and the last thing he wanted was trouble.

  Earlier that day Inigo had been freed from Sultan Tariq’s prison in the Vermillion Towers. As Count of Seville, and lord over sizeable holdings in the Spanish kingdom of Castile, a hefty ransom had been paid for Inigo’s release. He remained uneasy. Until he left the Sultan’s territory, he wasn’t going to let his guard down. His incarceration had given him a grave mistrust of Sultan Tariq, and while there was no question that Inigo was free, he wouldn’t truly relax until he was back in Castile. One more night and they’d be on their way.

  ‘You have our safe conduct, lad?’ Inigo asked.

  Guillen patted his saddlebag. ‘In here, my lord.’

  ‘Good. And you were given assurances that we may explore Granada unmolested?’

  They were still within a stone’s throw of the Sultan’s palace. If they encountered prejudice, Inigo needed to know he and Guillen had protection. Having won his release, Inigo had no wish to fall foul of city authorities.

  ‘Indeed, my lord. Provided we leave by noon tomorrow, Granada is ours to explore.’

  Slivers of light were seeping out between cracks in the bathhouse shutters. Inside, Inigo could hear water being poured. There was a faint tang in the air. Almond oil. It was beyond tempting. After months in captivity, his skin itched. With a grimace, he tugged at what was left of his green tunic. Head to toe, he was filthy. ‘I stink to high heaven.’

  Guillen grinned and said not a word.

  Inigo lifted an eyebrow and prepared to dismount. ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Wretch. Here, hand me that safe conduct, I’m not about to let it out of my sight.’

  Guillen unbuckled his saddlebag, drew out a scroll and passed it to Inigo.

  ‘My thanks. See to the horses before you come to attend me.’

  Inigo rapped on the door, which opened at his touch. A tiled entrance led to a small courtyard that was starred with lamps. The bathhouse was larger than it appeared from the street, arched doorways led off in all directions. The scent of almond oil mingled with other scents—bay, sage, rose...

  Inigo heard the hum of conversation and then a soft footfall. A young boy was bowing at him.

  ‘My apologies, I don’t speak Arabic,’ Inigo said. Conscious that his unkempt appearance might lead the boy to peg him for a beggar or a thief rather than a customer, he opened his money pouch and took out a handful of silver. ‘I am Inigo Sánchez, Count of Seville, and I am hoping you speak my tongue.’

  ‘I do indeed, great lord.’

  ‘That is a relief. I would like a bath and a barber. Your name, lad?’

  ‘I am Mo,’ the boy said, smiling. ‘Welcome to The Three Lanterns.’

  Across the courtyard a door swung wide, and Sir Enrique de Murcia stepped into the lamplight. Inigo held down a groan. Sir Enrique had been a fellow captive in the Vermillion Towers. Unfortunately, he was the last man Inigo wanted to see.

  Desperate though he was for a bath and clean clothes, Inigo found himself wrestling with the urge to turn on his heel and go elsewhere. It was an awkward situation. Sir Enrique was cousin to Inigo’s close friend, Count Rodrigo Álvarez. That should have stood in Enrique’s favour, but Enrique’s foolhardiness had sparked off the border skirmish that had cost Rodrigo’s younger brother his life. If Enrique hadn’t rushed into battle, young Diego would still be alive, and Inigo and Rodrigo would never have dived into the fray in an attempt to save him. Inigo’s capture and subsequent imprisonment lay firmly at Enrique’s door.

  ‘Enrique,’ Inigo said. ‘Didn’t think to find you here.’

  Enrique stood under an arch, swaying slightly. He was holding a wineskin and he looked drunk, which was quick work, even for him. They’d not been free for long. He lifted the wineskin to his mouth, throat working as he swallowed.

  ‘This wine’s not bad,’ Enrique said, tossing the empty skin aside and scowling at Mo. ‘You, fetch me another.’

  ‘Yes, great lord.’ Mo clapped his hands and another boy appeared and was sent in search of more wine. Mo looked at Inigo. ‘You require a private bath, great lord?’

  Inigo nodded. ‘If you please. My squire Guillen is stabling our horses. He will join me shortly.’

  Inigo was shown into a lamplit chamber. After the rigours of his imprisonment, it was like walking into heaven. The floor was white marble and he found himself gazing longingly at a low marble washbowl. Further in, beyond a row of horseshoe arches with red marble columns, steps led into a deep pool fed by a water spout. The water gleamed blue in the lamplight. The wall tiles were earth-coloured, and the ceiling domed. A handful of six-pointed stars were spaced about the dome. Air vents. In the day they would, presumably, admit light. A wooden couch was set against a wall.

  This was his bathing chamber? It was fit for a prince.

  As Inigo peeled off his clothes, filthy rags he never wanted to see again, he prayed Enrique would have the sense to realise his company wasn’t wanted.

  He splashed off the worst of the filth in the washbowl before lowering himself into the pool. The water was warm and scented with sage, it felt like heaven. He closed his eyes and was easing his injured leg when a shift in the air told him someone had joined him. Hoping it was Guillen, he opened his eyes.

  Enrique stood at the edge of the pool. ‘Is Rodrigo joining us?’ he asked.

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Inigo said, ‘I am not privy to your cousin’s plans.’

  That was a bald lie. In truth, Rodrigo was due later. However, during their captivity, Rodrigo had been unable to escape Enrique’s company and Inigo was only too conscious of how difficult he must have found it. To have been compelled, day after day, to keep the company of a man whose recklessness had led directly to the death of his beloved brother must have tested Rodrigo’s patience to the limit.

  In the interest of harmony, it would be best to get rid of Enrique before Rodrigo arrived.

  Enrique grunted, weaved his way to the couch and sat down heavily. He was holding more wine—a bottle this time—and was toying with the cork.

  Leaning against the side of the pool, Inigo probed his leg. In the battle to save Diego, one of the Sultan’s men had sliced it open. Thankfully, the wound had healed cleanly, though it still ached from time to time.

  ‘They have women here,’ Enrique said conversationally. ‘Girls seem to like you, I’m sure they will be delighted to accommodate you.’

  Inigo cleared his throat. ‘Not interested. Enrique, you must be forgetting, I am to be married soon.’

  Enrique’s lip curled. ‘You’ve been betrothed for years, that’s never stopped you before.’

  Inigo shrugged. ‘Lady Margarita and I have an understanding.’

  ‘She knows about y
our...flirtations?’ Enrique asked.

  ‘Aye, but we will be married shortly and all that will change.’

  ‘You’ll be faithful after you’re wed?’ Enrique sounded incredulous.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good God, man, why? You don’t give a fig for Margarita, you never have.’

  Inigo was all too aware that his relationship with his betrothed was cool. Lady Margarita Marchena de Carmona was a cool woman, which was exactly why he was marrying her. He wanted a cool wife. An emotional woman wouldn’t suit him, such a woman would disrupt his household and destroy his peace of mind. When they were married, he would reward Lady Margarita for her calm by being a loyal husband.

  ‘I won’t shame my wife. I shall be faithful.’

  Enrique’s lip curled. ‘It’s amazing you can say that with a straight face. You’re the biggest flirt alive.’

  Inigo couldn’t deny that he liked women. It was the emotional baggage they brought with them that made him wary. He liked his relationships simple.

  ‘There will be no flirting when I am wed. It’s too much trouble otherwise.’

  Idly, Enrique watched him, and a twisted smile formed. ‘Crook your finger and those girls will come. They can dry you off. Seriously, Inigo, make the most of them while you can.’

  ‘Guillen will be back from the stables shortly, he can assist me.’ Wishing Enrique in Hades, Inigo slid deep into the water.

  Back in Castile, Enrique’s reputation with women was ugly, Inigo had heard that he had a cruel streak. Inigo had never seen Enrique with a woman, and rumours were only rumours, but having witnessed Enrique’s vicious impetuosity in battle, he feared they might be true.

  Enrique lifted the bottle and drank. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he gave Inigo an unpleasant smile. ‘I’ve been married for years and I’ve never let it interfere with the real pleasures of life.’

  ‘The real pleasures?’ Inigo smothered a yawn.

  ‘I have plans, let me tell you. I’m saving myself for later tonight.’ Enrique jerked his head towards the door. ‘Otherwise I’d avail myself of the delights here.’