The Princess's Secret Longing. Carol Townend
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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 a woman in his arms? Too long, clearly.
The face of Inigo’s betrothed formed in his mind. Lady Margarita Marchena de Carmona. They had been betrothed for an age. Inigo was uneasily aware that he’d not seen her in years. That must change, and quickly. His brush with death had brought home to him the importance of marriage. Of getting heirs. He had dallied long enough.
He fixed his gaze on where he thought—prayed—north was and grimaced. In Córdoba, he would have to see the Princess safely stowed before he arranged his marriage. He had no clue how to deal with her. She was a Nasrid princess, for pity’s sake. He would consult with Rodrigo, between them they would think of something. Then, with the Princess safe, Inigo could seek out his betrothed.
He’d marry before the year was out. He needed sons, someone to steward the family lands. After Margarita had given him a son or two, he could rest easy in the knowledge that her greedy brother, Baron Fernando, would never lay claim to his lands.
Baron Fernando Marchena de Carmona had a reputation for deviousness and double-dealing. Put bluntly, Inigo didn’t trust him. He’d never liked him. While Inigo understood his father’s wish to forge an alliance with their close neighbours, the idea of Baron Fernando becoming his brother-in-law filled him with misgivings.
If Inigo’s marriage to Margarita proved childless and Inigo were to die without an heir, Baron Fernando wouldn’t hesitate to stake a claim to Inigo’s lands. Neighbour or no, Baron Fernando wasn’t fit to rule. Inigo wanted better for his land and his people.
Inigo tightened his hold on the Nasrid Princess, brought his face closer to her damp hair and inhaled gently. Jasmine. Yes, he’d take his oath Princess Alba’s hair was fragranced with jasmine.
The rain slackened, the storm was blowing itself out. When the stars reappeared, Inigo was thankful to see they were, as he had hoped, headed in a northerly direction.
The Princess remained quiet, apparently resigned to the length of the ride and her slightly ignominious mode of transport. She had to be finding this an ordeal, when Inigo had seen her on the road to Granada, she’d been riding a delicate grey mare bedecked with silver bells. The attendant entourage had been huge. Knights. Servants carrying sunshades. Sultan Tariq himself...
Inigo glanced over his shoulder, God help him, Guillen was trailing, they might have to slow down. Had Raven’s shoe worked loose? It might not be the shoe though; Raven wasn’t as fast or robust as Soldier.
He reined in to allow Guillen to catch up and the Princess looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes glittered, in the dusky light of the stars and moon, they were enormous.
‘I haven’t heard the hounds for a while, my lord. Do you think we have outrun them?’
Her voice had a soft, husky quality that sent a frisson of awareness down Inigo’s spine.
‘I believe so, my lady.’
Inigo studied her, or tried to. The light wasn’t strong enough for him to make out much more than her face and her eyes, which were framed by dark eyelashes. The glimpse he’d had of her on that pretty mare