The Knight’s Forbidden Princess. Carol Townend

hopes had risen when she’d realised the Spanish knight had parted with his own ring to pay for help for his injured companion. He might be her father’s enemy, but he was obviously loyal to his comrades. With luck, he’d be grateful about the bangle and would be forthcoming when she asked him about her mother.

      Folding her hands tightly beneath the maidservant’s veil, she turned to Yusuf and switched to Arabic. ‘Be so good as to take the other guards outside. Wait for me there, I shall call you when I need you.’

      Yusuf hesitated and for a dreadful moment Leonor’s skin chilled. If Yusuf refused to leave her, she would achieve nothing. She wouldn’t be able to question the knight about her mother within Yusuf’s hearing, for if Yusuf understood that she was asking about the Sultan’s dead Queen and her family, he’d be bound to tell his commanding officer. Then word would soon get back to her father. And that letter in her jewel box wouldn’t help her; she’d been deluding herself to think it would.

      But it was too late for second thoughts. The die was cast and it was imperative that Yusuf leave her alone with this knight.

      Yusuf eyed the knight’s chained wrists before giving a curt nod. ‘As you wish.’

      ‘My thanks.’ Leonor let out a sigh of relief and Yusuf marched out with the other guards.

      The knight shifted. ‘If you want any sense out of me, you will need to speak Spanish.’

      ‘That is not a problem, sir.’

      Dark eyes looked her over so thoroughly Leonor felt herself flush from head to toe. She was thankful for the heavy veil.

      ‘I assume you gave me that bauble because you need my help in some way,’ he said.

      ‘You are astute, sir.’

      ‘No serving wench would have such things to give away. May I know to whom I am addressing?’

      ‘I... No.’

      He gave her a curt nod. ‘Very well. Lest you are curious, I am commander of the King’s garrison in Córdoba. Rodrigo Álvarez, Count of Córdoba, at your service.’

      It was a good sign that he had told her his name and Leonor felt herself relax a little. She even took a step closer. Rodrigo Álvarez.

      His hair was disordered and in need of a wash. Light from a narrow window fell directly on his face, allowing her to see the hollows under his eyes and a haze of dark beard. His eyes were almost black and fringed with thick eyelashes; his gaze was intent and focused entirely on her. His tunic was torn and dirty, and his wrists rubbed raw—they’d been chafed by his chains. His mouth edged up at a corner—it was a smile, yet at the same time, it was very definitely not a smile. Beneath it, she sensed dark, swirling pain and implacable fury. This man loathed her father, if he knew her identity, he would probably tear her limb from limb.

      She lifted her gaze back to his eyes and her stomach clenched. She was astonished to discover that she didn’t feel fear when she looked at this man, though what she did feel was something of a mystery.

      Revulsion? Possibly, because he was very dirty. Oddly, she didn’t think it was revulsion. Whatever it was, it unsettled her.

      His mouth tightened. ‘Don’t tell me the Sultan has taken to allowing his prisoners a little pleasure.’

      Behind the veil, Leonor stared. ‘My lord?’

      ‘Never mind.’ He leaned a shoulder against the wall, studying her with those penetrating dark eyes. ‘You said you were charged to question me. As you see, I am entirely at your disposal.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Leonor hesitated. This man made her nervous in a way she had never felt before. For once in her life, she was grateful for her veil. Of course, she’d never conversed alone with a strange man before, it could simply be that. None the less, here in this cell, her veil was a welcome refuge. The Count wouldn’t know how nervous she was. ‘My lord, I am charged to ask you about events which took place nineteen or twenty years ago.’

      ‘Twenty years ago? You intrigue me. Although I must tell you I was but a stripling then, so I doubt I can tell you anything.’

      ‘Hear me out, please,’ Leonor said, and the words tumbled over each other in her anxiety to get at the truth of her mother’s history. ‘It concerns a Spanish noblewoman called Lady Juana. She was captured and brought to Granada.’

      Lord Rodrigo didn’t move, save to narrow those dark eyes. ‘Captured? Twenty years ago?’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      Leonor held her breath as something—a shadow?—flickered across his face. Shock? Astonishment? It was hard to say. Notwithstanding, a ripple of excitement ran through her. Lord Rodrigo knew something about her mother, of that she was certain.

      A heartbeat later, his expression was once again inscrutable and the doubts rushed back. Had she imagined that look?

      ‘It might help if you had the name of this lady’s family.’ His voice was dry and brusque.

      ‘My lord, that is what I am sent to discover.’

      His frown deepened. He pushed away from the wall and loomed over her, solid and imposing. ‘Who wants to know about this Lady Juana? Your mistress?’ He paused thoughtfully, his eyes as hard and unyielding as stone. ‘You?’

      There it was again, that flash of pain, that deep anger. Leonor resisted the urge to back away. Swallowing hard, she shook her head.

      Even through the veil, his eyes held hers. ‘Who are you, mistress? Have I seen you before?’ There was another pause. ‘In a tower overlooking the harbour, perhaps?’

      Leonor’s heart jumped and for a wild moment she thought that sharp gaze had pierced her veil. Count Rodrigo couldn’t possibly know that she had been looking out of the pavilion window that day. He had been too far away to see clearly, he had to be bluffing.

      She lifted her chin. ‘I am of no consequence, my lord. I am merely an intermediary sent to question you. Lady Juana was taken from her homeland.’

      ‘You are certain she was born outside Al-Andalus?’

      ‘Yes. I am hoping to...to contact her family.’

      ‘I grant you that Juana is a popular name, but you will have to give me more than that.’ A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Where was her home? Did she come from Castile? Aragon, perhaps?’

      Unable to dismiss the idea that Lord Rodrigo had heard about her mother’s abduction, Leonor twisted her fingers together. If only she knew more about the world outside her father’s castle. Until this moment, she’d never realised how ignorant she was. She’d been educated, yes, but in a limited fashion. Her world was the world of the harem. It was, so Inés had told her, more cloistered than that of a nun in a convent.

      She was so eager to learn but, over the years, her questions about her father’s kingdom and the lands beyond his borders had gone unanswered. She’d heard about the frontier skirmishes, but she had very few facts.

      ‘I am not certain where Lady Juana came from,’ she whispered. Although Inés had refused to talk about her mother’s birthplace, she had once let slip that she herself had been born in Castile. ‘Possibly Castile.’

      The Count gave a quiet laugh. ‘Castile is vast, that’s not much to go on.’

      His chains chinked. Frozen by a combination of shock and fascination, Leonor watched as he took her hand.

      She stopped breathing. No man, save her father, may he live for ever, had ever touched her. Of course, Count Rodrigo wasn’t touching her skin, the cloth of the veil lay between them. Even so, it gave her a jolt to feel that strong hand on hers.

      She jerked free. ‘How dare you!’

      Somehow the Count caught her hand again, even going as far as to raise it to his lips. When he kissed it through the veil, a disturbing bolt of energy shot through Leonor’s veins.