Betrothed to the Barbarian. Carol Townend

hanging about outside, watching someone in the stable yard.

      Elias muttered under his breath.

      ‘What’s that, Elias?’

      ‘Nothing, my lord.’

      Niko narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t believe me.’

      Elias leaned against the black’s neck. ‘You and the lovely Cleo go back a long way, that is all, she is more than fond of you. Do you want me to take her a message?’

      ‘No, I must tell her myself.’ The voices approached and more shadows darkened the doorway. ‘Cleo will understand, she’s a practical woman. If only all women—’

      Elias glanced towards the door and blanched. ‘My lord,’ he hissed, with a swift, silencing gesture that had the black mare toss her head. ‘We are no longer alone.’

      A diminutive lady was silhouetted in the doorway. Her features were in shadow, but Nikolaos could see that she was wearing one of the finest gowns ever to grace the Imperial Court. Violet silk. His heart lurched. Her gown wasn’t the deep purple that was reserved for the Emperor’s closest family, but violet such as might be worn by … Princess Theodora Doukaina?

      Holy hell. First sight of his betrothed would have to be when he had been talking about Cleo. And the Princess was well within earshot …

      A golden diadem sat on glossy, elaborately arranged brown hair, pendant pearls glowed in the sun. Yes, this could only be Princess Theodora Doukaina.

      Involuntarily, Nikolaos reached a hand towards her and stepped out of the stall.

      Her head turned, the pearls swung on their pendants, and a pair of dark eyes flashed in his direction. Head high, she gave Nikolaos a cool look and turned away. A woman—one of the ladies he had seen yesterday in the apartment—trotted after her.

      With a groan, Nikolaos shoved his hand through his hair. ‘Don’t tell me, that was Princess Theodora.’ He hadn’t been able to see her properly, but she had looked vaguely familiar. Her dark eyes … He might be imagining it, but her eyes were extremely similar to those of the heavily veiled woman he had spoken to yesterday in the Princess’s apartment. A man noticed a woman’s eyes when that was all he could see of her, particularly when those eyes were unusually fine. And those long, sooty eyelashes and lustrous brown eyes were exceptional. ‘Blast it, she heard me mention Cleo.’

      Striding to the door, he leaned on the frame. Violets, he could smell violets. There was a rustle of silk as his betrothed picked up her silk skirts and crossed the yard. He noticed she was crumpling the costly material with little regard for its rarity, which was interesting. Was she angry? Irritated? Yes, he would swear that anger was there in the set of her shoulders, in the way she never looked back …

      Very interesting. Could this be the same woman he had spoken to in the Princess’s apartment yesterday? If so, why had she made such a mystery of her identity? True, convention demanded they met officially before they spoke together, but she could surely have been more open with him. What was going on?

      I spoke to the Princess yesterday, those eyes are unforgettable. As was the scent of violets. Yesterday he had barely noticed it, but a spring-like fragrance had hung about her, cutting through the heavier scents of musk and roses.

      The anger was a puzzle. He was not the first unmarried general to have taken a mistress and he would not be the last. Since he and the Princess had yet to form a bond, she could not be jealous. Pride might explain it. She was a proud princess and learning of Cleo had angered her. Yes, pride was probably at the root of it. Which meant that she knew who he was. So I did speak to her yesterday—why the mystery?

      Thoughtfully, Nikolaos watched the violet silk whisk along the sunlit path. It seemed he must watch his step where his Princess was concerned. He must watch her. It occurred to him that for her to risk ruining that priceless violet gown—Imperial silk—in a stable yard, she must like her horses. ‘We have that in common, at any rate,’ he muttered.

      ‘My lord?’

      ‘The Princess likes horses.’

      As Princess Theodora gained the path that led towards the Boukoleon Palace and vanished behind an antique statue, Nikolaos glanced back at Elias. ‘Did you recognise her?’

      Elias looked blankly at him. ‘My lord?’

      ‘She’s the lady we spoke to in the Princess’s apartment.’

      ‘I don’t think so, my lord.’

      Niko shrugged. ‘I can’t be certain it’s the same woman, but why else would she be angry?’

      Elias began to splutter. ‘That’s obvious, my lord, you mentioned your mis—Cleo. Everyone knows that whenever you are in the City, you go straight to Cleo.’

      ‘Exactly. Think, man. It’s one thing for me to recognise the Princess in all her finery, but how did she recognise me?’

      I … I don’t quite follow.’

      Nikolaos gestured at his plain brown tunic, at his workaday chausses and scuffed boots. ‘We have yet to be introduced. Unless she was the lady we spoke to yesterday, how would she know me?’

      With a sigh, Nikolaos returned to the stall, unbuckled his saddle and heaved it off Hercules.

      ‘We are not riding, my lord?’

      ‘Later. Since Princess Theodora has at last emerged from hiding, the least we can do is go and greet her.’

      ‘And Cleo?’

      ‘Cleo will have to wait.’

      ‘Did you hear him, Sophia?’ Theodora demanded, taking the stairs up to her apartment in the women’s quarters. Captain Brand dogged their heels. ‘My betrothed probably has women hidden all over the City.’

      At the landing outside the apartment, sight of her jewelled diadem had the guards jumping to attention—they saluted, they bowed almost to the floor. The polished doors swung open. Brushing past the guards, Theodora made straight for the small room at the far end of the reception chamber. The room had one slim window and was little more than a closet, but Theodora had decreed that it should be Martina’s nursery. She wished it might be more spacious, but to have given anything grander to a child who was supposed to have been born to a slave would certainly rouse suspicions.

      The wet-nurse Jelena was sitting next to a wooden cradle, folding baby clothes. Jelena had been with them since Dyrrachion and she had that morning been informed of Theodora’s Imperial connections. However, she remained ignorant of the fact that Theodora was Martina’s mother.

      Bending over the cradle, Theodora ran her finger down a lightly flushed cheek and stroked her daughter’s hair. Martina had recently begun to teethe, and since Theodora was in the habit of spending most of the day with her, she had been concerned that the baby might be upset with only her nurse for company.

      ‘She went to sleep without fretting, Jelena?’

      ‘Martina has been fine, my lady, despoina. She began to fuss, but I found a coral teether and that did the trick.’

      ‘Thank you, Jelena. How long has she been asleep?’

      ‘Not long.’

      Theodora nodded. It was dawning on her that even if she managed to keep her daughter, her duties as a princess would separate them more than she would like. However, Jelena was both caring and competent, and if Martina was happy with her, that was what mattered.

      Lightly, she touched Jelena’s arm. ‘I am glad you came with us.’

      ‘Thank you, despoina.’

      Theodora rubbed her forehead, her head was thumping. ‘I shall come back to see Martina later, when she is awake.’

      ‘Yes, my lady.’

      Theodora left the nursery, nodding at the smiling, curtsying ladies who awaited