studied his uncle. The spare frame outlined under the emerald silk tunic was still erect and proud, the movements agile, even graceful. Only the touch of silver in the dark hair betrayed Hassam’s age. He must be nearly sixty winters. And even though it had been Hassam’s preoccupied younger brother who had raised Reynaud as his foster son, Reynaud loved his uncle more than any man he had ever known.
‘Come.’ Hassam gestured to a low sofa covered with embroidered cushions. ‘Sit with me. We have heard nothing of you for these twenty years. And besides,’ he confided, ‘I have my own reasons for speaking with you alone.’
Reynaud unbuckled his belt and carefully laid the sheathed sword on a carved wooden chest, then settled himself on the couch beside his uncle and waited while he signalled a young slave to bring coffee. ‘What reasons?’
Hassam chuckled. ‘You were ever direct, Nephew.’
‘Your pardon, Uncle. I have not the time to be otherwise.’
‘Nor have I.’
Reynaud accepted the tiny cup of fragrant dark liquid the servant proffered and waited until Hassam spoke quietly to the boy and gestured him away.
‘I carry a message for Emir Yusef,’ he said quietly.
The vizier nodded, cradling his coffee between thumb and forefinger, but he said nothing.
‘For your ears only. As a Christian knight, I cannot deliver it in person.’
‘Of course.’
Reynaud hesitated a split second. ‘From the Templar master, Bertrand de Blanquefort, in Acre.’
Hassam’s black eyebrows went up, but his face remained expressionless. The dark eyes that met Reynaud’s were calculating.
‘It is thought, Uncle, that you have Emir Yusef’s ear. That you could deliver this message to him.’
‘Perhaps. What would such a message concern? I would not play the traitor to Yusef.’
Reynaud held his uncle’s gaze. ‘The Templars wish peace between Arab and Christian forces, Uncle. De Blanquefort would join forces with Granada to maintain a balance of power, and to establish a Templar presence in Spain.’
His uncle swallowed the last of his coffee and positioned the cup on the polished brass tray. ‘Yes, I could convey your Grand Master’s message to Emir Yusef.’ He cast a speculative look at Reynaud and a broad smile lit his face.
‘For a price.’
Reynaud ground his teeth. ‘What price?’
Hassam cleared his throat. ‘My daughter, Leonor, travels to Navarre to visit her great-aunt Alais of Moyanne. I will send an armed escort with her, but when she reaches the town, I fear for her. She will need protection.’
‘Why?’ Reynaud asked, his tone sharp.
‘Think, man. She is an heiress, with lands in both Aragon and Navarre. She could be kidnapped. Forced to marry.’
Reynaud nodded. ‘Raped, you mean. And married after. It is a common enough means for a landless knight to gain riches.’
‘She is my only daughter,’ Hassam said simply. ‘I do not wish that for her.’
Again Reynaud nodded. ‘You want me to protect her.’
‘Aye.’ Hassam grinned. ‘That is the price.’
Reynaud groaned under his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be saddled with Hassam’s daughter. He had not laid eyes on her for a score of years, but even as a child she had been a handful for her nursemaids and tutors, even for her father. She was irrepressible. And more clever than any young girl should be.
Besides, he had other, more important business in Moyanne. Business that would be hampered by keeping an eye on Hassam’s daughter. He opened his mouth to protest, but his uncle suddenly rose.
‘Ah, she is here. Leonor, we have a visitor.’
A slim young woman in an ankle-length scarlet tunic glided through the latticed entry, and Reynaud’s heart stopped. Dumbstruck, he gazed at her as if in a dream.
It was the street woman!
Reynaud rose from the sofa as courtesy demanded, his body on fire. They had met not an hour before, on the dark streets of Granada. Why could he not draw breath?
Did his uncle know that Leonor…?
No, it was not possible. Hassam would not allow it.
His uncle cleared his throat politely. ‘Daughter, do you not remember your cousin Reynaud?’
As her father’s words registered, her face changed. The feathery black lashes brushed her cheek, then lifted, and beneath the dark, arched brows her grey eyes widened. She stared at him, her mouth opening to speak, her lips trembling.
‘Reynaud?’ she whispered. ‘Is it truly you? After all these years?’ She reached to touch him, then faltered.
‘It is,’ he said, his voice clipped. His head spun. It mattered not who she was; his physical response to her made him light-headed.
She stepped closer and peered up at him. Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘What has happened to you?’
‘After I left Granada I was made a squire in Vezelay, and taken on crusade to the Holy Land. Etienne de Tournay knighted me in the field.’
With a cry she took his face in her hands and stretched up to kiss his cheek. ‘You sent no word, not one. Not a messenger, not even a letter in all these years. I thought you were dead!’
His throat closed. He wished he were dead. As custom dictated, he bent stiffly and brushed her forehead with his lips. Her skin tasted of roses.
What could he say?
With a wave of his hand Hassam motioned them both to be seated. Reynaud uneasily resumed his place on the sofa; after a covert glance at her father, Leonor perched on a square silk cushion at his feet.
A heavy, awkward silence descended. Leonor refused to meet his eyes, and in the oppressive quiet the uneven beating of his own heart pounded in his ear like a Saracen war drum.
After an interminable minute, she raised her head. ‘Now that you have returned—’
‘I have not returned,’ he said shortly. ‘I travel the world on missions for the Templar Grand Master. This is but one chapter in an ever-changing book. I belong nowhere.’
‘You are welcome always in Granada,’ Hassam interjected.
A rush of warmth swept through him. Under his surcoat his heart swelled with a bittersweet pain. He must leave this place, and soon. He would not dishonour Hassam’s daughter by revealing what he knew of her, yet he could not lie to his uncle.
Leonor wrapped her arms around her folded legs, resting her chin on her knees. ‘Perhaps you would tell me now of your adventures?’ Still, she would not look at him.
He frowned at the edge in her voice. ‘I will not. The things I have seen are not fit for a woman’s ears.’
‘My ears are not so delicate,’ she murmured. She lifted her head and pinned him with her gaze. ‘Not all women are weak.’
‘And in truth,’ he muttered, ‘you are not like all women.’
Her grey eyes sparked with anger. ‘So, you are now a Templar knight. It was always your dream to become a knight, was it not? That is why you left Granada. Was it not?’
He ignored the bite in her question.
‘Have you other dreams beyond fighting battles? It must take great courage to impose your will on others,’ she