Married for the Warrior's Alliance

By Lisa Torquay

Spain, 1147

Jimena De la Torre, daughter of the Duke of Moncaster, watches in horror as the Moors reclaim her family's lands. Left to fend for herself when her father falls in battle and her brother strives to live to fight another day, she'll have to accept whatever fate dictates. And it dictates she marry to keep Moncaster and its people safe and in peace. When the leader sheds his helmet, she has a vision of the tautest, most devastatingly sinful warrior she'd ever seen as he shakes her certainties to the core. But as her loyalties start to become divided, she does not know if she wants to fight for her people against him. Or with him.

Rashid Abd Al-Zahar, the general who clawed up the ranks and won the most precious prize of all, will not let everything slip from his fingers for a woman who comes from the enemy's side. He needs to marry her as an alliance to solidify his supremacy over these lands. At the stunning sight of her, however, he starts doubting this marriage is for anything less than enjoying her lures under the stars that command their destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Torquay
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005124595

Lisa Torquay

Lisa Torquay comes from a multi-cultural family. She graduated in History and earned a Master’s Degree in British Empire. She has worked as an English and History teacher at high schools. She married a Norwegian and moved to Norway, where she has lived for three years. Writing has been her passion since she was thirteen. When she’s not writing, she’s messing up in the kitchen because she loves cooking as much as she’s clumsy. She hopes you enjoy her books and would love to know your opinion about them. Just go to www.lisatorquay.wixsite/main

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

About this book

Dedication

Foreword

Maps

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Preview of Married for the Warrior’s Revenge

Series to Die For

About the Author

Connect with Lisa Torquay

Other Books by Lisa Torquay

About this book

Spain, 1147

Jimena De la Torre, daughter of the Duke of Moncaster, watches in horror as the Moors reclaim her family's lands. Left to fend for herself when her father falls in battle and her brother strives to live to fight another day, she'll have to accept whatever fate dictates. And it dictates that she marry to keep Moncaster and its people safe and in peace. When the leader sheds his helmet, she has a vision of the tautest, most devastatingly sinful warrior she'd ever seen while he shakes her certainties to the core. But as her loyalties become divided, she does not know if she wants to fight for her people against him. Or with him.

Rashid Abd Al-Zahar, the general who clawed up the ranks and won the most precious prize of them all, will not let everything slip from his fingers for a woman who comes from the enemy's side. He needs to marry her as an alliance to solidify his supremacy over these lands. At the stunning sight of her, however, he starts doubting this marriage is for anything less than enjoying her lures under the stars that command their destiny.

Dedication

To all the historians and archaeologists whose researches made this book possible

Foreword

Dear reader,

Those who have already come across my books know that I usually reside in the realm of Regency Romance. But I must confess that when I visited Spain and wandered through its magnificent heritage, the sight of so much beauty inspired me to write this series. No, sorry, that's not completely true. It was more than inspiration; it was a veritable tidal wave of ideas pressing to come out. So, I suppose I should put them to paper.

Or die trying.

I hope you enjoy these rather off-the-beaten-track romances because all my love of writing and history is crammed into it.

Cheers!

Maps

The Moors established themselves in the Iberian Peninsula in the 8th century, ruling nearly all of it. Several Spanish kingdoms took back part of it only to lose it again. But a surge of extra energy coming from North Africa in the form of the Almohad Empire, whose Caliphate sat in Marrakesh, regained large portions of Spain. It is against this changeable backdrop that this book is set.

Evolution of Moorish Presence in Spain

Chapter One

Somewhere south of Toledo, Spain, 1147

Jimena De la Torre stood by the window as the horrific scene unfolded right under it. Clad in her green bliaut, a long dress with pendant sleeves cinched by a silver elaborate belt, the wind ruffled the sheer veil held by a silver circle over her head. Lips pressed, her hands in frantic fidgeting at her front caused her sleeves to shake in reflex.

The deafening noise of metal clashing, men’s shouts and agonizing horses didn’t give the accurate seriousness of what happened in the castle's courtyard. Moncaster, the fortress that had been awarded to her grandfather, the first Duke, when he retrieved these lands from the Saracens shook with the smashing clamour. Only now for those same Saracens to be back with a renewed, conquering drive that defied any and every account, past or present. Her eyes fixed below, the stench assailed her nostrils in even more pungent waves, smoke from the burnt gates, blood, sweat and death in one vicious waft.

The warm summer sun reached its pinnacle as the mass of bloodied bodies pushed and pulled over the wall—or former wall—that separated the inner courtyard from the outer bailey. She observed the tableau with dark fascination as if she'd become a distant creature following something that had nothing to do with her. A man in full armour, black turban and robes, rode at the front of the horde, gaining terrain in steady blows. From up here, she couldn’t see his face, only that his army followed him with blind loyalty.

Since the castle had come into her family's possession, no one out of the De la Torres had wandered inside without the duke's express permission. Still, at that moment, the men brandishing scimitars advanced one hard slash at a time into the inner sanctum she’d felt so safe in not a week ago. Her father, Francisco, had led the men in what seemed like a futile defence of a battle that was all but lost. Her attention sought her brother, Rodrigo, in a mad attempt to contain the rest of the Moors pouring in the burnt portcullis. Another waste of energy. When her eyes lowered to the courtyard again, she saw her father detaching from the mass of warring bodies to ride to the back walls. Francisco no doubt wanted to contain any attacks coming from a part of the fortress intact so far.

The hundreds of scimitar-fisting men pulled through the broken wall like a flooding river bursting a dam and spreading throughout its surroundings. Moncaster had fallen at last.

Her frantic heart sped further as this final surge spelt her destiny like nothing else ever had. A movement in the distance caught her eyes. In a break-neck gallop, Rodrigo's wine-red cape blew behind him as he made his flight to the woods with a handful of his men. He'd always been adept at living to fight another day. He would go after reinforcements, she understood that. But couldn't avoid a feeling of abandonment because he wouldn't have forgotten that she watched everything from up here in the company of only a handful of servants that consisted of no protection at all.

The duke’s dead! Shouts came from her father’s men. The duke’s dead! They repeated with that hopeless note of defeat.

And if her heart had been galloping faster than Rodrigo, the news washed her in a freezing thrum roiling over her and causing her hands to become clammy.

Father dead and brother gone. With no man in her family present to vouch for her, she’d just turned into a nobody. And a female nobody’s fate under an invading army was only one. That of a slave, a war prisoner fit to serve the winners in the single thing they required from women. Rape.

And there was nothing she could do about it. Bolt from a castle with enemies swarming around would be tantamount to madness. How undignified would that be? Caught in flight would be the perfect excuse for heightened violence against her. And where would she go, anyway?  Her gaze snapped to the great hall entrance as if looking for a way out. Her life had always been in Moncaster with few visits to noble families in times of peace. And she'd seen precious few of these in her twenty years on this earth.

As her thoughts ran riot, she expected the invading hordes to burst into the room at any minute now. She would try to accept her fate with as much stoicism as possible. Stoic in the philosophical sense of learning that everything in life didn’t last forever. Perhaps they’d kill her when they were done. It’d be an invaluable favour, she admitted with a pinch of shame. Though not much, as living with the memory of what these men would do to her would be hell on earth.

My lady. Father Manuel entered the hall, waxen skin contrasting with his coarse brown robes. With a terrified glint in his beady eyes, he looked like he needed more support than her.

Father. Her circumspection aimed at hiding her inner terror.

We should hide while we still can. He strode to her with urgent steps. These infidels will leave nothing standing! And made a jerky sign of the cross.

Jimena folded her hands in front of her to stop them from trembling. It didn’t do to show weakness. She might have lost her status as Lady of the Manor this day, but she was still bound to set the example for the others. In the absence of her father and brother, that was. There’s nowhere to go. Her spine snapped straighter. And I owe my people the same loyalty they showed us.

She realised that her voice came strong, yes. But also, with no background noise. From one minute to the other, the men appeared to have gone silent. A glance outside told her the reason. The Moors, in their pointed helmets surrounded by a turban, scale armours, and adorned scimitars, stood in a circle in the courtyard guarding the war prisoners. Absolute order and astonishing discipline smothered their expressions. Were they her father’s men invading a Saracen stronghold, they’d be in utter riot looting whatever came their way, drinking any alcohol available, and grabbing screaming women to help themselves to them in raucous groups. But the man in black robes paced inside the circle in authoritative watch, commanding immovable discipline from the men circling the prisoners.

But what she witnessed at that minute came as an unprecedented surprise. The men’s restraint and sobriety surpassed every wild estimation that might have crossed her mind. From this spot, she couldn’t see anything else, though she would bet her life that the leader mustered these soldiers’ respect.

Oh, Lady Jimena. The priest’s tremulous voice attracted her attention again. What shall we do? The beady, middle-aged gaze searched the lady’s companion, Carmen.

The display in the courtyard afforded her a drop of respite. There was a narrow chance that these people behaved better than the Spaniard soldiers.

We wait for circumstances to unfold. Her serenity slotted in place only for show, but she cared not a whit. If she gave it up, she would crumble into a whining coward. And Jimena De la Torre preferred death to showing weakness.

They didn’t have to wait long before steps echoed outside the hall. Firm, steady, and determined boots neared with daunting efficiency. An involuntary move had her facing the thick wooden entrance. When it fell open, her heart started on a renewed race. This time not in dread, but in…awe.

In walked, no, prowled a man she would never have imagined seeing in her life. Not that she’d never crossed with a Moor before. Far from that. For nigh four hundred years, Spaniards and Saracens had been rubbing elbows with each other in the most varied ways. Merchants selling the rare goods they brought from Africa, the Far East, or even the Indic Ocean. Caliphs, Emirs or Sultans and their entourage roamed the peninsula left and right. Artisans of every trade settled in the land, bringing their refined skills. Not to mention the doctors, astronomers, poets, or philosophers who published the innovative work that graced the Moorish palaces’ libraries.

No, a Moor was a common enough view for anyone living in this part of Europe.

The man that entered the hall, however, was so striking that Jimena's breath hitched with sheer shock. Dressed in black robes, as befitting the Saracen leaders, his tall frame dominated the ample space with baffling ease. With the turban on his head, she couldn't see his hair, but his trimmed beard showed the inkiest black over olive skin. Though black covered him from head to boots, the black silk belt around his midriff hinted at broad shoulders and tapered hips. He must have washed and changed before heading here because she'd seen him lead his army with single-minded intent.

Jimena feared that the layers of chemise, bliaut, and outer cape wouldn’t be enough to defend her from the effects of his presence. She schooled her expression not to move an inch and locked her muscles to do the same, though she had no chance of being sure about the expression in her eyes. Carmen and Father Manuel also seemed speechless the latter’s mouth fairly agape.

With a confidence typical of a man used to having others follow him, he bowed, right hand’s fingers nearly touching his forehead. "Assalamu alaikum, my lady," he greeted ‘peace be on you’ in a deep tenor. As he straightened, he alit his eyes on her.

And she had to contend with another wave of something coursing through her. Bright pecan-coloured eyes streaked with the noon sun coming from the window flashed on her and nearly turned her knees to jam. Worse still, the long, thick lashes surrounding the wide, almond-shaped brilliance didn’t help one bit. His eyes never moved, didn’t roam her person, didn’t lower to her feminine assets, didn’t even change their expression. Regardless, she felt his scrutiny as though he catalogued what he saw in minute detail. Heat suffused her skin in places she’d not confess to Father Manuel or any other living being on the planet.

She’d heard his name at least a thousand times in the last few weeks since the news of his advance reached them. Rashid Abd Al-Zahar. Her father and brother had spoken of little else but the mysterious figure now looming tall and broad in the castle’s hall. Nobody knew if he was a nobleman, a general or an opportunist taking advantage of this Saharan wave of Saracens reclaiming their lost territories in the Iberian Peninsula. All anyone learned was that the man covered and regained ruthless amounts of lands in his blazing and obscure career.

Which begged the question of how she should address him? My lord, she ventured and curtsied, as she’d been introduced to a fellow nobleman. More than that, it begged the question of how he’d dispose of her.

His gaze flashed on hers as though he could read her musings. Her certainty that she gave nothing away faltered with his piercing observation.

The priest will leave, he demanded without taking his eyes from her.

Al-Zahar said it in an unmistakable voice of command as head of his army, the new lord of Moncaster, and victorious leader of the day. Yes, all that, but also as someone who harboured no doubt that he came from the most brilliant civilisation currently transforming the world in their oyster. The one that copied and preserved the classic texts. The one spreading new crop techniques like the agriculture in terraces. That one peppering the peninsula with arts and architecture of magnificent beauty and efficiency. The same that studied and broadened the Greek, Roman, Chinese, and Indian medical discoveries to such an extent that any Spaniard worth their salt gave their doctors precedence over the veritable butchers who were their counterparts. Al-Zahar stood on the top of his game as well as on the top of the civilised world. And didn’t bother to be modest about it.

The perception that her own European culture comprised obscurantism, superstition and fanaticism didn’t come as a very flattering fact.

Her pupils widened at his dare. Despite their cultural differences, Moors and Spaniards understood and respected their clergy’s position and deferred to them. Granted, this warrior entered here on his own, without imposing his retinue on her.

My lady, Father Manuel interfered. It’s not wise to be alone with this savage. Jimena gave an inward scoff. Let’s just say that the clergyman boasted no diplomatic traits. And she was beginning to question who the real savages were here.

Please, Father, Jimena compromised. Carmen will remain. She needed answers as to what her future entailed. And the unyielding stance of the newcomer brokered no argument.

Long seconds elapsed before the priest moved. Very well. He bowed to her. I will be at calling distance if you need me. Jimena nodded and the reluctant clergyman left.

A close-up of a flag Description automatically generated with low confidence

Rashid surveyed the woman before him, unwilling to appreciate her beauty, but doing it, nevertheless. Not tall, perhaps five-feet-five to his six-feet-two, her wide honey eyes spoke everything her words silenced. The glossy hair in a chestnut shade flowed from beneath her veil to reach her waist in smooth waves. Her bliaut skimmed her frame, giving him the exact shape of her hourglass figure.

Since he left Gharnatah, Granada, ten years past, he’d joined the Saracens flooding in from Tanja, Tangier, to take possession of what had been theirs for centuries but had been lost to the foolishness of the old Emirs and Khalifahs. And clawed up the ranks to where he stood at this precise moment. He wouldn’t mind the glory of reinstating the rule in Tulaytulah, Toledo, the very diamond of Al-Andalus, or Spain, as these uncultivated people liked to call it. He’d have to give his men some reprieve, however. Meanwhile, he would solidify his power as the Alcaide, governor of this province, and make Moncaster, this Castle in the Hill, his capital. Together with it, he’d have to take other measures to consolidate the new territories he added to his name. And the Lady Jimena might come in handy in the big picture.

The round, forty-something woman merging herself to the stone wall on the corner, Carmen, eyed him with suspicion. Her bliaut displayed a simpler fabric, instead of the silk the merchants brought from the confines of the Arab Empire, like her ward’s. But with the headdress and veil covering her hair and chin, she conveyed her status of a married woman. These Spaniard’s subtleties told him that the lady remained a maiden. All the better. Or the battle of Moncaster might have made a widow of her. It did make her an orphan, though. The duke had indulged in a spree of ferocity and launched himself against Al-Zahar’s men alone with his horse. Rashid had instructed his soldiers to keep father and son alive for further negotiation. The elderly fool, however, went and fell from his horse and broke his neck in his pointless charge. The brother escaped even if Al-Zahar sent a search party to nip any hint of rebellion at the bud. It wouldn’t do to put more strain on his army.

He pushed his musings at the back of his mind to turn his attention to the woman eating him alive with those honey eyes.

I’d like to beg for my freedom, she started as her long, elegant fingers laced at her front, her stance shrouded in dignity. And retire to a convent.

If it didn’t mar his lord-of-all-I-survey mask, he’d have laughed. This woman didn’t belong in one of those frosty, barren, and grim places they called sacred and destined for praying. As if being holy involved the severing of all and any natural inclination. How did these people live without the pleasures that his god had given humans to alleviate the hardships of life? It did seem nonsensical.

Legs braced; his hands met behind his back. With all due respect, my lady, I must decline.

His reply caused her cheeks to leech off all colour, a haunted glint taking over her gaze. She looked like someone condemned to live with lepers the remaining of her days. He understood that having her home and family snatched from her with such a sudden turn of events had to be daunting. With all that she went as still as an Egyptian tomb, the breeze from the window made her sheer muslin veil float around her narrow shoulders, lending an ethereal air to her. And to a face that held nothing angelical to it. Much on the contrary. Those wide eyes were contoured with a slight slant and abundant dark lashes that conferred a trace of defiance to them. The nose appeared perfect in its imperfection. Small, it didn't upturn but formed a little round tip hinting at firmness. But then came the mouth, wide, cushiony, a refined upper lip and the generous lower one, red and pouty. And earthy in what they inspired.

So, I am to be handed to your men as part of a loot. Her neutral comment cut through his distractions.

He didn’t avoid the look of strangeness that her words gushed in him. You, the daughter of a duke?

Her chin lifted; her gaze hardened. I am no one’s daughter or sister at present.

Well, she was, in fact. If Don Rodrigo De la Torre succeeded in eluding the search party and came back with an army, he could still claim to be the new Duke of Moncaster to steal his lands and title back. A condition Rashid would prepare for and strive to neutralise.

You will be treated as the noblewoman you are. The statement came slathered in firmness. And do your duty by it.

Which is? she prompted, that daunting expression lingering on her pointy-chinned front.

Marriage. Rashid didn’t bother to wipe the word off its dry behest. To me.

At the answer, she baulked. For the first time since he entered this room, she moved. Her hand sought the stone-framed windowsill, and not so steady either. No sound came from that striking mouth, but they formed a clear 'no'.

The undiluted rejection got to him. Candidates for marriage and other less mentionable positions had been availing themselves since before he left Gharnatah to seek his fortune. Add to it he wasn't a nobody by any stretch of the imagination. His grandparents had fled Tripoli in the Middle East because of the barbaric invasion of the Crusaders and their thorough destruction of the place. The Al-Zahars had been prosperous merchants, but the carnage perpetrated by the Europeans had robbed them of their life and stability. And pushed the family to this peninsula to start anew. Youssef, his father, worked hard to restore the family's prestige and did it in the end, re-stabilising himself as a wealthy merchant with the aid of his grandparents’ contacts. His mother, Mariyam, born and bred in Gharnatah, also contributed to their business, as both his parents allowed Rashid and his sister Fatimah every comfort and education money could buy.

Rashid, however, didn't forget his origins and how traumatic it had been for his grandparents to become refugees. This led him to promise himself that he'd protect his heritage and honour the sacrifices made by his forefathers by ensuring nothing would ever be taken from them again through invasion and displacement. Hence, his choice to join this renewed enthusiasm to regain and keep the territories lost to the Spaniards. His people, his family wouldn't fall victims to barbarians if he could help it.

The memories leavened more determination in him. He didn’t side in the wrong. By the way, he planned to right the wrongs done to his heritage. So, he pierced the lady with an unforgiving look. You know very well that since the Moors came to this land, they have forged marriages with Spaniards in the name of alliances and treaties. Then crossed his battle-hardened arms. Ours won’t be different.

His words caused another veil to cover her, that of pride. Her spine straightened, her gaze a firm target at him, and her head rose that extra inch. How many wives do you have?

In his thirty years on this earth, Rashid had never had to answer such a direct question, and even less from a woman. The Moors preferred to keep their private lives private, and their women even more so. No wives. He could have taken as many as his fancy dictated. But didn’t. There had been little time or reason for that.

A brief nod signalled her response. Concubines?

And why he felt she was vetting him in some way, he couldn’t tell. What kind of question was that? A man needed a woman in the same measure a woman needed a man in every aspect of the issue. No concubines. He made himself reply, though the last one had stayed behind with another provider the previous week as he wished for no distractions in this endeavour at Moncaster.

That lush mouth pursed, and her head gave a slight tilt. Pity.

Pity? What was the woman about? As far as he learned,