Admirable sentiments, though thoroughly misguided. Resolving to take matters into his own hands, but deciding it would be better for Stephanie if she remained oblivious to his manipulation of events, Rafiq bowed over her hand. ‘You are a very surprising woman. I hope that you will prove to be equally gifted.’
His kiss was the merest whisper, the lightest touch of his lips to her fingers. He would have done no more, had she not shivered at his touch. But she did, and he reacted instinctively, his fingers tightening around hers, pulling her a fraction closer. The folds of her gown brushed against his leg. Her hair had fallen over her eye again. He could not resist pushing it back, and then he could not resist trailing his hand down the curve of her cheek, to rest on the slope of her shoulder. She shuddered again, and he responded to that shudder. When she tilted her head, her lips parted. He bent his head, drawn irresistibly to her. The sound of a door opening and then being hastily closed made them jump apart.
‘Forgive me,’ Rafiq said, taking another step backwards, away from further temptation.
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Stephanie said, blushing furiously. ‘It was as much my fault as yours. I should not have—but I am fatigued. The effects of a surfeit of sun too, no doubt. So there is nothing—’
‘The hour grows late,’ he said tersely, cutting short her embarrassment and his own. ‘We will meet in the stables in the morning. As of this moment, you are formally appointed Royal Horse Surgeon.’
His words, spoken primarily to remind himself of her purpose here, made Stephanie gasp. ‘The appointment will be for six months,’ he continued in a brusque manner, ‘by which time you will either have cured this plague which has descended on Bharym, or we will have established that you are incapable of curing it. Your remuneration will be on the terms I proposed to your father.’
She gazed speechlessly at him. He wished she would not look at him that way, as if she was having to work very hard to prevent herself from throwing her arms around him in gratitude. ‘The appointment may be terminated by me at any time prior to the end of the six months,’ Rafiq continued, more sternly than he intended, ‘if I feel your presence has compromised the smooth running of the stables. You understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Excellent. Then I will see you in the morning.’
‘Rafiq.’ He had turned to leave, but Stephanie caught his sleeve, yet another breach of protocol. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a shy smile, ‘for trusting me. For giving me this opportunity to prove myself. I am extremely grateful and very much aware of the honour you confer on me. I promise you I will do all I can not to let you down.’ She surprised him once again, this time by bending over his hand, pressing a light kiss to his knuckles before opening the door herself, startling the waiting guard.
Watching her follow a servant along the corridor back to the harem, her sashaying walk drawing his eyes to her swaying rear, Rafiq sighed. His passions had been all but dormant since this plague descended. It was inconvenient to say the least, to have them reawakened by the woman who had come to Bharym to cure that self-same plague. Though perhaps it was apt. A sign that he was coming back to life.
The end which would be a new beginning was so terrifyingly, tantalisingly close. The vision he had once carried so close to his heart, of the colours of Bharym tied to the Sabr trophy, of the victory flag flying proudly above the palace and above every city and village in the kingdom for the first time in two generations, was one he hardly dared conjure for fear the fates would deprive him of it.
But they would not. Stephanie Darvill would ensure that they could not. His stud would bring victory to Bharym, confidence to his kingdom, joy to his people, and quieten his troubled conscience. Payment for his crime. Reparation fully made, all debts repaid.
Departing the dining salon, Rafiq headed for his own chambers, and the meagre solace it provided.
Chapter Three
Exhausted as she was, Stephanie was far too anxious to sleep. Tossing and turning on the huge divan, she spent the night alternating between feeling daunted by the enormity of the task which lay ahead and reliving her dinner conversation with Rafiq. Her excitement at her appointment was mitigated by embarrassment and no little confusion at the unexpected manner in which the encounter had concluded.
From the moment she had set eyes on the Prince in all his regal splendour, she had reacted to him on an almost visceral level. Her skin tingled when he touched her. She had wanted him to kiss her. No, the urge was stronger than that. She had longed for him to kiss her. When his fingers had trailed down her cheek, her throat, they had set off the most disconcertingly pleasurable fluttering low in her belly.
Stephanie pulled the lace-edged sheet over her face, her toes curling up in mortification. Had experience taught her nothing! Painful enough to have her exploits openly discussed in the officers’ mess, but Rafiq was a royal prince and any scandal would be magnified a thousandfold. Even more importantly, he was her employer and her potential route to salvation. This time it was not simply her reputation but her entire future that was at stake.
Stephanie groaned. Casting back the sheets and abandoning the divan, she opened the door of her chamber and padded across the courtyard to the fountain. Above her, the stars were fading, the sky turning from indigo to grey as dawn approached. One of Papa’s tenets was that a good veterinarian learned more from experience than they ever did from textbooks. It was a tenet that she ought to apply to all aspects of her life. Experience had taught her that she lacked judgement when it came to matters of the heart, and that she could not trust her feelings. Experience had also demonstrated graphically the unbridgeable gulf between her own lowly origins and those with lofty pedigrees to protect. More than anything, experience had taught her a very hard lesson in the differing social status afforded to men and women. While a gentleman could boast about his conquest with impunity, the conquest herself was branded a harlot. The iniquity of it could still make her clench her fists with fury.
But there was one field in which she could succeed on her own terms. One field in which, second only to Papa, she knew herself to be expert—more than the equal of any man, no matter how well born he might be. It was time for her to prove that. Returning to her chamber, Stephanie began to prepare for the long and taxing day ahead.
* * *
A little over an hour later, breakfasted, dressed and armed with her precious box of instruments, Stephanie emerged from the royal palace in the wake of a servant, into bright morning light and what was clearly the stable complex. She was dressed simply, in a cambric blouse teamed with her wide, plain skirt, belt, riding boots, and her broad-brimmed hat. Despite having decided to leave her jacket behind, she was already too hot, and despite the confidence-boosting talk she had given herself en route, she was already feeling nervous.
Rafiq, in contrast, looked cool, confident and regal as he strode across the cobbles to meet her. Today, he wore a plain white open-necked shirt tucked into riding breeches, worn with long boots. His hair was swept back from his brow, the natural curl forming a wild halo which, combined with the smattering of dark hair at his throat, gave his handsome looks a savage edge. Despite herself, Stephanie’s stomach lurched as he approached, a combination of attraction and apprehension that did nothing for her composure.
‘Good morning, Your Highness,’ she said, making a curtsy, conscious that there would be many eyes watching them.
‘I trust you slept well?’
‘Oh, like a babe in arms,’ she said, the silly lie making her colour. Panic threatened to render her ineffectual. There was a world of difference between her dream of treating the thoroughbred horses of a royal prince and the reality which now confronted her. These stables were overwhelmingly and entrancingly beautiful, and clearly more prestigious than anything she had ever before encountered. She wasn’t just daunted, she was petrified.
‘
As you can see from the position of the sun, we are on the north side of the palace,’ Rafiq said. ‘It is cooler here, which makes it the ideal location for the stables.’
Stephanie felt far from cool. Perspiration trickled down her back. Her corsets, though she had laced them loosely, felt far too tight. The huge paddock to the front of her was shaded by clusters of tall palms and acacia trees with their feathery leaves and white flowers. At the furthest side a large pool of water gleamed, reflecting the tall spikes of papyrus grass in shades of sea-green, their fronds tipping down to the pool as if to sip from it. The dusty ground was covered in patches of scrub, burnt brown, acid-yellow and silvery-grey in colour, but nevertheless giving the paddock a veneer of lushness.
‘Bharym’s relative proximity to the sea, and those mountains over there,’ the Prince said, pointing to the rugged violet-coloured hilltops in the distance, ‘mean that we are blessed with unusually high rainfall and consequently produce a good quantity of succulent grazing. The pool over there is a birket, a cistern dug from one of the many underwater springs which Bharym is fortunate enough to possess. That is one of the reasons why our horses thrive. Though the Arabian breed is renowned for its stamina compared to other horseflesh, they are still horses and not camels.’
More stands of trees provided shade for the stable buildings themselves, which featured a long, low façade of mellow stone in the classical Greek style, with a large central arch which provided entry to the courtyard and which was topped by a pediment carved with the image of Pegasus, the legendary winged horse of ancient mythology. Terraces flanked the inner courtyard, mirrored by the balcony which ran all the way around the first floor.
The business of the day was just getting underway. A string of horses were being led out for their early morning exercise. Rafiq greeted the riders, a mixture of stable hands and grooms, casually by name. Formalities were dispensed with here, Stephanie noted. The men returned his salutations only with a small bow, their eyes shying away from direct contact with hers.
‘Unfortunately, I’ve had to despatch Jasim on urgent business,’ Rafiq informed her. ‘We had promised two of our yearlings to a Bedouin sheikh, but the transaction simply cannot be completed while the stud is under the shadow of the plague. It is imperative that both the sickness and knowledge of its presence here be kept secret, so Jasim has gone armed with a plausible excuse as a delaying tactic. It therefore falls to me to act as your chaperon.’
Stephanie, having braced herself for a first encounter with the Master of the Horse, had mixed feelings at this surprise development. ‘I was keen to meet Jasim as soon as possible. I believe I made it clear I prefer to fight my own battles, without assistance.’
Rafiq stiffened. ‘Your tenure is dependent on your not ruffling too many feathers here at the stables. Talk of fighting battles is not conducive to that.’
He spoke coldly. He clearly was not accustomed to being challenged. Stephanie straightened her shoulders, wishing she did not have to look up quite so far to meet his eyes. ‘Sometimes one has to battle in order to gain respect. I would not expect you to understand that, since you are automatically accorded it,’ she said with far more confidence than she felt. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. She felt like a very small mouse looking up at a very large hawk.
‘Your honesty is refreshing, your resolve admirable, but your judgement is flawed. I sent Jasim away because winning the trust and respect of the other stable hands and grooms should be your first priority. Jasim would be hostile to your presence even if you were a man. You must not forget, he has failed to cure the sickness himself. As my race trainer, he has every reason to want this sickness cured, but as a man nursing considerably bruised pride, he will grudge any success you have. I am trying to facilitate that success, not patronise you, as you seem to imagine.’
While he talked, Stephanie had the distinct impression that she was shrinking. Now, she felt as if she really was the size of a mouse. ‘I see that now,’ she said, in a voice to match.
‘To that end,’ Rafiq continued, as if she had not spoken, ‘I have fully briefed the men on the nature of your appointment, and emphasised the respect with which I wish you to be treated.’
Which explained the lowered eyes, the sidelong glances she had been receiving. ‘Thank you,’ Stephanie said, in a voice which singularly failed to sound grateful.
Rafiq laughed gruffly. ‘If you had witnessed the outrage on their faces an hour ago, you would say that as if you meant it.’
‘Rafiq, what I do know is that your belief in me means a great deal. Thank you.’
‘An apology, but not a capitulation. You are a very stubborn woman, Stephanie Darvill.’
‘I prefer to call it determined.’
He had the kind of face that was quite transformed by a genuine smile. It softened the austere perfection of his looks, but paradoxically added considerably to his allure. Her body responded with a jolt of pure lust that left Stephanie smiling idiotically back, quite transfixed for several seconds, oblivious of where they were and who was watching, until Rafiq broke the spell, turning abruptly on his heel.
‘Come,’ he said brusquely, ‘let us proceed with your introductory tour. The stable layout is straightforward. There are horse stalls lining both walls. The tack rooms and the feed stores are at the back, and in the centre there is a training arena.’
She followed him inside, quickly shaken out of her daze as the dry, dusty scent of the desert gave way to the more familiar one of hay, leather and the unmistakable odour of horse, but instead of calming her, it stretched Stephanie’s nerve endings still further. It was pleasantly cool in here, the slatted shutters across the high windows filtering out the worst of the harsh sunlight, the terracotta floor tiles and white-marble interior further mitigating the heat. The room was immense. A cloistered ceiling was supported at intervals by plain Doric columns, with at least thirty large stalls set on either side. As she gazed around her, her mouth was as dry as if she had swallowed half the desert. ‘And you say this layout is replicated in the other wing?’
‘We have at present a string of over one hundred horses. The majority are mares, obviously, for Arabian mares are most in demand for their gentle temperament, their stamina and their affinity with people, but we also have a number of stallions, mostly for breeding purposes. They are kept out in the desert in a separate paddock. There is another segregated area at the end of this wing for the mares currently in foal, and we have other paddocks for the camels, the mules, and for the horses who have been put out to pasture.’ Her expression must have looked every bit as daunted as she felt, for Rafiq smiled reassuringly. ‘Your duties will be restricted to the care of animals suffering from the infection. Everything else is Jasim’s domain.’
Stephanie cleared her throat, striving to keep her voice steady. ‘I had no idea, I confess, of the enormity of your equine empire. The value of the horses in this part of the stable alone is inestimable. How many of them race competitively?’
‘None, at the moment. We have been keeping our powder dry with respect to the Sabr, until we felt we were competitive enough to win.’ Rafiq frowned heavily. ‘If this sickness persists, even if it does not strike down the horses which we have specifically trained for the race, I cannot in all conscience compete. I will not expose the livestock of others to this plague that ails us.’
Walking down the central isle, Stephanie noted that everything in the royal stables was immaculately clean, the equipment pristine. It was obvious that these horses were extremely well cared for, and she said so.
‘Naturally,’ was Rafiq’s response as he stopped in front of a magnificent mare. ‘Sherifa,’ he said, opening the stall gate for her. ‘She has blessed us with three top-class foals, haven’t you, my beauty?’ The mare was a grey, with the finely chiselled bone structure, arched neck and high-carried tail so typical of the breed. She tossed her head playfully as he
patted her neck.
‘Your affection is obviously mutual,’ Stephanie said. ‘She is a magnificent creature.’
‘She is indeed,’ Rafiq replied, rubbing the horse’s nose. ‘She has been with us for five years. Sherifa was my late wife’s horse.’
‘Aida mentioned the Princess Elmira. My condolences for your sad loss.’
‘The marriage was arranged. My wife died two years ago.’
Stephanie was struggling to interpret his carefully neutral tone. An arranged marriage, but that didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t loved her. Did he imply that two years was time enough to grieve and recover, or insufficient?
‘You will wish to examine Sherifa?’
It was a command, not an invitation. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Flustered, Stephanie stepped into the stall. The mare, sensing her nervousness, backed away from her, her breath exhaling in short puffs, her nostrils flaring. She knew better than to attempt to touch such a highly strung horse when her own nerves were so taut. Closing her eyes momentarily, she took several deep breaths.
‘Hello, Sherifa.’ Stephanie held out her hand. The mare’s mouth was soft. Her eyes were gentle. ‘Lovely girl.’ Her fingers were perfectly steady as she stroked the mare’s nose. Calm suffused her. Beginning the meticulous process of examination, she utilised all of her senses just as her father had taught her, in the same way as the great Dr Hunter had tutored her father. By the time she had finished, her mind was completely focused on the task in hand and not the distracting prince standing behind her watching her every move.
* * *
The Harlot and the Sheikh Page 5