Rafiq gave a curt nod, and turned on his heel. Stephanie remained where she was until she was sure her emotions were under control. He took my side, in the end, Jasim had said. And he very nearly had, again. Jasim must have had one of his many spies alert him to Rafiq’s return. She could imagine, all too easily, how he would have slanted his case against her.
Why hadn’t Rafiq sought her out? Why hadn’t he listened to her side? But he had. Stephanie uncurled her fists and her toes. He had sought her out, he had listened. He had taken her side. In the end. It might feel like a defeat, but it was a victory. And a very real reminder too, that Rafiq was a prince first, foremost and last. She rolled back her shoulders and made her way back into the stables, because she was a veterinarian first, foremost and last, with a job to do.
Chapter Eight
Alone in her private dining room the next evening, Stephanie picked half-heartedly at the fragrant array of dishes set out in front of her and wished she could escape the somewhat oppressive atmosphere of the harem for a while. But unless she wished to pay another visit to the stables, she had nowhere to go. The huge palace was effectively out of bounds to her, without Rafiq’s express permission, and she wasn’t foolish enough to imagine that she could go for a walk alone in the desert after dark. Though that, she thought, wandering listlessly into the courtyard and gazing up at the stars, is what she would like to do.
Though she had not seen Rafiq since yesterday, he had obviously had words with Jasim. The Master of the Horse had taken himself off to the training grounds, and his absence had considerably eased the tension in the stables. Fadil had been apologetically co-operative, asking her quietly if she believed the measures would allow the Bharym horses to compete in the Sabr. Her answer in the affirmative had certainly expedited the implementation of her orders.
She was sitting on the edge of the fountain, gazing distractedly down into the darkened basin when Aida arrived, bringing with her the summons. Assuming that Rafiq wished her to report on progress, Stephanie picked up her notebook and was about to head for the door when the Mistress of the Harem stopped her. ‘Madam, you will surely wish to change first, prior to an audience with the Prince,’ she said, looking shocked.
* * *
Stephanie had changed, after a swift bath, into a clean tunic of mint-green, her hair tied back in a matching silk scarf. She had brown slippers on her feet. Aida was holding up the silk robe, the one in shades of pink that Stephanie had never worn, though she had tried it on privately one sleepless night, wandering around the courtyard, enjoying the caress of fine silk against her skin. It was a beautiful robe, and it was a very flattering one, but it was not a gown to be worn by a Royal Horse Surgeon, and she presumed it was in that capacity which Rafiq wished to speak to her. So she shook her head, told Aida not to wait up for her, knowing that her wishes would have no effect on the Mistress of the Harem, and followed obediently in the wake of the waiting guard.
She was not surprised to be taken to the Hall of Campaign, but she was very surprised to find it empty, and to be ushered through the door at the back of the chamber which led to the bathing pool. ‘Are you sure this was where you were to bring me?’
The guard nodded silently, and the door closed behind her. Alone, she made her way through the connecting corridor. Flambeaux had been lit around the pool in tall scones, the reflection of the flames dancing on the still waters. Rafiq had been sitting in his favourite spot, but he got to his feet when she arrived. He was dressed simply, in a white tunic. His hair was sleeked back, still damp from his bath.
Stephanie stopped just short of the covered terrace, opened her notebook and cleared her throat. ‘I am pleased to be able to report...’
‘I summoned you here in order to apologise.’
She stared at him blankly, her mind still on her report. ‘Whatever you said to Jasim has certainly paid dividends, he...’
‘...is a man one step from being summarily dismissed. While some of my sentiments were entirely justified,’ Rafiq said, ‘I should not have vented my anger and frustration on you.’
‘No, but it was a pertinent reminder—not that I needed one—that you are the Prince of Bharym, and that ultimately your word is law.’
‘You make me sound like a despot.’
‘You once told me you found my honesty refreshing.’
‘Refreshing, in the sense of a dowsing with ice-cold water from a mountain stream, on occasion,’ Rafiq said ruefully. ‘It is rather dishearteningly difficult for me to confess that I was wrong.’
‘You were not,’ Stephanie said, touching his arm. ‘As I said, you...’
‘No!’ He caught her hand, clasping it tightly. ‘No, I am sorry. And amidst all the fuss and commotion which Jasim created, amidst my quite unjustified fury at your putting an end to the daily business of the stud, I overlooked the single, most important point. Do you truly think that we can risk the race without infecting any of the other runners, Stephanie?’
She longed to promise him, but she could not bring herself to lie. ‘I cannot guarantee it, Rafiq.’
He laughed softly. ‘Of course you can’t. There is no accounting for the vagaries of nature.’
‘Exactly. But I do think there is hope. I think that the measures we have implemented stand a good chance of keeping the Sabr horses free from infection and therefore free to run in the race.’
He nodded several times, his lack of words making the depth of his feelings very clear. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s what you brought me here to do.’
He kissed her hand. ‘It is no excuse, but I find it difficult, at times, to distinguish between Stephanie and my Royal Horse Surgeon. When you quite rightly pointed out that I should have consulted you, rather than pay heed to Jasim, I was...’ He shrugged, shaking his head. ‘I could see I had hurt you, and I wouldn’t wish to harm a hair on your head.’
‘The important thing is that you showed faith in me.’ He was still holding her hand. ‘Rafiq, you are not the only one who has trouble distinguishing—may I ask if I am still talking to the Prince?’
‘The Prince has apologised to his Royal Horse Surgeon. The man wishes—hopes—to make it up to Stephanie. If she will allow him.’
Her mouth went dry. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I’ll show you,’ Rafiq said, kissing her hand again, and this time smiling at her wickedly. ‘This terrace, you know, was once known as the Pool of Nymphs. When the palace was first built, it was part of the original harem. The library was formerly the changing room for the hamam.’
He turned the key in the lock and ushered her in. ‘You may think it is luxurious now, but it was once fabulously ostentatious. Rich wall hangings, carpets from Persia, gold and silver embroidery on every cushion and covering, bone-china coffee cups and pots set with jewels. Would you like to see the next room?’
Stephanie nodded, intrigued and excited and just a little bit nervous. Rafiq opened the door into a small ante-room made entirely of white marble. ‘This is where one would disrobe before entering the tepidarium. Would you like to recreate that experience, Stephanie?’
Was he really suggesting they take a bath together? Naked. Rafiq naked. Now that was a very different proposition. She picked up the robe he handed her and retreated behind a screen.
When she emerged, clutching her robe to her body, Rafiq had also changed. His robe stopped just short of his calves. He had very elegant feet. Slim ankles. When he kissed her lightly, she was acutely conscious of their flesh, separated only by two thin layers of silk. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
She nodded, allowing him to lead her into the next room. The tepidarium was not, as she had assumed, an actual bath house. It was a white marble room set out with more divans, the marble cool underfoot.
When he kissed her again, she closed the gap between them. Their tongues tou
ched. He cupped her bottom, pulling her closer. Her hands slipped and slid on the silk of his robe as she flattened her palms on his back. When they broke the kiss, his robe was gaping, giving her a glimpse of the swell of his pectoral muscles, the rough smattering of hair which covered his chest.
‘Another step further?’ he asked.
‘Onwards and upwards,’ Stephanie agreed readily.
Steam billowed out of the next room as Rafiq opened the door, obscuring her view at first. She stumbled forward. He caught her arm. The door closed. The steam cleared.
‘The Great Bathing Chamber,’ he announced.
They were in a room with a high cupola lit by what looked like stars, though they must be lanterns of some sort, covering the whole dome, like a night sky. There were more lights set into the outer walls. No windows. The steam hissed gently from gaps between the marble tiles underfoot. The marble here was not white, but veined with grey and black. Around the walls were basins. Slim marble pillars supported the cupola’s arches, forming a circle in the centre of the chamber. And here stood the bath, a massive star-shaped construction edged with marble so wide it formed ledges, the bath itself a much smaller pool in the centre. There were other marble tables too, beside each of the fountains, and around the walls, benches had been inset.
She was very hot. Rafiq’s robe was clinging to him. She could see the dark circles of his nipples. Looking down, she saw that her robe too was clinging, that her nipples were not only visible but quite obviously pert. And Rafiq had noticed too. His cheeks were flushed too. ‘Onwards,’ Stephanie said, pulling him to her.
They kissed slowly, lingeringly. He led her to the back of the room, to a large, low table draped with a sheet. Another kiss, this time as steamy, as languorous as the atmosphere in the bathing chamber, before he lifted her on to the table.
‘What are you doing?’
Rafiq untied the sash of her robe. ‘I am making it up to you. Apologising. Actions,’ he said, sliding her robe from her shoulders, ‘I have found, speak much louder than words.’
He cupped her breast, his thumbs caressing the hard peaks of her nipples. Stephanie was a mass of fluttering, tingling nerves, wild with anticipation and at the same time drugged by the heat.
She tugged the sash of his robe open, eyeing him blatantly as the garment slithered to his feet and he stood naked before her. His skin was damp, glistening with sweat. His muscles rippled as he breathed. He was already fully aroused. She ran her finger along his length. Satin smooth.
He kissed her, easing her down on to the table. And then, when she thought he would join her, he rolled her on to her stomach. ‘My turn to act,’ Rafiq whispered. ‘Your only requirement is to enjoy the results.’
* * *
She looked so luscious spread before him on the table that Rafiq struggled to control himself. The lovely curve of her spine, the indent of her waist, the delightful swell of her buttocks, the intriguing shadow between her legs, he wanted to kiss every inch of her, to lose himself in her.
He picked up the glass vial of precious oil, gently eased her legs apart, and knelt between them. The oil fell, drop by delicate drop, along the ridge of her spine. He applied it in sweeping motions, working along her shoulders first, where the muscles were tensest and strongest. Her breath came in little whispering gasps. He leant over her, his chest brushing against her back, the oil sleek between them. He kissed her nape. He nipped the lobe of her ear. She whimpered.
More oil was applied, and he worked his fingers down the knots of her spine. A strong back. She was not soft, though she was becoming delightfully pliant under his kneading, stroking, sweeping, touch. And down, to the twin mounds of her buttocks, the flesh yielding, her shape so perfectly feminine. Up, sliding his hands up her sides, his fingers brushing her breasts, then down again. When he leaned over, his shaft nestled against that perfect rear. The sweetest torture. Up, slid his hands, his palms flat, and then down. He sat back. He dripped more oil on the base of her spine, working it into the little creases at the tops of her legs, easing her further apart, to slide down the soft flesh of her inner thighs, making her moan, her moan making his member throb, the responsive arching of her body giving him a tantalising glimpse of her sex.
Down, his hands slid, from her thighs to her knees, to her slim ankles, then up again. The flesh at the backs of her knees was tender. He kissed it. Slid his hands back up again, his mouth resting on the base of her spine, a soft kiss there, the distinctive perfume of her arousal almost too much to bear, her little moans and whimpers constant now, her hands curled into the sheet. His fingers slid so easily into her. She tightened around him. She said his name, pleading with him in that smoky tone that was like nothing he had ever heard, pushing against his fingers, forcing them deeper inside her.
But he wanted to give her more. He slid his hand out, down her thighs again, then back up her bottom, before easing her on to her back. It was almost too much. Her eyes glazed with passion. Her nipples dark peaks. Those auburn curls between her legs. And her sex, inviting him, tempting him.
She said his name again. He used the sheet to pull her body towards him, standing between her legs. He leaned over to kiss her. Her breasts on his chest, nothing muscled here about her, she was all soft, lush woman. Another taste of her lips, and then another kiss, of a very different sort, between her legs, that made her cry out.
He stilled her, his oiled hands on her hips, his mouth on her sex, willing her to hold on, wanting to taste her, to savour her. Slowly, he licked her, teasing, coaxing, taking her to the brink and then stopping, holding her, stilling her, before starting again, sliding his fingers into her equally slowly, allowing her to hold him before easing back out, until he knew she could not hold on any longer, and he licked into her purposefully, feeling her swell and harden under his tongue, tighten around his fingers, until her climax rocketed through her, her wild cries, the deep pulsing inside her, almost setting him over the edge.
One last deep kiss, and he let her go, picking up his sodden robe and draping it around himself, before he helped her up, draping her robe around her shoulders, kissing her softly on the lips.
‘I will leave you now, for I believe I have reached the limits of my self-control,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the hamam bath.’
‘But what are you going to do?’
‘I am going to jump into the ice-cold water of the Pool of Nymphs.’
* * *
The hamam bath was deep, the waters hot, burbling from little jets. Stephanie lay back, closing her eyes and enjoying the sensation of the water pummelling her body. She let her mind drift, reliving the sensations of Rafiq’s hands on her, his mouth, his tongue. And that most intimate of kisses. She could never ever have imagined such a thing.
Opening her eyes, she gazed up at the twinkling lights in the cupola. She could admit now that she had lain awake last night, fretting. She could admit now that she was vastly relieved to have relations restored between them, and in such a delightful way. She could admit now that Rafiq’s opinion of her mattered a great deal.
More than it ought. Her insides did a strange somersault. Stephanie sat up. She had better be careful. She had better be very, very careful. Forcing herself out of the soporific warmth of the bath, she decided that a harsh dose of reality was required. Wrapping one of the huge drying sheets from a shelf in the tepidarium around her, she made her way back outside to the Pool of Nymphs. It was almost pitch dark, for the flambeaux had burned out, and the only light came from a hazy moon. The greeny-blue waters were perfectly still. Casting off the drying sheet, she plunged in.
The water was icy compared to the heat of the bath. The pool was much deeper than she expected. She emerged from it coughing, splashing, her hair plastered over her face, and with difficulty managed to reach the safety of the steps, where her scrambling was assisted by a strong pair of arms.
The scream die
d in her throat when she realised it was Rafiq. ‘What are you doing here? I assumed I was alone.’
He wrapped her in the drying sheet, guiding her to the cushions in the gloom of the terrace. ‘I was lying under the stars enjoying the sense of solitude. Does that sound strange to you, a prince who wants occasionally to escape his responsibilities?’
She shook her head, then realised that Rafiq wouldn’t be able to see her. ‘If you mean can I understand that you must sometimes feel both your duty to rule and this palace suffocating, then, yes, I can. There are so many rooms, and every one of them with a different defined purpose. The Hall of Campaign. The Royal Receiving Room. The Banqueting Chamber. The guards’ quarters. The menservants’ quarters. The harem. A place for everyone, and a guard to ensure that everyone is kept firmly in their place.’
She sensed from his stillness that she had upset him. ‘Including you?’ he asked.
‘I am not at all ungrateful Rafiq. I am living in the lap of luxury in this palace. I am eating the most wonderful food. My clothes are laundered for me, my bath is run for me—it is wonderful, but—oh, I don’t know. It’s that horrid locked harem door, more than anything. That little grille which Aida peers through. And the armed guard outside.’
‘The harem is locked and guarded in order to protect the privacy and virtue of those within it.’
‘I know. And it’s a tradition that is thousands of years old, and I truly am not meaning to sound like one of those awful people who visit foreign countries only to deride the customs. It is just that I am not accustomed to it, and I never could be, no matter how luxurious. I can’t help thinking that it must have seemed like a gilded cage to a nomadic Bedouin like the Princess Elmira.’
The moment the words were out, she wished them unsaid. The air between them seemed to freeze. ‘What have you heard?’
‘Nothing.’ Stephanie shifted on her cushion, but it was so dark now, she could make out only his silhouette. ‘I only meant that as a Bedouin, accustomed to roaming the desert, it must have been an enormous change for her.’
The Harlot and the Sheikh Page 14