The Harlot and the Sheikh

by Marguerite Kaye

  He didn’t want to think of his life without Stephanie. There would be a gap, a huge gap, which no one else could fill, which he didn’t want anyone else to fill. Stephanie had forced him to confront his past. Stephanie had shown him that past not in a better light, but in a sharper, clearer light. She did not absolve his faults, she was, as ever, painfully honest, but she had set them against the faults of others. He was guilty, but he was not wholly responsible. Stephanie had given him the power to vanquish his ghost. Yesterday, he had finally laid Elmira to rest. He would always regret, but he had ceased looking back. Stephanie had made that possible.

  And so much more, he thought ruefully, thinking of his lamplighting team of servants as he snuffed out the lantern, for the sun had come up. He was irrevocably changed. He would be a better prince, thanks to Stephanie, for she had taught him that a prince was also a man. Indeed, must be a man, before he can be a prince.

  Three months, and Stephanie would be gone. He didn’t want her to go. Why must she go? Why couldn’t she remain here in Arabia, running his stables? She could be his Mistress of the Horse as well as his Royal Horse Surgeon. He would not lose his touchstone if she stayed. He would not have to miss her. He would not have to live without her. Rafiq smiled to himself. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t thought of it before. It was the perfect solution.

  * * *

  Stephanie was in her office in the stables, packing her text books into their wooden travelling crate. Last night had been everything she had hoped and dreamed. It had been magical. Confirmation, as if she needed it, of how much she loved Rafiq. Confirmation, as if she needed it, that she must leave him as soon as possible. Another day, another week, would turn pleasure into torture.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Rafiq had been profoundly asleep when she had kissed him goodbye. Now he was wide awake, freshly shaved, and her heart jumped at the sight of him, then sank at what she must tell him. ‘I’m packing.’

  He came into the room, closing the door behind him, looking bewildered. ‘There are still three months of your appointment to run.’

  ‘My work here is done.’ She couldn’t look at him. She picked up another book, staring down at it sightlessly.

  ‘But the appointment was for six months. Why would you leave earlier?’

  She chose her words carefully, for she knew he would easily catch her in any lie. ‘The sickness is cured. I am eager to—it would be sensible for me to—now that the Sabr is won, you will be eager to look to the future. All your plans for your kingdom, your people will embrace them now, Rafiq. My presence would only be a distraction.’

  ‘Stephanie, why won’t you look at me? Last night—did I...?’

  ‘Last night was perfect, Rafiq.’ She forced herself to set the book down. She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘One cannot improve on perfection.’

  He flinched. ‘You think the next time would be a disappointment?’

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I think that there shouldn’t be a next time. I cannot be part of your life, Rafiq.’

  ‘I came here to offer you a permanent position. The independence you crave, here in Arabia. You could manage my stables. You could even—now that the sickness is cured, now that it can be talked of outside the stables, your fame would spread. You could take on assistants, train others. You would be much in demand. I would not insist—you would be my Royal Horse Surgeon, but I would not confine you to Bharym, Stephanie.’

  A tear escaped. She brushed it away hastily. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t let him see how much she cared. ‘That is an extremely generous offer, Rafiq.’

  His expression hardened. ‘But despite that, you’re not going to accept it, are you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘May I ask why?’

  She stared at him helplessly. She loved him so much. ‘Would I be your mistress, as well as your Royal Horse Surgeon? What would happen then, when you tired of me?’

  ‘Stephanie, if that is what you are worried about!’ He took her hands. He smiled at her. ‘This morning, when I realised that in three months’ time you would be leaving, I knew it was nowhere near long enough. I would never tire of you.’

  She felt as if her heart was being squeezed. What would be so wrong with staying here, in a role that offered her everything, so much, much more than she could ever hope for in England, with the man she loved? What could be wrong with that? One very fundamental thing was wrong with that. ‘Now that the Sabr is won, your people will expect you to marry again, produce an heir, won’t they? You can’t deny that’s true. So my presence here wouldn’t just be inconvenient it would be inappropriate, from both our points of view.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You are not an inconvenience, you are a necessity. I have no plans to marry any time soon.’

  ‘That changes nothing. I still can’t stay.’

  ‘Why not, Stephanie?’

  ‘Because I’m in love with you!’ The words echoed in the stuffy room, shocking both of them. Rafiq looked quite stunned. She wrapped her arms around herself and glared at him. ‘There, I’ve said it. I am in love with you. I know it’s preposterous. I have no pedigree, no family, no blue blood—nothing that would make me acceptable to your people even if I were a virgin, which you know very well I’m not. Even if all those obstacles could be overcome there is one insurmountable obstacle.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You’re not in love with me, Rafiq!’

  There was a long silence. Then he shook his head. ‘It’s not an insurmountable obstacle.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Stephanie, I am in love with you.’ He looked quite as dazed as she felt. ‘I love you. What is ridiculous is that I sat in the library this morning and listed out all the reasons why I wanted you to stay, and it didn’t occur to me, not once...’

  ‘You’re just saying that in order to persuade me to stay.’

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘I love you, Stephanie.’

  Her heart was making a very good attempt at escaping from her ribcage. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I can,’ he said firmly. ‘I do. I love you. I don’t want you here for six months or a year or even ten. I want you in my life for ever.’

  ‘Oh, Rafiq.’ Tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘If only that was possible.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put you in a gilded cage, Stephanie. I would not try to change what I love most about you. You would be my wife, but you would also be my Royal Horse Surgeon, my Mistress of the Horses, whatever you wished.’

  ‘Rafiq, I can’t marry you.’

  ‘You’re not listening Stephanie. You would still be independent...’

  ‘It’s not a question of independence. It’s a question of appropriateness. I don’t have any of the qualities your people require from a princess.’

  He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Bloodlines. Pedigrees. I am heartily sick of it. Yesterday, when I said that we must have new blood for the Sabr, I was thinking of our horses. The foal who had the seizures has a perfect bloodline, but there is flaw in that perfect bloodline which made him sick. History! Heritage! But what about my heart? I am sick of looking back at the past. It is time we looked forward, Stephanie. It is high time the Royal House of Bharym itself had an injection of fresh blood.’

  He pushed her hair back from her eyes, kissed her forehead. ‘You have every quality that I desire in a consort. You have honour and integrity. You are honest and you are brave. You are a remarkable person. Stephanie. Last night, when we made love, I felt at peace for the first time ever.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘As one, complete. And still, this morning, when I was thinking of us, of you, I did not realise what I was feeling was love. But I know now, that’s what it was. I love you, and you love me.’

  He kissed her gently. Tenderly. As if he wa
s afraid she would break. ‘That is what is important, Stephanie. We can shape our own history, we can build our own heritage, as long as our hearts are unbreakably entwined.’

  Her lip trembled. Her heart really did feel as if it might escape her chest. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  He kissed her again. ‘Say nothing, save that you love me.’

  ‘Oh, I do, with all my heart.’

  ‘And that you will marry me.’

  ‘I want to, so much, but I—Rafiq, surely because you are a prince your bride’s purity should be beyond reproach?’

  ‘Why would my people question your innocence? What matters is that my bride is true to me, and that I am true to her. What matters is not the past, Stephanie. What matters is the future. Our future. Can you see it, waiting for us to grasp it? Don’t you want to?’

  ‘Oh, I do.’

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes.’ She threw her arms around him. ‘I love you so much.’

  ‘And I love you. With all of my heart.’

  He kissed her tenderly. She kissed him back, tasting her tears on their lips, pressing herself close to him. But then he let her go. Picking up the heavy crate of books, he set it against the door, and stacked another one on top of it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Stephanie asked.

  Rafiq’s smile was sinful. His kiss was passionate. ‘Ensuring that we are not disturbed while I prove that we can improve on perfection.’

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story,

  you won’t want to miss these other great reads in Marguerite Kaye’s

  HOT ARABIAN NIGHTS mini-series:

  THE WIDOW AND THE SHEIKH

  SHEIKH’S MAIL-ORDER BRIDE

  And make sure you pick up this fantastic duet, also by Marguerite Kaye:

  THE SOLDIER’S DARK SECRET

  THE SOLDIER’S REBEL LOVER

  Keep reading for an excerpt from A MARRIAGE OF ROGUES by Margaret Moore.

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  Historical Note

  If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll know my tongue-in-cheek tag for this book was #studsheikh. In writing Stephanie and Rafiq’s story I had to get up to speed with all things equine, but although The Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride inspired me to take up star gazing, I assure all animal lovers out there, I’ve no intention of attempting anything veterinary—though I did harbour a childhood ambition to be a vet, inspired by the novels of James Herriot.

  Anyone with any semblance of medical knowledge will know that I have made Stephanie somewhat ahead of her time in terms of her understanding of methods of infection and contagion. If you’re interested in a general history of eighteenth-century medicine then I would highly recommend Wendy Moore’s fabulous and highly readable biography of the anatomist John Hunter, The Knife Man, which inspired my heroine’s dedication to the principles of observation and experimentation.

  Veterinary science was very much in its infancy in 1815, when the army farriers were the primary exponents. I am very grateful to Dr John Clewlow of the Veterinary History Society for his help with all things veterinarian in the early days of the discipline. Richard Darvill really did serve at Waterloo as the Veterinary Officer for the Seventh Hussars, although the history I’ve given him is entirely of my own making. Thanks also to Peter Thomson for putting me in touch with Dr Clewlow, and for his advice on the preventative measures which Stephanie takes—in reality, sadly, based on Peter’s own extensive experience during the foot-and-mouth outbreak in 2001.

  As for the ‘sickness’ which Stephanie ‘cures’, it is African Horse Sickness, which rampaged through Egypt in the 1870s, killing many thousands of horses, mules and camels. The Arabian thoroughbreds at the famous stud farm owned by Ali Pasha Sherif, part inspiration for the Bharym stud, were saved only because they were sent into isolation, a tactic which Stephanie adopts.

  The Sabr endurance race is entirely a figment of my imagination, though the spectacular changeover which Rafiq makes between horses is a key element of the Indian Relay. I read of the tradition of sending children out to be raised by Bedouin in a biography of Gertrude Bell.

  Are you still with me and up for more? There’s a comprehensive list of my reading on my website, www.margueritekaye.com. Enjoy!

  We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.

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  A Marriage of Rogues

  by Margaret Moore

  Chapter One

  Cumbria, Northern England, 1814

  Muttering an oath, Sir Develin Dundrake rose abruptly from the desk in the study of his country house. Crossing the oak-paneled room to the French doors leading to the terrace, he watched in amazement as a lone female marched along the pebble path toward Dundrake Hall. Judging by her ugly ensemble and determined air, the woman had to be some local busybody bent on asking for a charitable contribution. Why else would such a creature venture forth on this cool, misty autumn morning? And did she not know better than to approach the manor house from the garden?

  Whoever she was and whatever she wanted, he was in no mood to be harassed by an overbearing female, however noble her cause. He already gave a considerable sum to several charities of his own choosing and he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days.

  He looked out again to see where she was—and nearly jumped out of his skin. She stood just outside the French doors looking into the study like Banquo’s ghost.

  A surprisingly young, not terribly homely ghost, in spite of that ghastly pelisse the color of dung and droopy straw bonnet.

  He strode to the doors and wrenched them open. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded.

  With a little gasp of surprise, the young woman took a step back, giving him the upper hand, or so he thought until an expression of determined resolve came to her not-quite-homely features. Her arched brown eyebrows lowered over storm-gray eyes, the nostrils of her slender nose flared and her full lips thinned before she replied in an unexpectedly husky voice, “Good morning, Sir Develin. You are Sir Develin Dundrake, I assume.”

  “Visitors should call at the front entrance,” he replied without any attempt at courtesy or directly answering her query.

  “Have I the honor of addressing Sir Develin Dundrake?”

  Was that sarcasm in her voice? “Yes, I’m Sir Develin,” he said shortly, and with slightly better grace. If she was here on a charitable mission, he was wrong to be rude, even if sh
e didn’t observe the rules of etiquette.

  “I beg your pardon for not calling at the main entrance,” the young woman answered, her tone conveying neither remorse nor regret. “I intended to walk around to the front until I saw you. Given that my business with you is of a very personal nature, I decided it wouldn’t be amiss to speak to you directly and in private.”

  No doubt she’d decided. She seemed nothing if not decided, and unfortunately for her, that was not a point in her favor. His father had been decisive, too. As for any business of a personal nature, he’d never seen her before in his life, of that he was certain. He would remember those large eyes and full lips, if nothing else.

  Nevertheless, there was something about her that seemed familiar...

  “May I come inside?” she asked. “Or if you would rather remain where you are, I have no objection. However, I must and shall speak with you today, Sir Develin, whether in your garden or your house.”

  No matter how resolute this woman was, he could easily have her removed from the premises and charged with trespassing, too.

  Yet he did not. What he did next surprised him then and ever afterward. He opened the door wider and stepped aside to let her enter.

  The young woman walked into his study and stopped in front of the marble hearth. A portrait of his father hung over it and she regarded it as if fascinated. Sir Randolf Dundrake had been painted seated at the desk that still dominated the room, one hand curled in a fist, the other on a book, even though he hadn’t read a book since he’d left school some thirty years before the portrait was painted. The only background was a dark curtain, making his pale, hard face stand out like a mask. His black hair was thick, like his son’s, and brushed back from a high forehead. He had the same brown eyes and strong jaw as his son, too, but thank God Dev hadn’t inherited his father’s thin lips and wide nose.