Читать книгу Historical Romance Books 1 – 4 - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 12
ОглавлениеExhausted 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.
* * *
Later that day, with a weary sigh, Rafiq closed the weighty leather-bound tome that was the official Bharym Stud Book, carefully fastening the lock with the heavy gold key. There were now six yearlings overdue to be delivered to their carefully vetted owners. Though Jasim assured him that no mention of the plague had passed his lips, Rafiq knew it was only a matter of time before word got out.
Only a matter of time too, until the sickness struck his stables again. Watching Stephanie at work this morning, any remaining doubts he had as to her claim to be Richard Darvill’s assistant had dissipated. His Head Groom, Fadil, had also initially been highly sceptical of her abilities. It had not taken her long to prove her mettle though, with her plethora of probing questions, her refusal to accept anything other than extremely detailed answers, and her complete confidence when faced with examining Basilisk, a strapping specimen of a stallion with every bit as lowly an opinion of females as Jasim.
Rafiq smiled to himself. Naturally, he would remain cautious. Of course, it would be foolish to hope for too much. But there was hope. It had arrived in the delightful and distractingly desirable form of Stephanie Darvill. It was too early for her to have made any meaningful progress, he knew that, but he was anxious to hear her initial thoughts and, yes, there was no harm in admitting, he was eager to enjoy more of her company. These last months had been claustrophobic, exposure to company curtailed by necessity. What he needed was a fresh perspective and an escape, if only for a short interlude.
Pausing to instruct a servant as to his specific requirements, Rafiq headed for the stables. Stephanie was sitting on a bench in the inner courtyard, shaded by the balcony on the floor above, watching the constant stream of horses being led in and out for exercise in the relative cool of the late afternoon. Her hair had obviously escaped from its pins at some point in the day, and was now carelessly tied back, though the usual tress had escaped to fall over her brow. It was a lighter shade than the rest, almost golden. Her skin in the bright sunlight seemed more olive, though her cheeks were flushed. She wore the same skirt that she had arrived in. Practical perhaps, but it was far too heavy for these conditions, and though her white top looked to be cotton, it was tightly fitted from neck to wrist. No wonder she looked like a wilting flower in dire need of water.
‘Your Highness.’ She jumped to her feet when she saw him, dropping into a curtsy.
‘Please, there is no need for such formality here at the stables,’ Rafiq said. ‘Tell me, what are your first impressions of my horses?’
She beamed. ‘I have never seen such magnificent specimens. I’ve examined Sherifa, of course. And Kasida. Tamarisk. Mesaoud. Azrek. Nura. Riyala. Shieha. I am afraid I can’t remember all their names.’
Her enthusiasm was endearing. Her smile was dazzling, drawing attention to the perfect whiteness of her teeth, the endearing little fan of faint lines that appeared at the corner of her eyes when she smiled. She had the kind of slightly husky voice that disconcertingly made Rafiq picture her wearing nothing but her underwear. ‘The Bharym Stud Book records every horse, every bloodline, back into the mists of myth and legend,’ he said, trying to banish the vision which had floated into his mind.
‘Legend?’
‘It is said that the Arabian horse was first formed from the south winds. That is why the Bedouins call them Drinkers of the Wind. It is said that a herd of these wild creatures was tamed, and then as a test of their obedience, first deprived of water, then sent racing towards an oasis. Only five returned immediately when called, and these mares are the founders of the five Arabian breeds: Keheilan, Seglawi, Abeyan, Hamdani, and Habdan. I can trace the bloodlines of every one of my horses through the sires, back to one of those original breeds.’
‘It’s a charming tale,’ Stephanie said, looking more dubious than entranced. ‘But I confess, I’m rather more interested in the story of this Sabr race. In the stables, your men can talk of little else.’
Rafiq smiled. ‘It is something of a national obsession with my people. I thought you might like to take a ride out to the oasis where we graze our stallions. It is cooler out there, and it will allow you to see a little of the desert landscape, but if you are too fatigued...’
‘No, I would love to do so.’
‘Good. I will see that the horses are readied.’
* * *
Stephanie watched him go, enjoying the rear view of Rafiq in his long boots and riding breeches striding towards the stalls. When he returned, he was leading three horses. He had put on a white-silk keffiyeh held in place with a plain black scarf. It framed his face, drawing attention to the breathtaking perfection of his features.
‘I had them put on an English saddle for you, but you will have to ride astride.’
‘Luckily I learnt to do so at an early age.’ Stephanie picked up her hat from the seat beside her. ‘I was quite a tomboy when I was growing up.’
‘Now that, I find easy to believe, since you are a walking paradox.’ Rafiq produced another square of white silk, folding it to form a headdress. ‘Put this on, it will protect you from the worst ravages of the sand much more effectively than your hat,’ he said, placing it over her head.
He tied it in place with a bright red scarf, tucking her hair under it. Though his touch was impersonal, she was none the less acutely aware of it. Standing directly in front of him, her face was level with his throat. His shirt was white, with a high neck, fastened with a row of tiny pearl buttons. He smelled of the soap made with olive oil, reminiscent of the one she had used this morning.
‘There.’ Rafiq took a step back. ‘You can tuck the ends in like this.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Flustered, Stephanie turned her attention to her horse. ‘Kasida,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘Rafiq, I cannot possibly ride such a prize horse.’
‘Do you not consider yourself an accomplished enough horsewoman?’
‘No, I—I mean obviously, I’ve ridden racehorses before at the Newmarket stud, but Kasida...’
‘Stephanie, I know you well enough already to be convinced that if you thought you couldn’t handle her, you would say so. Am I correct?’ He waited until she smiled and nodded reluctantly. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’
Her heavy wide skirts made her feel uncomfortably hot, but at least they gave her freedom of movement. Putting her boot in the stirrup, Stephanie managed to mount with relative decorum, and a great deal of excited anticipation.
‘Kasida is one of our gentlest mares,’ Rafiq said, mounting his own horse. ‘Unlike Basilisk, here, who does not like to be mastered—as you know from examining him earlier. He is one of our best stud stallions, however. Now he has performed his duties, I will return him to the stallions’ paddock and return on this other mare.’
Taking up the rope halter of the spare horse, he preceded Stephanie out of the stable yard. Just like all the stable hands, Rafiq rode Bedouin style, with no stirrups and only a rope halter instead of a bridle or bit, which required an adroitness which Stephanie could not imagine replicating. Basilisk, despite Rafiq’s assertion, seemed to be very well aware which of them was in command. As they left the stable compound, passing the drinking pool and out on to a wide flat expanse of desert, Rafiq urged the stallion into a gallop and Stephanie gave herself over to the thrill of the ride.
The ground consisted of compacted umber-coloured earth rather than sand. Every now and then, a cluster of acacia trees, a patch of bright yellow and green indicated the unmistakable presence of water. The distant mountains which she had thought uniformly an unusual violet colour, now took on multiple hues, the highest peaks a pale silvery-blue, shading to amethyst and violet, lavender and lilac, while the foothills segued from plum to a peaty brown. She had imagined the desert to be flat, uniform sand and little else, much like the terrain she had traversed from the Red Sea port yesterday, but the Kingdom of Bharym was like nothing she had witnessed on any of her travels. Above her, the sky and the sparse puffy clouds seemed to reflect the mountains, a palette of blues that would have taxed the most talented of artists to capture. Stephanie was thinking that she had never seen anything so beautiful, when the oasis came into view, and took her breath away.
The water was deep blue, consisting of a lake with a palm-covered island in the middle. Around it, the ground was lush with verdant greenery making a meadow of the desert, sweetly scenting the air, and reflecting in the mirror-like surface of the water. But there was little time to admire it, for Rafiq had ridden on at a brisk canter.
She heard the whinny of the stallions before she saw them, Kasida’s ears pricking up in response. The enclosure was high-walled. Dismounting, she waited while Rafiq unlocked the gate, pausing only for her to lead her horse in before closing it behind her. A collection of the finest stallions she had ever seen greeted her in the huge compound, in the midst of which was another smaller pool and a large cluster of shady palms. Stephanie gazed around her in astonishment. ‘How many are there in the herd?’
‘Thirty-two, including Basilisk,’ Rafiq replied, removing the saddle from the stallion and setting him free to trot off and rejoin the milling herd. ‘Now we have completed our business, we can enjoy what is left of the daylight. Come.’
He led her round to the far side of the oasis, where a charming little stone bridge led to the island. Enchanted, Stephanie picked her way across, through a gap in greenery to a clearing in the shady embrace of a circle of palm trees. The ground was covered in rugs and strewn with plump cushions. A large hamper sat in the middle. ‘Oh, what a delightful surprise!’
‘I was reliably informed that you were so engrossed in your work today that you did not stop to eat,’ Rafiq said, opening the hamper and beginning to lay out the contents, ‘and so I took the liberty of having some food sent ahead.’
His thoughtfulness, his generosity, but more than anything his willingness to trust her, to have faith in her, brought a lump to her throat. ‘Thank you, you are very kind,’ Stephanie said, sinking on to a large cushion.
The tremble in her voice made Rafiq look up from pouring them both a cool drink. ‘What is wrong, was this a mistake? Are you fatigued?’
She shook her head, managing a weak smile. ‘I’m just being silly. Everything is perfect.’
He pressed a tall, cool glass into her hands. ‘Drink this, you may be a little dehydrated, especially if you have not eaten.’
Stephanie took a sip. ‘Thank you.’
He set a plate of food in front of her. ‘Eat.’
‘Yes, Your Royal Highness. At once, Your Supreme Highness.’
Her teasing tone earned her one of Rafiq’s rare and perfect smiles. ‘Eat,’ he commanded.
Suddenly ravenous, she did. The food, like last night, was a delicious mixture of fresh, citrusy salads, spicy meats, and light, flaky pastries. She sampled more adventurously than she had at dinner, though a pickled chilli made her gulp down an entire glass of sherbet in one mouthful. Finally, too replete to manage even a fig drizzled with honey, she pushed her plate to one side and washed her hands. ‘That was delightful,’ she murmured contentedly.
‘Yes,’ Rafiq said, ‘it was.’
She had the distinct impression he was not talking about the food. His smile had a sinful quality about it—though what she meant by that, she had no idea.
‘This precious race of yours,’ she said, striving to focus her thoughts on the reason she was here, ‘the Sabr. Tell me about it.’
‘History, heritage, heart,’ Rafiq intoned. ‘That is how we think of the Sabr here in Bharym.’ He sat up, crossing his legs with graceful ease. ‘Sabr means fortitude or endurance. The race, like my Arabians, has its origins in legend. It is said that it was first mentioned in one of the tales of One Thousand and One Nights, though our records show that it was first raced a hundred years ago this year, its centenary. An earlier Prince of Bharym, a direct antecedent of mine, designed the victor’s trophy, agreed the rules and set the course. There are four Sabr towers, spaced about twenty-five miles apart, to mark out the circuit, which is completed twice. Each section traverses very different terrain. In places flat and hard packed as you can see here, but one of the sections is across shifting dunes, and another meanders the foothills of the mountains.’
‘Two hundred miles in total!’ Stephanie exclaimed.
‘It is the ultimate test of both horse and rider,’ Rafiq said wryly, ‘though there are eight of them, and only one of him.’
‘Good grief! That means the race must take...’ Stephanie screwed up her nose. ‘How long does it take a horse to complete each stage?’
‘It depends on the terrain, but usually between two and three hours. The race starts at first light and lasts all day and through the night. A true test of endurance, though as I said, it is about a lot more than the race itself.’
‘History, heritage, heart,’ Stephanie said.
‘Precisely. From the very beginning, the Sabr belonged to Bharym. Not once did our horses fail to triumph. Every year as I grew up, I watched as our colours crossed the finishing line first. Like everyone in Bharym, I believed we were invincible, that our horses could never be vanquished, that they truly were descendants of the legendary Drinkers of the Wind. The Sabr is in our blood. Without the Sabr, my people believe we have lost something vital, our sense of national identity.’
She could believe it, looking at him now, his eyes alight with almost childlike enthusiasm as he described the race, so very different from the intimidating Prince she had met only yesterday. She could easily imagine Rafiq as the victorious rider, travelling like the wind across the searing desert sands towards certain triumph. She could hear the raucous cheers of his people, visualise their ecstatic faces, and Rafiq, proudly lifting the huge gold trophy. ‘It sounds magical,’ she said when he had stopped talking. ‘All that is required is a princess as the prize for the winner, and it truly would be a tale from One Thousand and One Nights.’
The glow faded from Rafiq’s eyes. His expression darkened. ‘It is the tradition that all the losers forfeit their best horse to the winner. Fourteen years ago, my father’s greatest rival, a Bedouin prince, Salim, entered the race with a team bred from new bloodstock acquired from the far reaches of Arabia. My father coveted that bloodstock. It induced him to enter into a secret side-wager with the Bedouin, where the loser would forfeit all of their stallions, the jewel of their breeding stock, to the other. You can guess the outcome.’
Stephanie covered her mouth in horror. ‘How could he have been so foolish?’ she whispered.
‘Complacency? Greed? We had never lost, there was no reason to imagine that we ever could—but we did. Even now...’ He winced, unfolding his long legs and getting to his feet. ‘Even now, I find it incomprehensible, that he risked something so precious. I remember watching the stallions being led out before being taken away. It felt as if the very lifeblood was being drained from our nation. But that was not the end of it.’
He held out his hand to help her up, and they headed out of the clearing, back to the little bridge, where there was a view into the stallions’ compound. ‘I awoke in the night to see a great light blazing in the sky. It took me some moments to realise it was coming from the stables.’
‘No!’ Stephanie exclaimed, appalled. ‘Oh, no, Rafiq.’
He pressed her hand fleetingly. Gave her a grim little smile. ‘My father released all the mares and foals into the desert first. He could not bear to look at them, to be reminded of his folly, but he could not bear to harm them. We tried desperately, but it was too late to save anything. I will never forget standing among the burning embers, a blizzard of ash swirling around me. It was the end of my dreams to ride to victory in the Sabr. I vowed then that I would find a way to rebuild the stables, restore our bloodstock, breed a new Sabr team to win back the trophy for my people.’
Stephanie waited, her heart overflowing with pity, as Rafiq gazed sightlessly out over the oasis, his throat working, afraid to say anything lest she embarrass him by witnessing the strength of his emotions. Dark shadows flitted over his face, and slowly his countenance hardened, his eyes became bleak. When he spoke again, his tone was harsh. ‘I was sixteen, too young to comprehend the true extent of our loss, the devastating impact it would have on our kingdom. Every year, we were forced to host the Sabr, to watch another nation win what was rightfully ours. My father went into a terminal decline and our kingdom languished. When he died, eight years ago, though I did not forget my oath, I had other priorities. There were so many things to attend to which my father had neglected. Our kingdom’s wealth, health and morale had all suffered. I envisaged winning the Sabr as the culmination of our recovery, but all my people were interested in was the race. It was like a—a festering sore, a painful boil to be lanced. What could I do, but change my focus to winning the race? I gave my people my word that I would do what they desired, and bring the Sabr back to Bharym, breed a winning team which were descended from the very bloodstock my father forfeited.’
‘Thus restoring your heritage in the true sense,’ Stephanie said, awed. ‘How on earth did you manage to achieve such a feat?’
Rafiq’s countenance did not change dramatically, rather it froze. There was a bleakness in his eyes that reminded Stephanie of the soldiers she had witnessed returning from battlefield like lost souls. ‘It cost me more than you can possibly imagine.’
She knew instinctively he did not refer to gold, and she also knew instinctively not to ask him what he did mean. There were some questions better left unspoken. Some secrets better kept under lock and key. After all, she had her own.
‘You have taken a terrible burden of responsibility on your shoulders. The weight of expectation of a whole nation lies with you.’
‘As Prince, it is my duty to shoulder that responsibility,’ Rafiq replied, ‘although I confess it sometimes feels onerous. My people think me a hero. They have raised me so high that I am sometimes afraid to look down. But I will prevail, Stephanie, not only for my people’s sake, but for my own.’
‘It matters to you personally, then. Because of your father?’
‘That is part of it.’ He took hold of her hands. ‘Now fate has brought you here to me and for the first time in many moons, I have reason to hope.’
His smile, the way he was looking at her, made her feel as if she was standing on the edge of a precipice. The responsibility terrified her, but the trust he had placed in her made her feel oddly powerful. ‘Rafiq,’ she said, meaning to caution him. It came out sounding like a caress.
‘Stephanie.’
He made her name sound exotic. She shivered. Her heart began to pound. It was impossible not to close the gap between them, for her body was being drawn towards him as if pulled by invisible strings. She smiled up at him, and her smile made his eyes gleam. For a second, which felt like an hour, he hesitated. A second in which she thought she might expire if he did not kiss her, because she had been waiting for that kiss, longing for that kiss, since last night.
And then it happened. ‘Stephanie,’ he said, whispering her name, sliding his arms around her waist, drawing her to him, and the world went hazy as his lips touched hers. Softly at first. A butterfly kiss, his tongue sweeping the line of her lower lip. Then another kiss, gently teasing her mouth open, the tips of their tongues barely touching, yet it made her tingle. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she angled her head, hungry for more. His mouth slanted over hers, shaping hers, and he kissed her again. She had never been kissed in this way, with such gentleness generating such blazing heat inside her, with tongue and lips, lips and tongue, so she could not tell what was one kiss and what was another.
She felt as if she was melting, her entire body being brought to a slow simmer by his kisses. Her fingers tangled in the silkiness of his curls. Her body was pressed against his, her breasts brushing his chest, making her nipples tingle. And the unmistakable ridge of his arousal brushing—
The kissing stopped abruptly. Rafiq shifted, creating a gap between them, and let her go. His eyes glittered black, like anthracite. His breathing was very slightly irregular, though not as fast as her own. ‘I have been wanting to do that since last night, but I should not have taken such a liberty. Forgive me.’
His words were like a dousing of cold water. ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Stephanie said, horrified to discover that her voice sounded tearful. ‘I wanted you to kiss me.’ She turned away, snatching up the keffiyeh and silk scarf from the ground, throwing it over her head and most of her face. ‘I can’t think what came over me. It won’t happen again.’ The simple act of tying the scarf in place defeated her. She snatched the headdress off, scrunching the soft silk between her fingers. If she did not put an end to this highly distracting, highly dangerous attraction between them, it would fatally compromise her very reason for being here. ‘Rafiq,’ she said resolutely, ‘I am your Royal Horse Surgeon. A Royal Horse Surgeon has no place kissing the Royal Prince who appointed her.’
His smile faded abruptly. ‘You are not a servant, Stephanie, and even if you were, I would never take advantage of my position.’
She believed him. She did believe him, there was no comparison between Rafiq and—and it made no difference. Her face was scarlet now. She would have given a great deal for a freak wave from the oasis to envelop her, but nature resolutely refused to co-operate, forcing her to continue. ‘Rafiq, I merely meant that as your Royal Horse Surgeon, your horses should be my primary—my only focus. We do not have time to indulge in—in kissing, even if we want to, even if it was not completely wrong for me to—you are not only a prince, Rafiq, you are my employer,’ she said wretchedly.
‘You are, of course, quite correct.’ His tone was clipped. His expression was decidedly haughty. ‘Your first and only concern must be for the welfare of my horses. I have state business which will take me out into the desert for a few days. You will be able to work without distraction. For now, it is time we returned to the palace before it gets dark.’
And that was Rafiq’s final word on the subject. The journey back to the palace was a total contrast to the outward leg, conducted at a sedate trot and in virtual silence. Ample time for Stephanie to reflect, and to regret, and to aver that she would not be so foolish as to play with fire again.
