Читать книгу Historical Romance Books 1 – 4 - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 13

Chapter Four

The massive double doors of the cavernous Hall of Campaign closed behind the last of the Village Elders as they trooped out in single file. Quarterly Petition Day was usually one which Rafiq relished, for it allowed him to familiarise himself with the more general concerns and welfare of his people, as well as the specific requests their Elders made on their behalf. Today however, the major topic of conversation for all concerned was whether or not Bharym would finally be re-entering the Sabr this year. The same question had been the very first on the lips of the Bedouin Prince he had been to visit.

Ten days in the desert, away from the palace, had given Rafiq a great deal of time to reflect. Though he had not yet spoken to Stephanie since his return late last night, he had received a comprehensive report of her progress. There had been no new case of the sickness since her arrival nearly two weeks ago now, but there had been another new arrival in his absence. A foal to Sarmadee, which he had been informed Stephanie expertly delivered. The foal had appeared with one hoof bent back, a presentation that could have proved fatal for both foal and mother were it not for Stephanie’s intervention, performing a birthing manoeuvre which required a difficult balance between strength and delicacy. Fadil, who had assisted her, was almost as impressed by Stephanie’s achievement in coaxing the highly reluctant mare to her feet, against all the animal’s natural instincts, as he was by her saving the foal. There was no doubting, from the respect in his Head Groom’s voice, that Stephanie was doing what she said she would do, and winning his men over. He had been right to send Jasim away. When his Master of the Horse did return to the stables, he would find it more difficult to undermine the new Royal Horse Surgeon.

Rafiq sat down on the divan, removing his formal headdress and the belt which held his scimitar in place, setting both down beside him. Ten days since he had seen Stephanie. Ten days since he had returned to the palace from the oasis in high dudgeon, furious with her for compelling him to concede that he should not be distracting her from her task. More than sufficient time for him to cool his both his ardour and his temper. Stephanie Darvill appeared to be exactly what she claimed, an excellent veterinarian, and an excellent veterinarian was all he required, but still, he had not been able to forget that kiss.

Did she think about it? Her response had made it clear that she wanted him as much as he had wanted her. Why was such a sensual woman determined to sacrifice her life to animals, to what she called her vocation? She had told him that very first day that she preferred horses to men, but he had taken it for a witticism. She had also told him that she ‘wasn’t that sort of woman’, but though her kisses had been neither practised nor artful, they were not the kisses of an innocent. What kind of woman was she?

A woman whose kisses were sweet and heady. Whose smile connected straight to his groin. Whose smoky voice conjured up a vision of her voluptuous body naked, tangled with silk sheets. Perfume, and the distinctive scent of female arousal. That frisson of anticipation like no other just before he entered her and afterwards, sated, flesh clinging damply...

Rafiq shook his head ruefully. Stephanie Darvill was here to minister to his horses, but he might as well stop pretending that he didn’t wish she might minister to him. She reminded him of the decadent delights of the flesh, the pleasure of a union which was not a marital duty. Impossible that these fantasies could be fulfilled, but there was no harm in indulging in them. And no point in denying that whatever else she might be, Stephanie Darvill was a fascinating woman.

* * *

Stephanie discovered the array of outfits laid out on her divan when she returned from the stables in the heat of the afternoon. Aida had worked quickly. And expertly. The garments were simple and practical as Stephanie had requested, but the Mistress of the Harem’s creations were also unmistakeably feminine, and quite exquisite. There were several tunics in the male dishdasha style which could respectably be worn for her work in the stables, loose muslin robes with long sleeves, high necks fastened with tiny buttons, in soft shades of cream, lemon, mint-green and sky-blue. There were two white muslin cloaks with matching headdresses which would protect her from the desert sands when riding, and a variety of silk scarves with which to tie them. Undergarments comprised of sheer silk were shockingly flimsy, pantaloons and camisoles trimmed with lace replacing her stiff petticoats and corsets.

Stephanie picked up a handful and let them fall in a soft cloud back on to the divan. Plain clothes, fit for the stables, she had requested, but these garments seemed redolent of the harem. And there were some things Stephanie had not requested. A vibrant gown of silk woven in a splash of pinks, cerise and fuchsia, violet and lavender, the long sleeves slashed to fall open at the shoulder, with a tasselled belt and a long length of voile to be draped mantilla-like into a veil, if required. There were pink slippers to match, the curled toes adorned with tiny silver bells. And a robe which might be for dressing, or which could be worn over a dishdasha to make it more formal, in bottle green, fitted at the waist, the sleeves and hem embroidered with a bold symmetrical pattern in the russet colours of English autumn leaves that reminded Stephanie of the tiled ceiling in Rafiq’s private dining room.

Rafiq. She was aware that he had returned to the palace. She suspected that Fadil had fully briefed him. Perhaps that was how it was to be from now on, she was to be kept at arm’s length. A good thing, she thought, for it would mean she had no further opportunity to make a fool of herself. No chance to prove she had grossly exaggerated the effect of that kiss. No excuse to kiss him again.

Stephanie quickly stripped and, donning her dressing wrapper, padded through to the bathing chamber where her bath was waiting. Stepping into the soothing water, she closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind, but it was no use, the image which lurked there was too enticing. There was Rafiq with his sinful smile. His arms around her waist. His mouth on hers. She could feel the touch of his tongue. She could taste his lips. His hair was silky-soft. And his body was hard.

Her own tightened in response. Not tension but anticipation. That feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff again. That warm, trickling heat again. That odd feeling. Yearning? Wanting? The frustrated urge to touch and to stroke, to discover for herself the ripple of Rafiq’s muscles under his skin. And to have him touch her, stroke her, his hands on her naked body.

Stephanie sat up in the bath, picked up the fresh bar of olive-oil soap which Aida insisted on providing every evening, and began to wash. What was wrong with her! The memory of those kisses ought to fill her with shame, not fill her with longing for more. She was not a harlot, despite what they said, so why was her body trying to beguile her once again into acting like one? Respectable women did not crave kisses. They did not enjoy kisses. They were not disappointed when the promise of those kisses was unfulfilled.

But Rafiq’s kisses were so very different. His ardour had been—not restrained exactly but kept tightly leashed. His kisses coaxed and teased, as if there was all the time in the world, as if those kisses were the whole point, not a prelude. Rafiq’s kisses were very different indeed to Rupert’s.

Rupert!

She stepped out of the bath and began to dry herself ruthlessly. She would not allow his name to contaminate her new life. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, screwed her eyes tight. She was not a harlot, no matter what the whispered innuendoes had claimed. She was a silly fool who had thrown away her reputation on a man who had no respect for her, never mind any intentions, but she would not allow the mortification to follow her here. She would not!

Returning to her bedchamber, Stephanie found Aida awaiting in an agitated flutter. ‘His Royal Highness requires your presence in the Hall of Campaign without delay, madam. Which of your new garments would you like to wear?’

* * *

Stephanie had donned the beautifully embroidered green robe over the mint-green tunic. On her feet were slippers of the softest leather, which slipped and slid on the polished marble floors she crossed. Her body, freed from the confines of her corsets, felt strange. Bits of her moved of their own accord. Her unstockinged legs felt shockingly naked, even though they were clad in pantaloons under her tunic. The silky fabric of her undergarments was a constant and distracting caress.

The Hall of Campaign, Aida had informed her, was where Rafiq carried out state business. Today was one of four set aside each year during which each of Bharym’s Village Elders were permitted to petition the Prince. The audiences had begun at daybreak and had only just finished. Stephanie was prepared for a formal state room similar to the Royal Receiving Room, but when the double doors were flung open, she gasped in astonishment.

The chamber was a massive space with a soaring vaulted ceiling supported by six—no, eight—ribbed columns on either side, splitting the space into three distinct aisles. The lower walls were covered in a frieze of dark wood carved into intricate scrollwork, while above rows of huge circular ceramics studded the plaster. Thin metal rails were fixed at half the ceiling height to the columns, and from these were suspended hundreds of glass-domed lanterns, at present unlit, for the sun had not yet gone down, and light blazed in through the enormous circular window facing her. Under which was a divan. Sitting on which was Rafiq.

He was dressed as he had been when first she met him, in his formal robes. White silk, gold, diamonds, though his headdress, belt and scimitar had been discarded and lay on the divan beside him.

‘Your Highness.’ Her stomach was a swirling cloud of butterflies, just as it had been that first time. She was glad of the excuse to curtsy and not have to meet his gaze.

‘Stephanie, we are quite alone, there is no need to be so formal.’

He took her hand, helping her up. Just the touch of his fingers made her tremble and blush. She mustn’t think of the last time she had seen him. She mustn’t think of that kiss. ‘I expect you wish to know how I am progressing,’ she said, keeping her gaze on her feet.

‘I do.’

Relieved to be on safe ground, Stephanie launched into the report she had been preparing, refining and rehearsing for the last ten days. It was extensive and comprehensive, and as she drew to a close, she was slightly breathless. ‘I have taken the decision to isolate the horses which are being trained to run in the Sabr, and to keep them at the training grounds, well away from the stables.’

Rafiq’s expression brightened. ‘You think that will prevent them from becoming infected?’

‘I honestly don’t know, since we have not established the source of the sickness or indeed the method of infection, but as a precaution it can certainly do no harm. Since it seems to strike randomly it occurred to me that by compiling a diary of events of the circumstances surrounding each case of infection, we might identify some commonalities.’

‘An excellent idea.’

‘Thank you.’ If she didn’t look at him, she would be able to keep her mind focused. ‘As a result I have been able to discount any link between the disease and the animal feed, or the water at the stables paddock.’

‘Fadil is most impressed with you.’

She wished he wouldn’t smile, it made him unbearably beguiling. She oughtn’t to allow herself to become too pleased with herself, though it was very good to have it confirmed that she had made as good an impression as she had hoped, and that the Head Groom’s respect was based on her skill, and not his Prince’s authority. ‘It is a start, but I haven’t achieved anything of note yet.’

‘You saved Sarmadee’s foal, and possibly Sarmadee herself, if there had been further complications with the birth. That is both of note and most impressive.’

‘It was nothing,’ Stephanie said, but she couldn’t help smiling. ‘Nature is just so wonderful. It is like watching a miracle every time. ‘They are both doing very well.’

‘And so are you. When I said that I wished to know how you are progressing, I meant you, not my horses. In one aspect at least, I can see that you have made a significant advance. Our Eastern clothing flatters you most becomingly.’

‘Oh.’ And now she was blushing again! Thank you, Aida is a gifted needlewoman.’ She gazed around her, made awkward as ever by compliments. ‘This is a very magnificent room. Do you receive your people here in order to overwhelm them?’

Rafiq looked quite taken aback. ‘I receive them here in pomp and state because it is what is expected of me. It is where petitions have always been heard by Princes of Bharym. To receive the Village Elders in a more modest venue would be to insult them. The intention is not to overwhelm them, as you put it, but to pay them a compliment, to demonstrate how much I value their opinions.’

‘I didn’t think of it in that way,’ Stephanie said contritely. ‘I’m a farrier’s daughter who has been raised following the drum, I’m afraid my experience of royalty is limited to my contact with you. And the Duke of Wellington, I suppose. Though he is not royalty, he believes himself to be, an opinion shared by most of his soldiers.’

‘Though not by you?’

‘His Grace does not concern himself with my opinion. With neither breeding nor beauty to recommend me, I am thankfully quite beneath his notice.’

‘I had heard he was a discerning man. Obviously he is not,’ Rafiq said. ‘You have met the great Duke of Wellington then?’

‘He has looked down his nose at me several times when consulting with Papa,’ Stephanie said, ‘but he has never spoken to me. I tended to his horse, Copenhagen, in Spain, when he was Sir Charles Vane’s mount. Where are we going?’

Rafiq had led her out of the Hall of Campaign, through a door concealed in the wooden panelling. ‘To a less overwhelming part of the palace,’ he replied, as Stephanie followed him through a narrow corridor notable for its lack of guards.

‘Oh!’

They had emerged into a courtyard surrounded by very high walls. The evening sun turned the stone mellow, casting soft shadows. There was a terrace on one wall, where a selection of cushions and low divans were set out, but the majority of the space was given over to a huge bathing pool. A wide set of shallow steps led down into the green-blue water, dappled gold by the sun.

‘The pool is fed from an underground stream,’ Rafiq said, urging her forward into the courtyard. ‘You can see in the corner there, the bubbles where it comes to the surface.’

Stephanie couldn’t resist stooping down to let the ice-cold water trickle through her hands. ‘It is lovely. Quite utterly lovely.’

* * *

Rafiq, watching the curve of her derrière, clearly revealed through the soft fabric of her new attire, agreed wholeheartedly, but refrained from saying so. Instead, he retired to the shade, seating himself on his favourite cushion and taking a glass of mint tea in order to distract himself from the beguiling vision. Her clothes were modest, loose, and actually revealed a great deal less of her figure than the gown she had worn the first night to dine with him, yet the filmy fabric clung to her like a caress, drawing attention to the soft flesh beneath. Realising that he had, despite his best intentions, been staring, Rafiq hurriedly looked away.

What was it about her that made her so difficult to resist? He had known far more beautiful women, far more experienced women, women who were accomplished in the arts of love, but none of them challenged him the way Stephanie did, and certainly none of them questioned him. They smiled at him, they fawned over him, they were pleased by him, with however little he offered, or however much. He was a prince, it was how it should be, but the reality was, now he came to think of it, not tedious exactly, but rather predictable.

Stephanie didn’t bore him. She was like no other woman he had ever met, which most likely explained her appeal. That, and the fact that she had given him hope. Now he no longer despaired, he was coming alive again. It was not surprising that he should desire the woman responsible. It was a pity that he could not act on those desires, but he could at least indulge his curiosity about her.

He poured Stephanie a glass of tea, calling to her to join him. Smiling her thanks, she sank on to the cushion opposite him. ‘This pool reminds me a little of one I saw in Italy, though the waters there were warm, fed from a hot spring.’

‘You have travelled a great deal, then? Won’t you miss that when you set up your own permanent establishment?’ Rafiq asked.

‘I doubt it. I have been fortunate enough to visit a great many countries, but travelling in the wake of the British army leaves one precious little time to enjoy the scenery. So much of the day is spent setting up bivouacs, obtaining supplies or chasing lost equipment, and maintaining what meagre household possessions one has. You would not believe the amount of hours devoted to mending uniforms and clothing and sheets and all manner of things.’

‘No, I would not,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Have you never had a permanent home?’

‘There were times—when we were encamped near Madrid, for example—when we remained in our digs long enough for them to begin to feel like home. We had a little farmhouse there which Mama was very sad to leave, but more often than not our accommodation consisted of tents.’

‘It is no wonder then, that after such an itinerant life, you desire to settle in one place,’ Rafiq said. ‘Have you a location in mind? Near Newmarket, where your skills will be in high demand? Or near relatives, perhaps? Though you did say you wished for independence. Does that mean you prefer to live in solitude?’

‘I meant financial independence,’ Stephanie replied. ‘I don’t suppose you will understand it, having been born to all this, but to a woman in my position, an income is a necessity if one is not to live beholden to others.’

‘A woman in your position,’ Rafiq mused. ‘I confess, I don’t profess to understand your position at all. You are what—twenty-five years old?’

‘Twenty-six, though I don’t see...’

‘For twenty-five years you have been beholden to your parents, as you put it. Why the sudden desire to change that? Did you quarrel with them?’

‘No, of course not. I have never—not even when—I have never quarrelled with them.’

She was shifting around on her cushion, crossing her legs, uncrossing them. Clearly, the conversation was agitating her. He ought to change the subject, but he was far too intrigued. ‘Then why the desire for change? Why make life so much harder for yourself by swapping your parents’ protection and the work that you so obviously love, for an uncertain future?’

‘I am—it is simply that I can no longer live with them,’ Stephanie replied, colouring. ‘And since I don’t wish to be married, what other option is open to me, save support myself?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you think this appointment means so much to me, Rafiq? The money is not for pretty dresses and fripperies, it’s about putting a roof over my head, food on my table, while I establish myself. Do you think that’s going to be easy?’

Before he could formulate any sort of reply, she jumped to her feet. ‘Well it’s not. It’s going to be bloody difficult! I’m going to have to be twice, three times better than any man, and I’m going to have to accept half the recompense or less. Does that sound fair to you? No, of course it’s not, but that’s how it’s going to be.’ Stephanie crossed her arms, staring at him belligerently. ‘That is why your commendation will mean so much. That is why the remuneration which you have promised me is—it is...’

Rafiq held his hands up. ‘I did not intend to upset you.’

‘You haven’t,’ she said, glowering at him, clearly determined not to cry. When she spoke again, it was in a softer tone. ‘You have been fairness personified. Not only are you paying me what you would a man, once you recovered from the shock of my gender, you did not try to devalue my skills on the grounds of it. You have given me an opportunity that few other men would have granted me. I am truly very grateful for it, and I should not be burdening you with my personal travails. It is most unprofessional.’

‘If you tell me one more time that you are here to tend to my horses...’

He was rewarded with a faint smile. ‘Do I say that often?’

‘I suspect you recite it in your sleep.’

Her smile broadened. ‘I suspect I’m trying to ensure I know my place. When I came here I did not expect to be living in a royal harem, to be conversing with a prince. I assumed I would be given quarters in the stables.’

‘Now that would be guaranteed to make Jasim resign his post forthwith. My Master of the Horse has already made his views on the presence of women in his stables crystal clear.’

‘You have had a woman working in your stables before me?’

‘No.’ Interfering, was the word Jasim had used. And undermining. Then ultimately, and most damning of all, he had described it as contaminating. ‘He was alluding to my wife,’ Rafiq admitted unwillingly, realising that he had to say something. ‘She was a Bedouin princess. She had a great affinity with horses, which Jasim did not appreciate.’

‘A nomad?’ Stephanie said in surprise. ‘I suppose in some ways, my life has been akin to that of the Bedouin, which you experienced when you were a child. Though we never permitted our horses to enter the tent.’

It was an uncomfortable analogy. Rafiq did not want to think of Stephanie as a nomad. He did not wish to make the link between the ghost that haunted him and the woman sitting opposite, who would help him close the door on the past for ever.

‘Despite their itinerant lifestyle, some of the Bedouin tribes can trace their regal heritage back as far as I can,’ he said, happily reminding himself that Stephanie, without a single drop of royal blood in her veins, was really nothing like Elmira at all.

‘Well, I have no heritage to speak of, regal or otherwise,’ she agreed blithely. ‘It seems to me that if your Master of the Horse would not even tolerate a royal princess, he is likely to make the life of a mere army farrier’s daughter unbearable, even if we do share an itinerant lifestyle and an affinity with horses.’

‘You are nothing like Elmira,’ Rafiq exclaimed, infuriated by what seemed to him her persistent desire to force him to compare the two.

She mistook his tone. ‘I am sorry, of course I’m not. The subject is painful to you. I beg your pardon.’

‘The past is not a place I care to visit.’

‘We have that much in common then.’

Her words were tinged with sadness. This independence she was so set on was costing her very dear. Not a choice, but a painful necessity. Whatever the reason, he was not inclined to pain her by further questions, but he had to admire her spirit. ‘When the Sabr trophy is restored to Bharym, my kingdom will be free to embrace its future. You will be free to embrace yours. And I, too, will be free to embrace mine.’

Her dazzling smile made him forget everything save her nearness and the strength of his desire for her. ‘I confess I find myself thinking of a different kind of embrace at this moment,’ Rafiq said.

The pink tip of her tongue flicked over her lower lip. ‘We said we would forget what happened between us,’ Stephanie said, making it clear that she was equally aware of him.

‘Have you forgotten?’ he asked.

‘No.’ Another flick of her tongue that made his blood stir. ‘I wish I could,’ she said.

If only she had forgotten. If only she did not desire him, or he her. Was there really so much harm in a kiss? He pulled her into his arms, and her lips touched his, and his resistance crumbled.

* * *

It was an illusion, Stephanie tried to tell herself, as she pressed her lips to Rafiq’s. It would not last, this sweet, hot desire which had her in its heady grip. This tingling she felt as he kissed her did not herald something more profound, only a prelude to ultimate disappointment. Yet when he feathered those delightful kisses over her bottom lip, she shivered. Slowly, surely, his kisses coaxed her into wanting more, into believing that more would be even more satisfying. It was different this time. Was it? She didn’t want to compare. It didn’t compare. Did it?

Rafiq stroked her hair, fluttered kisses over her eyes, nibbled on the lobe of her ear, kissed the sensitive skin behind it, making her shudder with delight. Then he began his assault on her mouth again and she forgot to think, surrendering to the slow dragging, drugging pleasure of his kisses, his tongue, his hands on her hair, caressing her back, her hair, her back again, showing no inclination to explore further. Only stroking her in the least provocative and intimate of places served to be provoking all the same.

She didn’t want it to end. Could it be that Stephanie was, after all, the kind of woman she had been branded? The thought shocked her into dragging her mouth from his. ‘No.’

Rafiq set her free immediately.

‘I can’t. I mean I must not,’ she added hurriedly. ‘You are my employer, and...’

‘And as such, I have already assured you that I would not take advantage of the situation. I may have your future in my hands Stephanie, but does it not occur to you that you have my future in yours?’

It had not. Ashamed and embarrassed, she gazed at him mutely.

‘What do you imagine I would do if you rejected my advances?’ he asked, his tone softening. ‘Forgetting for the moment that all I have done is kiss you, nothing more. Do you think I would risk everything, my kingdom’s hopes and aspirations, my family’s reputation, my own solemn pledge, by summarily dismissing you?’

‘I thought that you would think—that you would say—you respect me, Rafiq. I don’t want to endanger that.’

‘Why would my desire for you as a woman endanger my respect for you as a veterinarian?’

‘You don’t understand.’’

‘Then enlighten me.’

She could feel the flush of mortification burning its way across her chest, up her throat to sear her cheeks. Unable to trust herself to speak, she shook her head, keeping her eyes lowered, her fingers clasped tightly together. Her toes were curled up tight inside her slippers. Her throat felt clogged. She knew she owed him some sort of explanation, but the very thought of telling him the shameful truth was too much to bear. ‘I’m sorry,’ Stephanie said, ignoring the hot tears which were trailing down her even hotter cheeks. ‘I can’t.’

‘I respect you as my Royal Horse Surgeon. I kissed you because despite the fact you are my Royal Horse Surgeon, I don’t seem to be able to resist you, and because I thought that you too—but I should not have.’ Rafiq sighed, tugging at the high collar of his formal tunic. ‘When you kiss me I forget that you cannot be experienced.’

‘I’m not experienced, but I’m not an innocent either, and I seem to be just as unable to resist you as you—’ Stephanie broke off embarrassed, for she had taken herself as well as Rafiq completely by surprise. It appeared she was not as proficient at learning from experience as she had imagined herself.

She gave herself a little shake. ‘However we feel, it doesn’t alter the fact that we have far too much to lose, to allow ourselves to be distracted, no matter how tempting. Now if you will excuse me, I will return to the duties which I have been appointed to carry out.’ It was cowardly of her, but Stephanie gave Rafiq no time to reply, heading for the sanctuary of the stables with necessary but most undignified speed.