Читать книгу Historical Romance Books 1 – 4 - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 14
ОглавлениеStephanie was struggling to continue reading in the gathering gloom. With a sigh, she untied the scarf which held her hair back and closed the covers of The Compleat Horse Doctor, which she had been perusing in the hope that she might have missed something of import. She had not, and her battered copy of Instructions for the Use of Farriers Attached to the British Cavalry and to the Royal Board of Ordnance proved as irksome as ever, with its outdated remedies and procedures more likely to kill than cure. Checking her copious notes, she was forced to accept that she had done all she could for now. The sensible thing would be to go to bed.
Lighting a lantern, she quit the little office space she had purloined, and headed into the main stable block, making her way down the row of boxes until she came to Sherifa’s stall. The mare snorted, taking the dates Stephanie offered with a haughty toss of her head. Two years ago, her mistress, Princess Elmira had died. ‘Do you still miss her?’ Stephanie whispered. Did Rafiq?
‘The past is not a place I care to visit,’ he had said yesterday. In that respect they were of like mind, though their motivations were very different. Rafiq’s past was tragic, whereas hers was simply sordid, her shame exacerbated by the knowledge that her downfall was entirely of her own making. She had allowed herself to be dazzled by the attentions of a handsome man. She had allowed herself to believe he meant his charming declarations of love. She had not allowed herself to reflect on the disparities in their situations. She had effectively let her heart rule her head, to disastrous effect. And now here she was again, dazzled by the attentions of an even more handsome man, whose station in life was so far above her own as to be risible.
She fed Sherifa another date. She had imagined herself in love with Rupert. She was under no such illusions when it came to Rafiq. It was as unthinkable as it was impossible. Rafiq was a man of honour and integrity. Despite the apparent similarities, the two men, the two situations could not be more different.
She smiled to herself. For the first time since she had fallen so catastrophically from grace, her loss of reputation struck her as strangely liberating. What’s more, looking at things from this fresh perspective, the fact that Rafiq was a prince was also a liberating factor, since he was so far beyond her reach as to inhabit another planet. She would never, ever be so foolish as to imagine that she could be anything to him other than his Royal Horse Surgeon. And that should, provided she always remembered it, make things both simpler and safer.
It was a comforting thought. Not that she had any intentions of acting on it. Quitting the stables, Stephanie was taking the long way back to the palace, enjoying the cool night air under the glittering discs of the desert stars, when a painful hacking cough emanating from the mules’ enclosure stopped her in her tracks.
* * *
When he was roused by his personal servant in the middle of the night, Rafiq knew it could mean only one thing. Another outbreak of the sickness.
‘I was reluctant to have you disturbed, sire,’ his man said, ‘for the case in question is not one of your thoroughbreds but a mere mule. However, your Royal Horse Surgeon was most insistent you be alerted.’
Were it not for his anxiety at this worrying new development, Rafiq would have smiled at that. Stephanie would not have insisted, she would have demanded. Quickly donning his riding clothes, he made his way through the silent and sleeping palace out through the courtyard to the stables, sick at heart at this new proof of the plague’s persistence. It would be wrong to expect too much from Stephanie’s first case. He could only hope she did not fail completely.
Flambeaux had been lit in the stable yard. Stephanie had had the distressed beast brought in to one of the enclosed stalls primarily set aside for mares in foal. As he approached the hushed huddle of his stable hands gathered outside the door, he could hear the ominously familiar sound of the animal’s laboured breathing punctuated with a hacking cough. Until now, the sickness had confined itself to the horses, but even before he entered the stall, Rafiq knew with heart-sinking certainty that it had spread to the pack animals.
Stephanie was at the mule’s head, trying to calm the animal. She looked up when he closed the door softly behind him. ‘Thank goodness. They said I should not disturb you because it was only a mule, but I knew you would want to be here, and besides, I need you to verify that the symptoms are the same.’
She wore a plain white tunic similar to his own, an abba of the same cotton. Her hair was down. It was shorter than he had imagined, falling just past her shoulders.
‘Rafiq? Can you see the swelling and redness around the eyes? The discharge from the nostrils and the fever? Though it is not so severe as you described it...’
‘The cough is the same. And the laboured breathing. There is no doubt that it is a case of the sickness. What course of action do you recommend?’
‘Do nothing,’ Stephanie said after a long, tense moment’s thought.
‘Nothing!’ Rafiq stared at her in consternation. ‘You don’t think bleeding, or a poultice or...’
‘Nothing,’ she said firmly. ‘Jasim has tried these treatments before, has he not?’
‘Yes, but you can’t mean to sit back and do nothing,’ Rafiq said incredulously. ‘What about an emetic, cautery—there must be something you can do, some course of treatment you can attempt?’
‘All the standard remedies have been tried by Jasim to no avail. He has been very thorough, but we are obviously dealing with something new here,’ she replied gently. ‘So we need to do something different. It strikes me the one thing that hasn’t been attempted is to let nature take its course without interference. Poor Batal here will need all his strength to fight the fever. In my experience all the remedies which you suggest will only serve to weaken him further.’
‘But to do nothing—!’
‘Is sometimes the very best course of action, when one has no certain knowledge of the cause. We can calm him. We can keep him cool, and we can keep him on his feet walking, fighting. Trust me.’ She turned her attention briefly from her patient to face him. ‘Rafiq. I will not dose him with powders or drain away his lifeblood just to demonstrate to you that I am well versed in traditional treatments. Perhaps Batal will live up to his name, prove himself a hero and survive. Perhaps he will not, but at the very least we will have ruled out this approach as a treatment option without having added to his suffering.’
She would not defer to him, nor would she lie to him. She gave him no false promises, but that in itself raised his hopes. Rafiq nodded his agreement. Stephanie’s satisfied smile was cut short when the mule gave a distressing hack and tried to escape her hold, bucking feebly and tossing his head.
‘Here, let me,’ Rafiq said, taking the rope. ‘Trust me,’ he added when she looked as if she would refuse, ‘I too know what I am doing.’
* * *
Stephanie watched, fascinated, as Rafiq murmured to the terrified mule in a language she could not understand. In less than a minute the animal had calmed, his breathing eased marginally, and he had ceased straining at the halter. It was almost as if Rafiq had managed to put Batal into a trance.
‘Are you a horse mystic?’ she asked, only half-joking. She had heard tell of such things, but she had always been sceptical.
‘I learned some of the ways of the Bedouin as a child,’ he answered in a whisper. ‘If you wish to cool him down now, he won’t resist.’
She did as he suggested. The mule’s flanks were worryingly swollen, his fur already damp, though the water she doused over him seemed to give him some relief. They worked together, calming and cooling, listening, their own breathing suspended, their own hearts pounding, while Batal grew worse, every breath a tremendous effort.
‘Is there truly nothing you can do, at least to ease his suffering?’ Rafiq said, breathless with the effort of keeping the mule on his feet during the last, grim bout of coughing.
Stephanie shook her head. Her own feeling of helplessness was reflected in his expression. ‘We must not despair,’ she said, far more reassuringly than she felt. ‘Hope is the most mysterious of all healers. Batal will sense it if we give up on him.’
‘Then we won’t give up,’ Rafiq said grimly.
* * *
They did not, though it was a long, exhausting night. The lanterns were extinguished, the first grey morning light filtering through the high window of the closed box when Stephanie carried out her half-hourly check of the mule’s heartbeat. Rafiq had no need to calm him this time. She thought at first that desperation had misled her, but a second listen was reassuring. ‘I think he has turned a corner. He is not out of danger yet, but his breathing has eased marginally, and his fever is slowly abating. I think he has a fighting chance of a full recovery.’
‘You can have no idea how much this means to me.’
‘Rafiq, we must not get ahead of ourselves. This proves nothing as yet. Batal’s infection was a less severe case, I think. It may affect mules differently from horses. You must not think I have necessarily found a cure. I simply let nature take its course.’
‘Which achieved more than all of Jasim’s remedies put together.’ He pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Thank you.’
Rafiq’s touch was gentle, he smelled of sweet sweat and fresh straw and olive-oil soap. It was a very different kiss from that one yesterday by the pool. A gentle kiss, their lips clinging, almost tender in the dawn’s light, after the long night’s vigil. Her fingers in his hair, his in hers, threading themselves through her tangles, so gently, the warmth of his palm on her nape, the soft flutter of his breath. She was acutely aware of his body, though there was still a tiny gap between them which neither moved to close, because this lingering kiss was enough, more than enough.
They broke apart slowly. Their eyes met, slightly dazed. Stephanie did not speak. She had no words, and no desire to spoil the tenderness of the moment. Rafiq’s mouth curled into a half-smile that twisted her insides, reminding her that desire was not entirely a foreign country after all, and so she busied herself with the now exhausted Batal. ‘I think we can let him lie down and rest now.’
‘I think all three of us would benefit from a rest,’ Rafiq said. ‘I will ask Fadil to look after Batal. No,’ he said, when she made to speak, ‘there is no need for you to stay here with him.’
‘But, Rafiq...’
‘You will be no use to Batal if you don’t rest yourself. You have been up all night. That is a command, Stephanie, from a prince. Do not pull a face as stubborn as your plucky patient here.’
She was forced to laugh. ‘Very well. Only let me see him settled—and, no, I won’t leave that to anyone else, no matter what you command.’
‘Very well.’ Rafiq kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you. I will see you and your hopefully restored patient later.’
She watched him go, listened to him issuing orders in that commanding way he had, wondering what it was in his tone that made it clear he took instant obedience for granted, for she had never heard him raise his voice. She put her fingers to her mouth, reliving the gentle touch of his lips on hers.
Batal brayed, a plaintive little sound, but a valiant one. Stephanie ruffled his ears. ‘You really were named well, my hero,’ she said softly. ‘You are going to get well, little man, I promise you.’
A noise in the doorway made her turn. Fadil stood there, a gaggle of stable hands gathered behind him. ‘It was an auspicious day when fate brought you to us,’ he said. ‘His Royal Highness was a wise man to appoint you his Royal Horse Surgeon, Miss Darvill. Now we dare hope that the Sabr will return to Bharym as our Prince has promised.’
* * *
Rafiq, who had returned to the loose box to check on Batal, was not surprised to see Stephanie walk in. ‘You managed to obey my command for two whole hours,’ he said blandly, ‘I suppose I should consider that progress.’
Stephanie had bathed and changed, her hair tied back with a fuchsia-pink silk scarf, a colourful contrast to the muted pink-and-cream stripes of her tunic and cloak.
Though it had been a very different kiss, that kiss this morning, a kiss fuelled by relief on both their parts, by gratitude on his, it had been there all the same, that tiny thread of awareness that linked them, no matter what the circumstances. It was present now. He could no longer pretend that it was abstinence which fired his desire. It was Stephanie. This particular woman, most likely because of these peculiar circumstances. Circumstances which made him hesitate to act, for though his desire for her was fierce, his desire to rid himself of the past was even stronger, and Stephanie held the key to that. He could not afford to lose her. That much, he sincerely hoped, he had made clear to her, though she could never understand the true significance of the Sabr to him.
Batal’s survival was a portent, another step towards the future, when Bharym’s people would recover their spirit, when Bharym’s Prince would rid himself of his guilt. He had a foretaste of how that would be when he was with Stephanie. He was a different man, with her. He caught himself sometimes, talking to her, teasing her, laughing with her, in a way that was quite alien to him. He didn’t recognise that man, but he enjoyed the change, no longer a man haunted by his past, but a man who relished the present. Stephanie gave him a glimpse of how it would be in the future. He wished fervently that there was a way to glimpse more of it, to indulge their mutual passion, without endangering the future itself.
Was there a way? Watching her rise from checking Batal, Rafiq wondered. It could mean nothing to either of them, they had already established that. If Stephanie wanted to—and he was pretty certain she did, as much as he—then surely they could come to some sort of tacit understanding, within strict boundaries?
Meeting her eyes as she dried her hands, Rafiq smiled.
‘I think Batal here has made a quite remarkable recovery,’ she said, ‘though how he became infected in the first place is a question which I can’t answer at the moment, for he shares neither food, water nor bedding with the horses in the stables.’
‘Batal is what we call a companion,’ Rafiq told her, ruffling the mule’s ears. ‘Despite his behaviour last night, he is a placid beast, and has a very calming influence on our more highly strung thoroughbreds. He has seen some of our most nervous mares through difficult foalings, some of our friskiest yearlings through their early training.’
‘So he may have become infected here?’ Stephanie said. ‘I will check when he last performed his companion duties. We will need to keep an eye on the other mules now too, lest Batal here has infected them, though proximity to an infected animal does not seem to result in contagion.’ Stephanie pursed her lips. ‘I have eliminated a good many causes, but I am still no closer to finding the source.’
‘You have only been here two weeks, and this is your first case.’
‘Yes, but...’
‘Enough, for now. I have a prescription for you, veterinarian. You will take a break for the rest of the day from horses and from the stables and from the palace,’ Rafiq said. ‘It is time you saw a little more of my kingdom.’
* * *
The city was far more extensive than Stephanie could have imagined from the glimpses she’d had when she first arrived in Bharym. Viewing it now from the vantage point which the approach from the palace afforded her, she could see that the red-brick buildings extended right into the foothills of the mountain, climbing in terraces up the sheer rock face. Though all the tightly packed buildings were square and flat-roofed, some were narrow, some broad, some had only two storeys while others soared six, seven, or more storeys high.
She and Rafiq rode unescorted. ‘I believe I informed you on your first night here, that I have not my father’s fondness for pomp and ceremony,’ he told her, when she commented on this. ‘In his day, a journey to the city would have involved a caravan of at least thirty camels, and any number of standard bearers. My father had the most cumbersome saddle too, more like a mobile throne, which took a considerable toll on the camel which had to bear it.’
But as they passed through the soaring stone arch of the city gates, it became apparent that Rafiq had no need of camels or bearers or throne-like saddles to proclaim his majesty. He wore a simple white tunic and cloak, his keffiyeh held in place with a red-silk scarf, the only gold the glittering hilt of the sabre hanging from the belt at his waist. She was reminded of her first glimpse of him in the Royal Receiving Room, her urge to kneel before him, distinctly different from the most disrespectful urge she had had the last time the Duke of Wellington had inspected Papa’s regiment. The Commander-in-Chief’s arrogant assumption of superiority had raised Stephanie’s hackles. Glancing over at Rafiq, smiling and gesturing his kneeling subjects to their feet, her blood heated for a very different reason.
They entered an open space bordered by market stalls. Rafiq brought his camel to a halt, summoning one of the cluster of small boys who had gathered around to take the reins as he dismounted, gesturing to another small boy to tend to Stephanie’s animal as Rafiq helped her to dismount. ‘The streets are extremely narrow. It is easier if we progress on foot,’ he continued in English quietly. ‘It is my custom to hear informal petitions on such occasions, so we may be somewhat besieged at times but fear not, you will be perfectly safe.’
She had no time to respond, for they were at that moment swept away into the recesses of the city. A noisy, cheerful, excited rabble of people of all ages surged in a wave around them, making their progress into a procession. Though she was separated from him, Rafiq made a point of halting every now and then, the crowd parting automatically to usher her through to join him, and then they continued.
She was content to observe, and there was a great deal to absorb her attention. The city itself, with its myriad of idiosyncratic buildings, decorated with pale stone swirls which, when seen close up, formed themselves into elaborate geometric patterns. So closely packed were the houses that the cobbled streets were cool, even in the blaze of the afternoon sun. Fountains trickled at every junction, some mere stone pedestals, others in the shape of scallop shells, fishes, serpents. The air here smelt sweeter, with no trace of the dusty, gritty desert which lay beyond the gates.
The women of Bharym wore no veils, though they protected their heads from the heat of the sun in a variety of ways. Some wore huge squares of fabric, big enough to act as both headdress and cloak, others cleverly draped long strips, like evening stoles, to form a hood and a scarf. A few sported turbans decorated with beads. And some, like Stephanie, wore a keffiyeh. The Sabr seemed to be their only topic of conversation when she chatted with them in their own language while Rafiq was otherwise engaged.
‘When the Sabr returns to Bharym, we can once again hold our heads high.’
‘When the Sabr returns, the rain will fall in torrents.’
‘When the Sabr returns, our Prince will be blessed with an heir.’
‘When the Sabr returns, my goat will produce milk again.’
‘When the Sabr returns, the market traders will stop trying to short-change us.’
‘And my mother-in-law will compliment my cooking!’
These last two sallies provoked an outburst of laughter, but no matter how preposterous Stephane might think some of the claims being made for the Sabr—for there was a part of her that still couldn’t credit a race with such power—she was left in no doubt of his people’s feelings for Rafiq. He was not only a prince but a hero to them.
They had reached a surprisingly large open square, right in the middle of the city. Rafiq held up his hands, said some words Stephanie could not catch, and the crowd began to disperse. ‘What is happening?’ she asked, when he beckoned her over.
‘It is the hottest part of the day. Everyone retires inside,’ he answered, ushering her towards the tallest building on the square and producing a key. ‘Including us.’
‘Goodness, surely not another palace?’
Rafiq laughed. ‘No, it is merely the royal viewing gallery.’
‘To view what, your subjects going about their daily business?’
For answer, he led her up three steep flights of stone stairs and through a door into a high-ceilinged room, the principal feature of which was the window. Or row of windows, to be more precise, six tall arches divided only by the thinnest layer of supporting brickwork, facing out on to the piazza they had just left.
‘It is breathtaking,’ Stephanie said, ‘and it makes me a little giddy. ‘I can see why you call it a viewing gallery, but what do you view? Oh, goodness, surely not...’
He laughed, for the horror of what had just crossed her mind must have been clearly reflected on her face. ‘No, we do not carry out either public executions or floggings, nor have there been either in Bharym for a great many years.’
Stephanie shuddered. ‘In the military, regrettably, flogging is all too common.’
‘How so?’
She stared out at the piazza, deserted now, for the sun was at its zenith. ‘We have been at war for a very long time. Some of the men have been away from their families for years, since only a very small minority of them are permitted to have their wives travel with them—and to be honest, many chose not to, for the conditions are very harsh. It is not surprising that they reach a point where homesickness overrides loyalty to the crown. Or where the constant risk of death erodes their willingness to fight. As if a whipping would make any difference,’ she said bitterly. ‘We treat our soldiers a great deal worse than our horses, in the army. No officer would dream of beating his horse, but most officers believe it their duty to beat their men. Save my father. Just one of the many things which sets him apart.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stephanie shrugged. ‘He has served for most of his career with the Seventh Hussars, but it is only recently that he was promoted from army farrier to Veterinary Surgeon, an appointment which in theory carries with it an officer’s rank.’
‘In theory?’
‘Papa is the son of a Scottish farmer, Rafiq. The officers of the Seventh like to think they are more blue-blooded than their horses—and they pride themselves on their horses’ lineage. They dare not shun Papa outright, but none would ever invite him to spend his leave on their family estates. Not that my father would accept such an invitation, unless it was to spend time in their stables. Papa has never been the least bit interested in pedigree, human or equine.’
If only he had been, if only he had taught his daughter to make the distinction, she might not have made such a catastrophic mistake. ‘What do the Princes of Bharym witness from this viewing gallery then,’ Stephanie asked, in a determined effort to lighten the mood, ‘if not ritual punishment?’
Rafiq duly obliged. ‘The Dash of the Camels,’ he said with a grin.
She was so surprised she burst out laughing. ‘The Dash of the Camels. It sounds like an Arabian version of a Scottish Reel. I take it that it’s not a dance?’
He shook his head, smiling. ‘It is a race, three times around the circumference of the piazza, riding camels bareback. They have a similar event, I am told, in Sienna, Italy, known as the Palio. Though they take it much more seriously, and they race horses.’
She gazed down on the square which was not actually a square, but an out-of-shape rectangle, with what looked like some hair-raisingly tight corners, and said so.
‘You are right,’ Rafiq said. ‘We lay down wet sand, but it is still very, very tricky. Though of course that is part of the challenge for the riders.’
‘And a source of amusement for the spectators, presumably? Where do the crowds stand?’
‘In the middle of the piazza of course.’
‘There are certainly advantages to being a prince. You have a prime view, and you’re not likely to be stampeded.’
‘It is true, a number of the camels do finish riderless, but we put up barriers to prevent them from endangering the crowds. It is a fun event, a spectacle for the populace,’ Rafiq said. ‘Every village enters their best jockey and camel, they parade it around the piazza ahead of the race, and there are prizes for the best-looking one, and the ugliest.’
‘Do you refer to the jockey or the camel?’ Stephanie said, laughing. ‘I would imagine the ugliest camel prize to be hotly contested. To my eye they seem to have been constructed from a jumble of disparate parts selected from a number of different animals. And as to their smell...’ She made a face. ‘Whether it is produced from the front end or the rear, both are noxious. When is this Dash? I would love to witness it.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve missed it. It took place six months ago. I don’t put any of the royal camels forward since the Dash is a race belonging to the people. Besides, though it seems to have escaped your notice, my camels are white thoroughbreds and extremely rare, though I admit that a pedigree does not preclude the particular camel perfumes you allude to,’ Rafiq said, with a smile. ‘I took the liberty of ordering refreshments for us, I hope you don’t mind.’
Stephanie, thinking that she would be unlikely to mind any liberty Rafiq chose to take, followed him to the back of the room, where a set of screens concealed an alcove containing a table laden with covered dishes, and a mountain of multi-coloured cushions.
‘Everywhere we go, sumptuous banquets appear as if by magic. I do not mean to sound ungrateful—it is simply that your world and mine, they are so very different.’
‘I was thinking only this morning, that very same thing,’ Rafiq said, waiting until she had settled at the table before seating himself with his usual fluid grace. ‘I have never met anyone like you before. And now you are blushing. Are you truly so unaccustomed to receiving compliments? I find that very difficult to believe.’
‘I am perfectly happy to be complimented on my skills as a veterinarian.’
‘Being a veterinarian, Stephanie, no matter what you may think to the contrary, does not preclude you from being an attractive woman.’
He smiled that smile again, and it did exactly what it did every time. Every particle of her was alerted to his presence. Every bit of her focused entirely and only on him. On his mouth. On his eyes. On the hard muscled body seated tantalisingly close to her. Her mouth went dry. ‘We agreed we could not afford to be distracted.’
‘Last night, this morning, caring for Batal together, proved where our priorities lie, don’t you think?’
‘I—I suppose it did, although we still—afterwards, we did kiss.’ Her heart was pounding. Her voice sounded odd.
‘A tender and heartfelt thank you, born of relief. Am I wrong to suggest that we might indulge ourselves, now that we have proved we won’t compromise our relationship as prince and veterinarian?’
She wasn’t sure what he was proposing, but she was curious to know. She bit her lip, laughed shakily. ‘I was thinking the other day how liberating it is to realise that one can only lose one’s reputation once, but the situation—our situation—it is not the same, but...’
‘Will you tell me what happened,’ he asked gently, ‘help me to understand why it is so difficult for you to trust me?’
She grimaced. ‘I do trust you. I’m simply not sure that I can trust myself. It is a sordid tale, which does not cast me in a good light. I fear your good opinion of me will be destroyed if I tell it.’
‘My good opinion of you is based on my knowledge of you as I have come to know you, Stephanie. Your past cannot change that.’
‘Do you really believe that? My past has shaped me. I thought I had left it behind, but it followed me here. I want to be rid of it, but my mistakes continue to haunt me. The best I can do is ensure I don’t repeat them.’
* * *
Her words made Rafiq shiver. They could have been his. Would he be similarly haunted for ever by his past? It was unthinkable. He was sure that the mule’s survival was a portent. The fates were no longer colluding against him. Stephanie had turned them in his favour.
He turned on the cushions to face her. ‘I think you are quite mistaken,’ he said firmly. ‘The door can be closed on the past. When we have atoned for our mistakes, then their shadow no longer stalks us.’
‘You think so?’
‘I am certain of it,’ he said in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘Now, tell me about the ghost that haunts you.’
She took a deep breath, clearly bracing herself. ‘His name was—is Captain Rupert Thornhill of the Seventh Hussars. My father’s regiment.’ Stephanie rolled her eyes. ‘My first error of judgement. He joined the Seventh two years ago. The Thornhills are a very old, established English aristocratic family. Rupert was—is rich, very well connected. My second error of judgement. He is also very dashing and charming, hugely popular, and exceedingly good looking.’ Stephanie’s smile was twisted. ‘My worst error of judgement was to believe that such a man would choose me. I was dazzled and I was very flattered. I allowed my heart to rule my head—something I never do. I believed myself in love.’
Rafiq fought his rising anger. He could imagine the man, paying well-practised court to her, wooing her. And Stephanie, naïve despite her years following the drum, falling for it. With difficulty, he kept silent.
She continued, her tone making it clear that she blamed herself, making him even more furious. ‘I know I’m not a catch. I have no pedigree, I have no dowry, and I am not a beauty, so when Rupert said he loved me, I believed him. I thought that he—he loved me, because there could be no other reason. I was such a gullible little fool.’
She pushed her hair back from her brow, tucking it behind her ear. ‘He told me we would be married, that there would be no harm in anticipating our vows.’
‘He seduced you.’
Stephanie hesitated. ‘I wish I could say that was so, but the truth is he did not. I thought I was in love. I wanted to please the man I thought I was to marry, but I also wanted—’ She broke off, shrugging awkwardly. ‘I wanted what no respectable woman should want. But it seems I am not at all respectable, because you make me feel exactly that way.’
‘Stephanie, there is nothing shameful in desire.’
‘Oh, Rafiq, perhaps not for men. Or hussies. I knew it was wrong, but that didn’t stop me. If only I had known—I thought it would be magical,’ she said sardonically. ‘Rupert did not seem at all disappointed, but I was. Fortunately it was over very quickly. Or so I thought.’
She took a long drink of pomegranate juice, steeling herself. Rafiq had a horrible premonition of what was to come. No wonder Stephanie found it difficult to trust him. She set the glass down. ‘I knew Rupert had a reputation for never refusing a challenge, that he must always succeed where others failed. I never thought he would see me as a prize, but it seems I was. By simple dint of my having failed to respond to any overtures from any officer in the past, by refusing to accept the improper proposals made to every single female who followed the drum as a matter of course, by protecting my reputation, I was challenging their manhood,’ she said disgustedly. ‘Rupert succeeded because he didn’t make me an improper proposal. Rupert pretended to fall in love with me.’
Rafiq was too angry to speak. Stephanie was too engrossed in her sorry tale to notice. ‘You see now, just how much of a fool I was?’ she continued, her voice bitter. ‘Such a man would never marry me, and I was the only person in the regiment to think he would. When he boasted openly of his conquest, the gulf which separated our families made it easy for them all to conclude that I was a woman of easy virtue.’
Her eyes were bright, not with tears but with anger and with defiance. Her fists were clenched. ‘It is so unfair. My reputation was ruined, while Rupert was slapped on the back. I was a fallen woman, whereas he was...’
‘...an accomplished seducer without honour or scruples,’ Rafiq exclaimed, unable to hold his tongue any longer.
‘That makes it worse! I pride myself on my logic, my powers of deduction, the soundness of my judgement, yet I abandoned all three.’
‘The man lied and cheated to steal your innocence. He deserves to be whipped. There can be no excuses for what he did, Stephanie. You are not at fault.’ Rafiq cursed under his breath. ‘Your parents must have—Your father...’
‘Papa was...’ Her anger fled. Her lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘What it did to Papa...that was the worst of it.’
‘Stephanie...’
She held up her hand, shaking her head. ‘Please.’ She took a shaky breath, dabbed at her eyes, and continued, her voice tremulous, her words tumbling over each other, for she was anxious to be done. ‘Afterwards, when I asked Rupert when we were to be married, he laughed in my face. Surely I could not possibly have believed that a blue-blooded Thornhill would wed a farrier’s daughter? Well, I had, though I see now that it was preposterous. As a prince, you would probably agree with Rupert on that score.’
Rafiq could not deny it, so ingrained was the notion of bloodlines, of pure ancestry to him, though the knowledge made him deeply uncomfortable. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘he made you false promises, and in doing so he dishonoured the very heritage he claims to have been trying to protect.’
Stephanie pushed her hair away from her brow once again. There were no traces of tears in her eyes now. ‘When I threatened to tell the truth regarding his bogus marriage proposal, in order to protect what little was left of my soiled reputation, he warned me that if I dared to do so, he would see to it that my father lost his position. Rupert was not Papa’s direct superior officer, but he wielded significant influence within the regiment. Like many of his ilk and, unlike Papa, he had purchased his commission, achieved his rank through a combination of wealth and privilege. They all attended school together, their families socialised together, they were all related to each other in some way—what chance would Papa have, Rafiq, no matter how brilliant he is, if they closed ranks against him?’
Stephanie scrunched her eyes closed, bunched her fists tighter. ‘Papa’s life has been serving the army. He is so proud of his position, I could not risk him losing everything he has worked for.’
‘So instead, you exiled yourself from the life that had been yours too, and from your family? That is why you have spent the last year at a stud farm?’
‘I had to. The shame, the scandal, the dishonour, it was mine, not theirs. I had no choice but to leave. Papa was not easily persuaded, he was so very angry, but Mama—oh, Mama could see clearly enough that any attempt to avenge me would simply result in more scandal, more gossip, that it was best for all of us that I get as far away from the scene of my crime as possible. And so eventually, Papa agreed.’
‘You committed no crime, Stephanie.’
‘Oh, but I did. My lack of judgement was a heinous crime. If it were only myself who bore the shame, it would not be quite so bad, but my parents—when I think of what they have suffered on my account—that is what has kept me awake at night this last year. That, and a determination to find a way to stop them from worrying about me.’
‘Independence,’ Rafiq said, smiling, for finally he understood it.
‘Precisely,’ Stephanie said, smiling tentatively back. ‘You see now, how valuable a gift you have given me with this appointment? It is my way of making good the harm I have done. My own form of reparation.’
Her words struck a chord. Though she could never know, though he would never explain—yes, he and this strange, exotic Englishwoman had a great deal in common. ‘I do understand, Stephanie. After such an experience, it is little wonder that you are reluctant to trust anyone, least of all someone in my position.’
‘Oh, thank you.’ Her hand fluttered to her breast. ‘I know there is no comparison between you and Rupert. I know you are a man of honour, that you would never lie to me, and that you truly do value me for what I am, that you mean it when you say that you respect me. You don’t flatter me by telling me I’m pretty...’
‘Pretty is much too insipid a word to describe you. Clever, unusual, brave, bold, witty, sultry, seductive, captivating, enticing, entrancing—you are all of those and much more. You are quite extraordinary. It makes me very angry to hear that you gave your innocence to a man so undeserving of you.’
‘I don’t want you to be angry, I want you to understand. The fact that there can never be anything between us, Rafiq, is one of the things about this situation I find reassuring,’ Stephanie said. ‘It draws, if you will forgive the pun, a very clear line in the sand. You are a prince, I am a farrier’s daughter, and in six months’ time—less if I find a cure for the sickness sooner—I return to England.’
‘Once again, your way of looking at a situation is—unique,’ Rafiq said, laughing. ‘Does that mean I should not have suggested...?’
‘No, it means that I am glad you did,’ she said, blushing. ‘I know it’s a very shocking thing to admit, but...’
‘Stephanie, it’s not shocking. It is a very natural thing, and it can be a very pleasurable thing.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Passion is not only the province of fallen women. Even respectable women experience desire.’
‘I’m not sure that I want to be respectable. If you’re right, and we proved last night that our overriding priority will always be curing the sickness, then I would like to—what exactly are you suggesting, Rafiq?’
‘That we indulge our passion in whatever way we choose,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing the tip of her little finger. ‘When we can safely do so without fear of compromising our other duties.’ He kissed the next finger. ‘That you can choose just how much or how little you wish to give.’ Another kiss, on her middle finger. ‘That you can put an end to it at any time, without fear of the consequences.’ He sucked on the tip of her index finger. ‘And above all that we take pleasure in what we do. Whatever we do.’ He drew her thumb into his mouth, smiling wickedly. ‘Is that a proposal you can agree to, do you think?’
She shivered. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked seriously.
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling again. ‘Now that I have agreed Rafiq, do you think we should...?’
‘Yes.’ He pulled her into his arms. ‘I think we should begin immediately.’
