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‘My mother has talked fondly of falafal. She said that every family has a different, secret recipe that they claim to be the best and most authentic.’
Prince Rafiq smiled. ‘My grandmother used to say the very same thing. What does your mother think of your coming to Arabia?’
The change of subject was smoothly done, but Stephanie was not fooled. This was not so much a private dinner as an interview. She was—unsurprisingly—being vetted. She studied the small fritter-like falafel, which tasted nutty, and nothing at all as Mama had described it. ‘Once my father had persuaded her of the advantages,’ she said carefully, ‘my mother was most supportive. Though Egypt is some weeks’ travel from Bharym, the presence of her family relatively nearby in Alexandria was of some comfort.’
Stephanie swallowed a mouthful of the wheat salad which she had scooped up on a piece of flatbread and absent-mindedly put her fingers to her mouth to lick a dribble of tomato juice. It was delicious, but she was suddenly conscious that the Prince was looking at her with the strangest expression. ‘Oh, I do apologise,’ she said guiltily. ‘I’ve just remembered that my mother told me that it is considered rude to do such a thing before the end of a meal.’
He seemed to be fascinated by her mouth. Was there a smear of juice on her chin? She couldn’t resist checking. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that, as if—as if he wanted to lick her fingers. And where on earth had that ridiculous thought come from! Stephanie took a sip of iced sherbet.
‘If one licks one’s fingers before the end of a meal it indicates to one’s host that one has finished eating, though is not yet replete,’ the Prince informed her. ‘Which is deemed a negative reflection on the quality of the repast.’
‘I assure you, I intended no such slight,’ Stephanie replied hastily. ‘On the contrary, the food is utterly delicious, but I am not quite accustomed to using my fingers and so when I licked them...’
‘Please,’ Prince Rafiq said, giving his head a little shake, ‘there is no need to draw attention to your—I assure you, no offence was taken.’ He seemed to be suddenly thirsty, taking a long draught from his glass. ‘I am interested in the—advantages, I believe you called it—this appointment provides you with.’
Whatever had been distracting him a moment before, he was completely focused on her now. Stephanie stared down at her half-empty plate. ‘The opportunity to gain experience working in such a prestigious stud farm is a prize beyond rubies. Success here, Your Highness, will go a long way to ensuring my success back in England, in a field of endeavour in which, as you have pointed out, my sex is a great disadvantage.’
Prince Rafiq raised his eyebrows. ‘It did not prevent you from securing a position on a leading English stud farm, Miss Darvill. I believe you said you had been working there for the past year.’
Her plate was removed, and Stephanie was thus granted time to consider her answer while another was set out with a variety of meats. It went completely against her nature to prevaricate, though her naïve belief that everyone, especially army officers, valued honesty and integrity as highly as Papa, had taken a severe knock. But a partial truth was no lie. ‘My father is not without influence, and facilitated matters. His reputation assisted me in establishing my own credibility,’ she said.
‘And association with my name—or more accurately, the name of my stud farm—will further enhance it?’
‘If you will be so kind as to permit me to use it as a testimonial,’ Stephanie said. ‘Assuming, of course, that I am successful in effecting a cure for the mysterious sickness. There is also,’ she added awkwardly, ‘the matter of financial reward. Not having my father’s experience, I would not expect you to compensate me quite so generously, but frankly, Your Highness, with apologies for raising such a vulgar topic, even half of the remuneration which you offered would give me the freedom to set up my own establishment and live independently. Something which I am very eager to do.’
Thinking about what it would mean to her, and to her parents, to have her future secured brought a lump to her throat. Aware of the Prince watching her carefully under those sleepy lids, Stephanie concentrated on making a little parcel of roasted goat meat and couscous studded with pomegranate.
‘What induced you to leave your father’s patronage to work on a stud farm? Did you tire of military work, Miss Darvill? It has been your life, you said so yourself.’
‘Army horses, Your Highness, are heavy working breeds, either draught horses for pulling artillery or chargers, neither of which are used for breeding purposes. Working on a stud farm was, my father felt, an excellent way of filling this gap in my knowledge.’
She had not lied, her experience at the Newmarket stud had been invaluable, it was simply that she wouldn’t have left her army life and gone there were it not for another, much more unpleasant experience. Prince Rafiq’s expression gave absolutely nothing away, yet somehow she was certain he had detected her unease. Flustered, Stephanie picked up her fork then set it down again. Her food was no more than half-eaten, but she had quite lost her appetite.
‘You have had a sufficiency?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her plate was cleared. Another was prepared, of sweet pastries dribbled with honey, dates covered in chopped nuts. The foods representing life. Most appropriate since her presence here was driven by her desire to establish a new life for herself.
She hoped that the changing of dishes and the serving of the final course meant the topic was now closed. The Prince, however, had merely been biding his time. ‘Your desire for independence is intriguing, Miss Darvill,’ he said. ‘A most unusual ambition for a woman. A more common aspiration is marriage, surely?’
* * *
Stephanie Darvill’s glass slipped from her hand, spilling sherbet over the table. In the moments it took for one of his servants to clean the mess up, Rafiq watched her covertly, noting the effort it took her to regain her composure. The robe she wore was cut demurely enough at the neck, but it was still low enough to show the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Her curves distracted him. He wondered if the ribbon tied at the neckline was the only fastening of the dress. He wondered what she wore beneath that gown. It looked flimsy enough, but it was most likely an illusion. In his limited experience, the complexity of the undergarments worn by European women seemed expressly designed to repel a man’s advances.
Miss Darvill herself, on the other hand, seemed designed to encourage just such advances, yet she was not married, and nor was she, in her own words that sort of woman. What sort of woman was she? And why did she crave what she called independence? Would she live alone? Why would a woman wish for such a thing? Though admittedly, his experience of Western women was not extensive, he did not think they were so very different from women in the East. Didn’t all women wish for a husband, children? But this woman—he had never met anyone quite like this woman.
‘I have no interest in marriage, Your Highness,’ Stephanie Darvill said, interrupting his thoughts, ‘and I confess I fail to understand what my aspirations—or lack of them—in that direction have to do with my ability to cure your horses. Save of course,’ she added tightly, ‘that as a single woman without a husband to dictate my movements, I was free to travel to your aid.’
‘My apologies,’ Rafiq said, equally tightly, for he was quite unaccustomed to being placed in the wrong. ‘You are in the right of it. What matters are your skills as a horse surgeon, and whether those skills will compensate for the disruption your presence in my stables will undoubtedly generate, for they are an exclusively male domain.’
‘Then they are no different from any other stables in which I have worked.’
‘The difference, Miss Darvill, is that here you have neither your father’s presence nor his reputation to shield you from what can be a rough-and-tumble environment.’
‘Not as rough and tumble an environment as a battlefield,’ she countered, ‘although Papa would never permit me anywhere near the actual fighting. I was left in sole charge behind the lines. My place will be taken by his new assistant, in this conflict with Napoleon that is to come. For all I know, battle may even have commenced by now.’ For a moment she was lost to him, her gaze unfocused, her thoughts clearly with her family, but then she gave a little shrug, a tiny smile. ‘He made me promise not to worry about him. It is a promise we who followed the drum—family, servants, wives, children—were always being obliged to make, though I doubt any of us ever managed to truly keep it. It was worse, in a way, being so far from the battle lines, imagining what was happening not just to one’s family but one’s friends, and of course the horses. Though I would never equate an animal with a human life, I do not subscribe to the view that they possess no feelings.’
‘Nor I,’ Rafiq said warmly. ‘In fact I would go further, and say that there can be a true affinity between a horse and a rider.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ Miss Darvill said enthusiastically. ‘If a man is afraid going into battle, he transmits that fear to his horse. I have seen it so many times. And though you may scoff, I have also seen a horse make a man braver with a display of—of eagerness. That sounds silly, but...’
Rafiq shook his head, smiling. ‘Not at all. Arabians, mares especially, are highly valued for their fearlessness in a battle charge, which can give a rider the confidence he lacks, or enhance what fortitude already exists. But it is more than that. In the most hostile parts of the desert, I have seen a horse struggle on, carrying her master to the safety of an oasis when all hope seemed lost.’
‘And in battle too,’ Stephanie said eagerly, ‘there have been many, many times when Papa has witnessed horses returning men almost dead in the saddle to the safety of our lines, often at great cost to themselves. And those same men, they will do almost anything to save their horses too. I have seen the most battle-hardened of soldiers weep for the loss of his steed. And weep too, when an animal which looked beyond recovery has been saved against the odds. That,’ Stephanie Darvill said, clasping her hands together fervently, ‘is one of the very best aspects of my vocation.’
He could not help but be endeared. ‘Your love of horses shines through.’
She beamed at him. ‘As does yours.’
‘I quite literally grew up around horses,’ Rafiq confided. ‘When I was three months old, I was sent out to be raised by a Bedouin tribe. It is the custom here, for a prince’s sons to live outside the palace confines for ten years in this way. Bedouins treat their horses as part of the extended family. They even bring them into their tents at night to shelter from the chill desert air.’
‘Those early years then, sowed the seed of your ambition to establish the Bharym stud farm?’
‘Bharym has a proud legacy of breeding the finest thoroughbreds. It is part of our heritage.’
She flinched at the edge in his voice. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea. I was under the impression that this stud was relatively new.’
‘In a literal sense you are correct,’ Rafiq said stiffly. ‘The stables were rebuilt when I inherited the kingdom eight years ago, but I believe—and my people also—that they are a continuation of what has gone before. The seed of my ambition, as you put it, was planted fourteen years ago, on the day when Bharym lost the Sabr.’
‘The Sabr? Aida—your Mistress of the Harem—mentioned this Sabr, what is it?’
‘The Sabr is the most prestigious annual endurance race in all of Arabia.’
‘Like the Derby in England?’
‘There is no comparison,’ Rafiq said. ‘To win the Sabr brings prestige not only to the owner, but to the whole kingdom. The Sabr is a symbol of national pride.’
‘So this race, it is to win it that you established—re-established—the stud?’ Stephanie Darvill was frowning. ‘Your Highness, this outbreak of sickness, why must it be kept secret? Aida—you must not think badly of her, she said nothing indiscreet, save only that it was not to be talked of.’
‘This year, after fourteen years’ absence, we finally have a string of horses with sufficient stamina and fleetness of foot to compete with the very best. All my people’s hopes are pinned on winning. This sickness puts not only a horse race but Bharym’s entire future at risk.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I am certain that to you that must sound preposterous. How can a mere horse race determine the fate of a kingdom? With respect, you are a stranger, you cannot understand the history of Bharym and the Sabr, but I assure you, its importance to my people cannot be overstated.’
To say nothing of how critical it was to him. Could this foreign woman save the race for them? Could she be the one who would help him defeat the fates and secure a future for his country, his people, himself? A preposterous notion, he’d thought when he first set eyes on her, but now—now, his instincts told him to trust her. And his head told him he had no better option. ‘Tomorrow,’ Rafiq said, ‘I will tell you the story of the Sabr. Then you will understand how vital it is that you save my horses.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Does that mean you will permit me to treat them? I cannot tell you how much this means to me, Your Highness.’
Her smile, the first real smile he had been granted, lit up her face. ‘Rafiq,’ he said, checking first that the servants had left the room. ‘When we are alone, you may call me Rafiq.’
‘Then I must be Stephanie. If it pleases Your Highness. Sorry, Rafiq.’
She pleased him rather too well. It was to be hoped that her abilities matched her enthusiasm, for one thing was certain, Stephanie Darvill would not please his Master of the Horse. Once before, Jasim had violently objected to a woman’s presence in the stables. Rafiq shuddered. The outcome had not been Jasim’s fault, but his. Only he was to blame. But he refused to think about the past tonight. Tonight was about securing the future.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘your work will commence. I will be frank, Miss—Stephanie. I am concerned about your reception in the stables. It is likely to be very hostile.’
‘As I said, I am accustomed to that. Your Highness—Rafiq—it is my experience that those who work with horses do so because they love them. When they see that I share that love, that I can alleviate the suffering of sickness or injury, they don’t see a woman, but a veterinarian.’
She spoke with an assurance that he admired, but which in one case was undoubtedly misplaced. ‘That may be true for the majority of my grooms and stable hands, but my Master of the Horse is a different matter. Your role here does not depend upon Jasim’s good opinion, but you will find your task a great deal easier if you can find a way to earn it. There is little he does not know about Arabian thoroughbreds.’
‘Save how to cure this sickness,’ Stephanie pointed out. ‘When he understands that we are both working towards that goal then I am sure he will co-operate.’
‘He will co-operate, because I will instruct him to do so.’
‘I would prefer you did not.’ She grimaced. ‘I am sorry to contradict you, but I am not, as you have already pointed out, the type of person to tell you what you want to hear, rather than what you need to know. Respect cannot be imposed, it must be earned. Please do not make matters worse between myself and your illustrious Master of the Horse by forcing him into a pretence of co-operation, it will only make it more likely that he will resort to sabotage to discredit me. I prefer to fight my own battles.’
Admirable sentiments, though thoroughly misguided. Resolving to take matters into his own hands, but deciding it would be better for Stephanie if she remained oblivious to his manipulation of events, Rafiq bowed over her hand. ‘You are a very surprising woman. I hope that you will prove to be equally gifted.’
His kiss was the merest whisper, the lightest touch of his lips to her fingers. He would have done no more, had she not shivered at his touch. But she did, and he reacted instinctively, his fingers tightening around hers, pulling her a fraction closer. The folds of her gown brushed against his leg. Her hair had fallen over her eye again. He could not resist pushing it back, and then he could not resist trailing his hand down the curve of her cheek, to rest on the slope of her shoulder. She shuddered again, and he responded to that shudder. When she tilted her head, her lips parted. He bent his head, drawn irresistibly to her. The sound of a door opening and then being hastily closed made them jump apart.
‘Forgive me,’ Rafiq said, taking another step backwards, away from further temptation.
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Stephanie said, blushing furiously. ‘It was as much my fault as yours. I should not have—but I am fatigued. The effects of a surfeit of sun too, no doubt. So there is nothing—’
‘The hour grows late,’ he said tersely, cutting short her embarrassment and his own. ‘We will meet in the stables in the morning. As of this moment, you are formally appointed Royal Horse Surgeon.’
His words, spoken primarily to remind himself of her purpose here, made Stephanie gasp. ‘The appointment will be for six months,’ he continued in a brusque manner, ‘by which time you will either have cured this plague which has descended on Bharym, or we will have established that you are incapable of curing it. Your remuneration will be on the terms I proposed to your father.’
She gazed speechlessly at him. He wished she would not look at him that way, as if she was having to work very hard to prevent herself from throwing her arms around him in gratitude. ‘The appointment may be terminated by me at any time prior to the end of the six months,’ Rafiq continued, more sternly than he intended, ‘if I feel your presence has compromised the smooth running of the stables. You understand?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Excellent. Then I will see you in the morning.’
‘Rafiq.’ He had turned to leave, but Stephanie caught his sleeve, yet another breach of protocol. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a shy smile, ‘for trusting me. For giving me this opportunity to prove myself. I am extremely grateful and very much aware of the honour you confer on me. I promise you I will do all I can not to let you down.’ She surprised him once again, this time by bending over his hand, pressing a light kiss to his knuckles before opening the door herself, startling the waiting guard.
Watching her follow a servant along the corridor back to the harem, her sashaying walk drawing his eyes to her swaying rear, Rafiq sighed. His passions had been all but dormant since this plague descended. It was inconvenient to say the least, to have them reawakened by the woman who had come to Bharym to cure that self-same plague. Though perhaps it was apt. A sign that he was coming back to life.
The end which would be a new beginning was so terrifyingly, tantalisingly close. The vision he had once carried so close to his heart, of the colours of Bharym tied to the Sabr trophy, of the victory flag flying proudly above the palace and above every city and village in the kingdom for the first time in two generations, was one he hardly dared conjure for fear the fates would deprive him of it.
But they would not. Stephanie Darvill would ensure that they could not. His stud would bring victory to Bharym, confidence to his kingdom, joy to his people, and quieten his troubled conscience. Payment for his crime. Reparation fully made, all debts repaid.
Departing the dining salon, Rafiq headed for his own chambers, and the meagre solace it provided.
Chapter Three (#ulink_ec10d87e-7415-54d7-8493-07ddd5128f2b)
Exhausted 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.
