The Harlot and the Sheikh

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘I can tell by your expression that you are ravenous, Miss Darvill.’

  What on earth was wrong with her! Stephanie’s cheeks flamed. ‘It all smells delicious, though I am not sure that I recognise many of the dishes.’

  ‘I will explain. We will converse in English,’ he said, switching to that language. ‘By doing so we can talk both freely and privately. As you can see, the table has been laid with food of the same colours grouped together. Green for prosperity. Yellow for happiness. We begin with those. Then there are the meats and the mixed salads. And finally there are the sweets, dates and honey, which represent life.’

  ‘Goodness, I had no idea.’ She was vastly relieved to see that her plate was being delicately filled by one of the servants. Whether this was yet another newcomer or not, she had no idea. ‘Thank you,’ she said to him, relieved, when he returned her gesture, that she had not broken protocol by doing so, and pleasantly surprised when the Prince also thanked his servant, calling him by name. In a palace whose staff must run to hundreds, it was an impressive feat of memory.

  ‘Please, begin,’ he said. ‘I have had them set out silverware cutlery for you. We have no shortage of European visitors here, and some are most averse to our custom of eating with our hands.’

  ‘Thank you, but I am happy to eat as you do,’ Stephanie replied, tearing a piece of flat bread and preparing to scoop some tomato salad on to it, hoping fervently that she would not make a fool of herself.

  ‘Your mother has retained the customs of her native land in your father’s English household then?’ Prince Rafiq asked.

  ‘Some of them, though Papa prefers more plain fare, to be honest. And Mama’s family are not particularly wealthy. I suspect she would be every bit as overwhelmed as I am, by this veritable feast.’

  ‘It is a modest repast, believe me, compared to the state banquets I am required to endure. I am a man of simple tastes. Be careful,’ Prince Rafiq added as she scooped what she thought was another piece of salad on to her bread, ‘those dishes containing chilli are extremely spicy. Unless you are accustomed to them, they will destroy your palate. Let me explain the various dishes on your plate. The smooth purée topped with yoghurt is moutabal, which is made from roasted aubergine. The salad of tomatoes, mint and cucumber is called fattoush, and beside it is tabbouleh, which is made from steamed grains of bulgur wheat. Oh, and the little patties are falafel, made from chick peas.’

  ‘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 pl
eased 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.’