The Harlot and the Sheikh

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘It matters to you personally, then. Because of your father?’

  ‘That is part of it.’ He took hold of her hands. ‘Now fate has brought you here to me and for the first time in many moons, I have reason to hope.’

  His smile, the way he was looking at her, made her feel as if she was standing on the edge of a precipice. The responsibility terrified her, but the trust he had placed in her made her feel oddly powerful. ‘Rafiq,’ she said, meaning to caution him. It came out sounding like a caress.

  ‘Stephanie.’

  He made her name sound exotic. She shivered. Her heart began to pound. It was impossible not to close the gap between them, for her body was being drawn towards him as if pulled by invisible strings. She smiled up at him, and her smile made his eyes gleam. For a second, which felt like an hour, he hesitated. A second in which she thought she might expire if he did not kiss her, because she had been waiting for that kiss, longing for that kiss, since last night.

  And then it happened. ‘Stephanie,’ he said, whispering her name, sliding his arms around her waist, drawing her to him, and the world went hazy as his lips touched hers. Softly at first. A butterfly kiss, his tongue sweeping the line of her lower lip. Then another kiss, gently teasing her mouth open, the tips of their tongues barely touching, yet it made her tingle. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she angled her head, hungry for more. His mouth slanted over hers, shaping hers, and he kissed her again. She had never been kissed in this way, with such gentleness generating such blazing heat inside her, with tongue and lips, lips and tongue, so she could not tell what was one kiss and what was another.

  She felt as if she was melting, her entire body being brought to a slow simmer by his kisses. Her fingers tangled in the silkiness of his curls. Her body was pressed against his, her breasts brushing his chest, making her nipples tingle. And the unmistakable ridge of his arousal brushing—

  The kissing stopped abruptly. Rafiq shifted, creating a gap between them, and let her go. His eyes glittered black, like anthracite. His breathing was very slightly irregular, though not as fast as her own. ‘I have been wanting to do that since last night, but I should not have taken such a liberty. Forgive me.’

  His words were like a dousing of cold water. ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Stephanie said, horrified to discover that her voice sounded tearful. ‘I wanted you to kiss me.’ She turned away, snatching up the keffiyeh and silk scarf from the ground, throwing it over her head and most of her face. ‘I can’t think what came over me. It won’t happen again.’ The simple act of tying the scarf in place defeated her. She snatched the headdress off, scrunching the soft silk between her fingers. If she did not put an end to this highly distracting, highly dangerous attraction between them, it would fatally compromise her very reason for being here. ‘Rafiq,’ she said resolutely, ‘I am your Royal Horse Surgeon. A Royal Horse Surgeon has no place kissing the Royal Prince who appointed her.’

  His smile faded abruptly. ‘You are not a servant, Stephanie, and even if you were, I would never take advantage of my position.’

  She believed him. She did believe him, there was no comparison between Rafiq and—and it made no difference. Her face was scarlet now. She would have given a great deal for a freak wave from the oasis to envelop her, but nature resolutely refused to co-operate, forcing her to continue. ‘Rafiq, I merely meant that as your Royal Horse Surgeon, your horses should be my primary—my only focus. We do not have time to indulge in—in kissing, even if we want to, even if it was not completely wrong for me to—you are not only a prince, Rafiq, you are my employer,’ she said wretchedly.

  ‘You are, of course, quite correct.’ His tone was clipped. His expression was decidedly haughty. ‘Your first and only concern must be for the welfare of my horses. I have state business which will take me out into the desert for a few days. You will be able to work without distraction. For now, it is time we returned to the palace before it gets dark.’

  And that was Rafiq’s final word on the subject. The journey back to the palace was a total contrast to the outward leg, conducted at a sedate trot and in virtual silence. Ample time for Stephanie to reflect, and to regret, and to aver that she would not be so foolish as to play with fire again.

  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 n
ote 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?’