He decided, for once, to follow his instincts. He knew how to please a woman, but this was Stephanie. Such a very different woman. He kissed his way down her throat. He smoothed his hand down her side, brushing the outside of her breast, watching her nipple burgeon under her tunic. He watched her as he cupped her breast, teasing her nipple, when she shifted very slightly to encourage him. He knew himself to be an accomplished lover, but never before had he made love like this, so careful of her, every move only for her, in response to her.
She reached for him, seeking his mouth, and he kissed her. Her tongue, her lips, made it difficult to think. He unfastened the buttons on the front of her tunic. He kissed her breast, sucking through the silk of her camisole, making her shift restlessly on the cushions, making her want something, something more. His mouth on her other nipple? Yes, and his hands, stroking her flanks, pushing her tunic higher, stroking the inside of her thighs through her pantaloons.
She tensed. What next? she seemed to be asking him. He kissed her in answer to her silent question. She kept her eyes closed. Her breathing was shallow and fast. Her body beside him on the cushions was burning hot, the brush of her hair silky on his skin. Gently, he eased her legs apart. She did not resist, though she tensed again. What now?
‘Stephanie, should I stop?’
She opened her eyes. They were heavy with desire. ‘No,’ she said. And then when he hesitated, ‘Please, don’t stop.’
He unfastened the sash at her waist. His fingers on the bare skin of her belly made her shiver. He slid his hand down, covering her, cupping her in that most intimate place, kissing her slowly on the mouth. ‘There is no hurry, no need to rush,’ he whispered.
‘No,’ she murmured.
Another kiss, and his tongue slid inside her mouth, and his fingers slid between her legs, and she cried out, a hoarse, harsh sound that he mistook at first for pain, until she clenched around him. She was slick, wet, tight. His shaft swelled, his groin tightened in response. Still his focus remained only on Stephanie. Her needs were his. His fingers slid over her and around her, teasing her and stroking her, making her body arch under him. Little whimpering noises encouraged him and aroused him. He kissed her, stroked her, coaxing her to a climax with his mouth and his tongue and his fingers. She was close, she was closer, and then with a wild cry her climax took her, shook her, so violently that she clung to him as if he would save her from drowning in pleasure.
When it was over, she opened her eyes and she loosened her grip and she smiled languorously at him, a smile that made him catch his breath. ‘I had no idea,’ she said.
And that was his satisfaction. It was better than release. Who would have thought it! He laughed then, with sheer delight, holding her closely, feeling his laughter reverberate against her chest. ‘And now you do,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied, with a sated smile. ‘Now I do. Thank you.’
‘Stephanie,’ Rafiq said, kissing her, ‘believe me, the pleasure was entirely mutual.’ And he meant it.
* * *
Rafiq retied the sash at the waist of her pantaloons. He buttoned up the front of her tunic. He kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘Now we will eat, and satisfy a different appetite. There is an ante-room through that curtain where you may first refresh yourself.’
There were rose petals scenting the water in the urn. There was a fresh cake of soap in a dish. There was a stack of soft towels. And a mirror. Stephanie stared at her reflection, wondering that she did not look more different. Her complexion had a rosy blush to it and her hair had escaped from her scarf, and her lips—yes, it was obvious that her lips had been satisfyingly kissed. She wrapped her arms around her waist. Those kisses had not been the only satisfying thing. She still couldn’t quite believe it. That Rafiq had—and then she had...
And the result had been earth-shattering. So much, much more than she could have imagined. As if her body had broken into a million little shards of indescribably intense light. When it ended, when she sank slowly back from the sparkling sky where she had been flying, she felt as if she was reassembled in a different manner. Her smile had a touch of smugness to it now. She was just a little bit pleased with herself.
‘Harlot,’ she told her reflection. ‘Brazen hussy.’ The words that had stung, made her hang her head in shame for the wrong she had done, had a very different effect on her now that they were not being whispered behind her back, publicly branding her. Here in Bharym, she was not Stephanie Darvill, fallen woman, she was the Royal Horse Surgeon, and in public she would make damned sure that was how it would stay. But in private she rather liked the idea of living up to the names that had condemned her. She would like to be a great deal more wicked, provided she took great care there were no unfortunate consequences.
Her face fell. Mama’s words, and Mama’s biggest concern, when the vicious rumours of her daughter’s ruin reached her. The resultant scene had been mortifying for mother and daughter—Stephanie resorting to medical terminology in order to try to reassure Mama that she knew enough of the workings of the body to have managed that risk, at least, seemed to appal Mama even more. If Mama could see her now, proving every insult hurled at her to be true, she would be shocked to the core. As far as Mama was concerned, her daughter’s fall from grace could only be mitigated by a lifetime of chastity. It’s what Stephanie had believed too, and thought she had come to terms with in that last long, lonely year at Newmarket.
But she was on the other side of the world now, and Mama would never know what her daughter was getting up to here. When she returned to England, Stephanie Darvill’s fall from grace would be history, and Stephanie Darvill, veterinarian to a royal prince, would make her fresh start. She would make her own way, and she would ensure that people judged her only on her medical skills. She would prove herself the equal of any man.
But England was months away. She was in Arabia now, and she intended to make the most of it.
* * *
Rafiq poured Stephanie another glass of iced pomegranate juice and helped her to some honey-drenched pastries. ‘You are very subdued. Are you regretting what happened?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no. Quite the contrary.’ Her smile sent the blood rushing back to his groin. ‘You know Rafiq, that an enquiring mind, and a willingness to experiment are fundamental to my success as a veterinarian.’
It took him a moment to understand her meaning, but when he did, his shaft, not yet fully subsided, stirred into life. ‘Are you suggesting that we experiment with pleasure?’
She chuckled. ‘I’m suggesting that I would like to experiment. I doubt very much that I can teach you anything.’
He touched her cheek. ‘You underestimate yourself. Today was as new an experience for me as it was for you. Everything with you feels like the first time.’
‘Well, it is pretty much all new to me.’ Stephanie set her empty plate aside and licked her fingers. ‘I will rely on your experience to guide me. As a veterinarian, I can consult any number of instruction manuals and handbooks, but there are no textbooks for fallen women to follow.’
‘You would be surprised,’ Rafiq said.
Her eyes widened, not with shock but with curiosity. She was a bold innocent, another in her litany of paradoxes. It was a heady combination. ‘There are many such books. My grandfather, I am sorry to say, was an avid connoisseur of such matters, and has an extensive collection. Though I must say, I prefer your suggestion, of experimentation.’
Her expression clouded. ‘I have almost everything to learn, while you—I am afraid you will be disappointed.’
‘Stephanie, you are incapable of disappointing me.’ He kissed her hand tenderly. ‘Every day you surprise me.’
‘By being insubordinate and disrespectful and...’
‘With your refreshing honesty. And your novel slant on the world.’ He kissed her hand again. ‘You make me see things
differently.’
‘Now that is a compliment which I am happy to accept.’
His laughter obscured the pounding at the door at first. Rafiq jumped up, adjusting his clothing. When he returned, his face was grim. ‘Another case of the sickness has struck. One of my brood mares this time. We must make haste and return to the stables.’
* * *
Stephanie got a taste of what it would feel like to race in the Dash of the Camels on the manic journey back to the palace. Clinging on grimly, she let her beast take its lead from Rafiq’s, feeling as if she were being tossed about in a storm at sea, though the sick feeling in her stomach had as much to do with the anticipation of what lay ahead of them. Rafiq had no details, save that Batal was continuing to make an extraordinary recovery. He had sent his man back ahead, with word that they were on their way.
‘Two cases in twenty-four hours,’ she said to Rafiq, panting breathlessly as they slowed in front of the imposing façade of the palace. ‘That has not happened before, has it?’
Grimly, he shook his head. The huge door in the wall which connected to the stable complex swung open. ‘I should have stayed,’ Stephanie said. ‘I should have been here.’
‘It is not your fault. Whatever happens, it is not your fault.’
Rafiq dismounted quickly before helping Stephanie down. In the archway of the stable buildings, a man was waiting, silently watching their approach.
He was tall with a slight stoop, and very thin, dressed in the traditional robes, a striped tunic under a loose cloak. His headdress of muslin fell almost to the ground, and was held in place by a thick double band made of silk rope. The face framed by his long pleated and oiled locks, was of a man who could have been any age from forty to sixty, with a strong aquiline profile, and a narrow chin made prominent by a pointed beard. Though his stance conveyed an air of sanguine world-weariness, his hands belied this, working incessantly at a set of worry beads. Stephanie felt a horrible, almost palpable, sense of foreboding.
Stepping towards them from the shadows he made his formal greeting, not to her, but to Rafiq. ‘Your Highness. I regret to inform you that you are too late. The mare, Anadil, is dead.’
‘No! Oh, Rafiq—Your Highness...’
‘Miss Darvill, may I present to you Jasim, my Master of the Horse? Jasim, as you are aware, Miss Darvill is my recently appointed Royal Horse Surgeon.’
She received the very smallest of bows in answer to her own formal greeting. Jasim’s eyes did not deign to meet hers, though whether he had noticed her slip in addressing Rafiq informally, or simply because she was a woman, Stephanie had no idea, and at this moment could not have cared less.
‘Where is Anadil? I’d like to see her, please.’
She spoke brusquely in Arabic, directly to Jasim, but he ignored her, looking to his master for direction. ‘Do as she asks,’ Rafiq said curtly.
‘But, Highness, the animal is dead.’
The Master of the Horse knew as soon as the words were out that he had made a mistake. Rafiq’s expression froze. He seemed, to Stephanie, to grow at least six inches. Jasim’s knees bent, stopping just short of obeisance. ‘Do you recall,’ Rafiq said, in a soft, icy voice that made the hairs on Stephanie’s arms stand on end, ‘the conversation we had before you left the palace on business?’
‘Yes, Highness,’ Jasim replied, his voice no more than a whisper.
‘I informed you that Miss Darvill had complete authority in all matters pertaining to the sickness, did I not?’
‘Yes, Highness.’
‘And that as my Royal Horse Surgeon, she has the right, in such matters, to expect your full and unquestioning co-operation?’ Rafiq said, his tone as sharp now as the glittering blade of the scimitar he wore at his waist, making Jasim flinch, as if he had been stabbed. ‘If I hear that you have questioned her instructions again, you will face the consequences. Do you understand me, Jasim?’
‘Highness.’
‘Then what are you waiting for? Take us to see the mare.’
‘Highness.’ Stephanie’s voice startled them both. ‘I think it would be best if I—there is no need for you to be present, Your Highness.’
She had spoken in Arabic, having no desire to set Jasim further against her by imagining her plotting with his master, but she begged him with her eyes. Rafiq hesitated for a long moment. ‘I sincerely hope you know what you are doing,’ he said in English, before heading out of the courtyard and into the palace.
Turning, Stephanie caught Jasim unawares. His expression was venomous, which was no surprise, but it was the fact that he made no attempt to disguise it that made her heart sink. No point in countering his animosity with flattery, a technique she had used effectively in the past. This man, whom she had never even met before, was already her sworn enemy, and she had better not forget it.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she demanded curtly, deliberately using Rafiq’s words. ‘I want to see Anadil, and I want to know exactly what happened. To have developed the symptoms and deteriorated so badly in the few hours of my absence is contrary to all previous patterns of this sickness.’
* * *
The reason for Anadil’s premature demise was clear the moment Stephanie walked into the loose box, though she could see that Fadil was doing his best to clear up the evidence. ‘On whose orders was this horse bled?’ she demanded.
‘Mine.’ Jasim stared at her boldly, with not a trace of repentance. ‘I returned to find the mare gravely ill. You were not here, and so I acted. In all conscience, I could not stand by and do nothing.’
‘By doing nothing, we saved Batal. Had I been consulted, doing nothing would have been what I would have instructed.’ Stephanie glanced at Fadil, but the Head Groom merely shrugged apologetically and continued with his work. Fadil, and every other man in the stables, knew that Batal had survived because he had neither been bled nor subjected to any other treatment. He must have told Jasim so, and yet Jasim had gone his own way regardless.
‘What else did you submit this poor animal to?’ Stephanie demanded.
‘Since we have not yet found an effective combination of treatments, I tried a new variation,’ Jasim replied.
He addressed this remark, as he had addressed his previous ones, to a point over her shoulder. Stephanie was torn. Anadil was beyond suffering, what was the point in torturing herself with the knowledge of what she had endured, especially when her examination would serve to antagonise the man responsible? But even as she hesitated, she heard Papa’s voice. She must see for herself the effects of this sickness, and try to find something, anything, which would help her with the next case.
She asked Fadil to provide her with a bucket of warm water and a bar of strong soap. Having done so, the Head Groom left, looking visibly relieved to make his escape from the tension in the stall.
Stephanie rolled up the sleeves of her tunic, and prepared to discover for herself what had transpired. She took her time, conscious of Jasim’s malevolent presence attending her every move, and the flitting, curious stares of various of the other stable hands passing the open doorway. When she was done, she made a point of closing the door to the loose box.
‘You were made aware that Batal survived the sickness?’ she asked, leaning against the door, feeling distinctly like a boxer preparing to enter the ring.
‘A mule. Hardly of any consequence, or indeed relevance. It may not even have been the same illness.’
Stephanie’s hackles rose, but she spoke carefully. Jasim was one of those men who habitually riled in order to gain an advantage. ‘There was no doubt. Prince Rafiq will confirm that.’
‘Prince Rafiq is a man at the end of his tether. That is why he has been forced to resort to appointing...’
He did not finish his sentence, but the gesture he made left her in no doubt. Stephanie slowly unrolled her sleeves
. She took her time gathering up her instruments from the bucket of water in which they had been steeping. Only when Jasim turned his back, making for the door, did she speak. ‘I have some questions I would like answered, before you go.’ He ignored her, his hand reaching for the latch. ‘Very well. I will ask Fadil instead,’ she said.
‘Fadil takes his orders from me.’
‘And Prince Rafiq has made it plain that regarding the sickness, you take your orders from me.’ Stephanie pulled herself up to her full height, which still, infuriatingly, required her to look up. ‘Let me speak plainly, Jasim, while there is no one else present. I will not step on your toes if you do not step on mine. I will not interfere with your running of the stables unnecessarily, but I will not tolerate you interfering with my tending to the Prince’s sick animals. Ultimately, we are working to the same goal. If I cannot cure this sickness, your horses will not race in the Sabr.’
She refrained from pointing out that she was here because Jasim himself had been unable to effect a cure, but she could see he was thinking it, and that it pained him greatly. ‘I understand how difficult this must be for you, but this sickness, it is something quite new. You must not blame yourself.’
She had made a tactical error by letting her compassion show. It had also been a mistake to assume that he was merely pained by his failure. Jasim spat on to the straw at her feet. ‘How dare you presume to know anything of me? You, a woman, whose very presence in these stables is an insult. How dare you tell me how to treat a horse when you, the Royal Horse Surgeon, were not even present when the sickness first struck Anadil?’
Stephanie caught herself as her head almost dropped at this barb. ‘No, I wasn’t,’ she said so vehemently that Jasim took an automatic step backwards. ‘But it takes many hours for the sickness to kill. My instructions were very clear. If there was any sign, I was to be summoned immediately.’
‘Those orders were followed.’
‘To the letter? I don’t think so. How long did you wait, Jasim? I have a good idea, for I can see how many remedies you tried on that poor creature. I did not neglect my duties, you did. If I had been here then at the very least I would have prevented Anadil from suffering. If you had summoned me straight away, she may still be alive.’
The Harlot and the Sheikh Page 11
