‘Rafiq,’ Stephanie said urgently, ‘truly, you don’t need to take such drastic action on my behalf.’
‘I am taking action on my own behalf. Long-overdue action. Now, I had not finished breakfast. You will come back to the palace and share a cup of coffee with me.’
‘But...’
‘Stephanie, the entire stables are watching us.’ Rafiq detached her hand from his. ‘You are now in sole charge,’ he said to Fadil. ‘Miss Darvill?’
* * *
‘Coffee?’ Without waiting for an answer, Rafiq poured Stephanie a cup from the silver pot. It was a fresh pot, he noticed, though he had not ordered one. Which of his servants had observed their return? Which had anticipated that he would return here, to the Courtyard of the Fountain? And who had known to place two cups on the tray where there had been only one before? He took such things for granted. He had only recently started to notice them, truth be told. Stephanie again.
He handed her the coffee, stirring in the sugar which she preferred, and which he loathed. It had not been on the tray earlier, either. ‘You asked me once if I had a team of servants dedicated to the lighting and dousing of lamps in the palace.’
She smiled faintly. ‘You couldn’t answer me.’
‘I enquired. It seems I do.’
She put her coffee down on the table under the lemon tree untouched. ‘Rafiq, you can’t put victory in the Sabr at risk. Jasim is the best trainer in Arabia, there is no doubt of that. Much as it goes against the grain to defend him—you simply can’t sack him.’
‘It is already done, Stephanie.’
‘This is my fault,’ she said wretchedly, wringing her hands. ‘I should have informed you that there was likely to be an issue, but you have been so busy. I thought that he would see reason, I didn’t think for a moment he would simply go ahead and order...’ She shuddered. ‘That man. That gun. If I had not been there...’
She was pacing by the fountain. She had lost the scarf which bound her hair back in her scuffle with the stable hand. Her tunic was blue stripes today, the one that reminded him of a blending of the Arabian sea and sky. A week since they had returned from the horse fair, and their glorious morning in the tent. He had missed her terribly.
‘Stephanie, come, sit, drink your coffee.’
She sank on to the cushions under the lemon tree beside him. Her hands were shaking as she picked up the delicate little cup. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. ‘You can surely find some other way to discipline him,’ she said, setting her cup back down. ‘You can’t risk the Sabr, Rafiq, not now.’
He emptied the dregs of her coffee, refilled the cup and stirred in another spoonful of sugar. She was right, it was a risk, but he could not regret it. He felt—lighter? Yes, he felt lighter. ‘I should have rid myself of the man long ago,’ he said. ‘I knew he would never tolerate you. There is a pattern, after all. If I had acted the first time...’
He took a sip of his own coffee and set his cup down with a weary sigh. ‘As you pointed out yourself, he should have realised that we are all on the same side. But he never would acknowledge that. I should have known better. It makes me wonder—but that is pointless.’
‘Do you mean Elmira?’ Stephanie asked softly.
Rafiq closed his eyes, leaning back against the trunk of the lemon tree. ‘Interfering in the smooth running of the stables, that was what he told me she was doing. Then it was undermining it. And finally it progressed to contaminating it. I didn’t question him. Now I’ll never know.’
‘Could you—do you want to tell me about it, Rafiq?’
‘No, Stephanie, I don’t. Suffice it to say that I am relieved to be rid of the man.’
She smiled at him, and he felt the tension in his shoulders ease, at the same time as her smile set off a different kind of tension. He took her hand, kissing her palm.
She curled her fingers around his, and settled down by his side, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘How is your own training progressing?’
He laughed sardonically. ‘Painfully. The running changeovers from horse to horse are the most technically difficult element. I seem to spend the greater part of the day sprawled on the ground.’
‘Poor Rafiq. Are you terribly bruised?’
‘Very.’ Her hair tickled his chin. He slid his arm around her waist.
She lifted her head. ‘Would you like me to kiss it better?’
‘Yes.’ He gazed into her big brown eyes. ‘Oh, yes.’
She kissed him gently on the lips. ‘Where is it painful, Rafiq?’
‘Here,’ he said, kissing her again, more deeply. ‘Definitely here.’ She tasted so sweet. He could drown in her kisses. He had been longing for those kisses all week. He ran his fingers through her hair, kissing her eyelids, her salty, tear-stained cheeks, then her mouth again, laying her gently down on the cushions, kissing her again and again. ‘I can never have enough of your kisses,’ he murmured. ‘Never.’
Her fingers were tangling in his hair. ‘Where else, Rafiq? Where else do you hurt?’
‘Here,’ he said, pulling his tunic over his head to bare the bruises on his chest, pulling Stephanie on top of him.
‘Oh, poor you.’ She kissed him softly, her hands fluttering over the purple-and-yellow bruises. ‘Poor you.’ More kisses. Her tongue licking over his nipple. His chest was heaving. He was achingly hard. Her touch was soothing and arousing at the same time. More kisses, tracing the curve of his ribcage. Her tongue dipping into his navel. She was setting him on fire. ‘Better?’
‘Not yet.’ He pulled her tunic over her head. Beneath the filmy fabric of her camisole, her nipples were alluring circles. He stroked them, feeling her shudder on top of him. When their lips met again, their kisses were deep, slow, drugging.
On and on and on their kisses went. She was lying on her side. He untied the sash of her pantaloons and slipped his hand inside her. She moaned. He ached for her. When she fumbled with his belt, he yanked it open. Pantaloons and trousers were discarded.
‘I want you so much. So much.’ Was that his voice?
More kisses. She was so hot and wet and tight. More kisses. ‘I want you more than words,’ she said in that husky voice that gave him goose bumps.
He lifted her to straddle him. He slid into her so sweetly that he thought he would come instantly. ‘Wait. Wait.’ Deep breaths. But the sight of her on top of him was too much. ‘Stephanie.’
He pushed himself deeper inside her wet, tight, heat. She moaned. He lifted her. She needed little encouragement. Moving on top of him. The frisson of her clinging withdrawal, the tightening when she sank on to him, drawing him inside her, arching her back, making him gasp at what it did to him.
She rode him, faster, held him tighter, until the first ripple of her climax set him over the edge, and with a hoarse cry he lifted her free just in time, and spent himself, pulsing, shuddering, shaken.
Afterwards, he reached for her blindly, pulling her close. He could feel her breathing slowing with his own. Only then did he realise how near he had been to losing control completely. What was he doing? What was he thinking?
Rafiq rolled himself free. He picked up his tunic and pulled it over his head. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t risk looking at her. ‘I’d better get out to the training grounds,’ he said more brusquely than he meant.
‘Yes, of course.’ He could hear the rustle of her clothing as she dressed.
‘Rafiq?’
He turned reluctantly.
‘Thank you,’ Stephanie said. ‘For trusting me. For taking my side again.’
Her lips were swollen with their kisses. He curled his toes inside his riding boots, as if that would stop him crossing the courtyard to wrap her in his arms. ‘Jasim gave me no option,’ he said.
Her smile became brittle. ‘Go and practise, you have
a race to win.’
* * *
Stephanie tried to go about her business. She thanked Fadil for his courage and support, and discovered to her surprise that with a few notable exceptions, the stable hands were actually relieved by Jasim’s dismissal. Their trust in Rafiq’s ability to win the Sabr for them with or without Jasim was unquestioning.
She was restless. Her emotions were simmering just below the surface, waiting to erupt. She kept a lid on them by keeping busy. She had no right to be upset by Rafiq’s abrupt departure. She would be a fool to read too much into their lovemaking. Simply because it hadn’t been planned, because there had been no pretence that this was another experiment in pleasure, did not mean that it was profoundly different.
Unable to find anything in the stable to occupy her, she wandered through the cool of the palace in the heat of the afternoon, using the map which Rafiq had had drawn up for her. So many rooms, some guarded, others not. So many confusingly similar names. The Courtyard of the Princes, for example, which was a simple space containing a plain fountain and nothing else. The Princes’ Courtyard, on the other hand, was like the harem, an enclosed suite of rooms which, Aida informed her, had in the distant past been the domain of the unfortunate sons of the reigning Prince’s concubines. Here, the poor boys were confined for the duration of their lives, for it was thought too dangerous to allow them to leave the palace, lest they attempt to usurp their father. So legend had it, Aida had said.
Though she tried to hide it, Aida resented the removal of the harem’s lock and sentry. In Princess Elmira’s day, it would have been unthinkable to expose the future mother of the royal family to the risk of intruders. When Stephanie pointed out that any intruder would first have to pass through the fortress-like walls of the palace, Aida stubbornly refused to accept that it made any difference. The harem was a secure place. She never could understand why Princess Elmira wished to spent so much time at the stables. Though towards the end, the Princess had embraced the sanctuary of the harem as a princess ought.
Stephanie pushed open the door of what, according to her plan, was the Royal Banqueting Hall, only to find herself in yet another courtyard. This one looked abandoned. The water in the fountain was foul and stagnant. Weeds grew up through the cracks in the mosaic floor. The avocado tree had grown so tall that it reached over the courtyard wall. Withered green fruit and brown pits were strewn around its circumference.
Elmira, the Bedouin nomad, had learned to love the harem, according to Aida. Stephanie wasn’t convinced. She had heard some of the mystique of the Bedouin for herself at the horse fair. They considered themselves the aristocracy of the desert. Like Rafiq’s horses, the ancestry of each tribe could be traced back to a single person. As Rafiq had told her, they had a strict and unique code of conduct, and they prided themselves on being answerable to no one, though willing to co-operate with all, on their own terms. The desert was the Bedouin’s heart and soul, freedom to roam the desert defined him. Elmira was a true blue-blooded Bedouin. How could such a woman readily endure the confines of the harem?
Stephanie perched gingerly on the edge of the mossy fountain. The surface of the fetid water was alive with strange little swimming insects.
‘She paid the price for contaminating the stables,’ Jasim had said.
But this morning, Rafiq had been unquestionably on Stephanie’s side. Or had he simply been acting to protect his authority? ‘I should have rid myself of the man long ago,’ he had said. ‘There is a pattern, after all. If I had acted the first time...’
What price had Elmira been forced to pay? And what crime had she committed that required a price be paid?
Stephanie slapped at one of the swimming insects, which landed on her arm. Its long proboscis had pierced her skin, drawing blood. The bite was already swelling up into a hard lump. She stood up, thinking that she had better find her medical chest and get some ointment, when something else Rafiq had said popped into her head. Something about biting insects and water.
‘The stallions’ oasis!’ Forgetting all about treating her bite, Stephanie ran for the stables.
* * *
‘Are you sure?’ Rafiq looked quite incredulous.
‘I know it’s difficult to believe, but it’s the only explanation,’ Stephanie said.
‘Biting insects, who hitch a ride in my stallions’ manes for the whole journey between the oasis and the stables, and who then leap from the stallion on to the mare which it is covering.’
‘That’s it exactly.’
‘It’s—unbelievable.’
‘Yes, but, Rafiq, nature...’
He held up his hand. ‘I know how wonderful nature is, and how ignorant we are of it. How can you be sure? Why don’t the insects bite more of my stallions?’
‘I think they probably do, but you see, your stallions are accustomed to them.’
‘Accustomed?’
‘Immune. In the way that milkmaids are immune to smallpox, because they are regularly exposed to cowpox and somehow this allows their bodies to resist the effects. You see...’ She launched into an explanation that was far-reaching and all-encompassing. Rafiq, seated behind a large desk on the first proper chair Stephanie had seen since arriving in Arabia, listened attentively. ‘But ultimately,’ she concluded, ‘I can’t prove it, without forcing one of the insects to bite one of your mares, or a mule, and even in the name of science, I couldn’t bring myself to do that.’
‘So what do you propose we do?’
She smiled at him. He smiled back. He was still dressed in the clothes he wore to the training ground. His white shirt was dusty, open at the throat to reveal a smattering of hair. His chin had the bluish shadow of the day’s growth. This morning, when he kissed her, he had been freshly shaven. His tunic had smelled of lemons.
‘I am asking my Royal Horse Surgeon a question.’
She got the message. ‘The insects thrive in stagnant water,’ Stephanie said briskly. ‘I found the larvae in several pools at the stallions’ enclosure. They do not seem to like the fresh water of the oasis itself. I suggest that we have the pools cleaned and drained, all traces of the larvae removed, and that we continue in the meantime to keep the stallions separate. Now, if that is all...’
‘Stephanie.’
‘There is something else?’
He got up from his chair and crossed the room towards her. ‘If you are correct, you might have stumbled on a significant scientific breakthrough.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it in those terms.’
‘Then you should. You should write it up in a paper. Present it to the Royal Society in London, which is so famous.’
‘I don’t think that Sir Joseph Banks—he is the President—I don’t think he’d accept a paper from a woman.’
‘Not even a woman of genius?’
She wished he wouldn’t smile at her like that. She wished she could remember that he was a prince. ‘I’m not a genius. It was simply a matter of observation and deduction.’
‘As modest as ever, Stephanie. I think you are a genius. Congratulations. And thank you. I owe you a great deal.’
‘You owe me nothing but the recompense you promised me, Rafiq.’
He grimaced, taking her reminder to herself as a reprimand directed at him. ‘Forgive me. I find it increasingly difficult to remember—to distinguish between my Royal Horse Surgeon and Stephanie. If I appear—after this morning, you understand, I am merely attempting to remind myself of the rules of engagement.’
‘There is no need to concern yourself, Rafiq. I am perfectly well aware of the rules, nor am I under any illusions. No one cares if a man goes to his marriage bed innocent, but every man wants to wed a virgin, and for a prince it is a necessity. You could not marry me even had I a pedigree to rival one of your thoroughbreds. Not even if you fell wildly, passionately in love with me.’
>
‘Stephanie...’
She blushed violently. ‘Not that I am suggesting for a moment that my thoughts have inclined in such a direction. Either direction. Any direction. I merely wished to reassure you that they had not.’
‘Stephanie...’
‘Excuse me. If you accept my strategy, I have a huge amount of work to organise.’
She fled, slamming the door behind her and running, careless of her destination, along a maze of corridors. Finally, panting, she found herself in the Hall of Campaign, and headed for the Pool of Nymphs. Tempting as it was to throw herself in, she had never been a fan of histrionics, so contented herself with rolling up her pantaloons and dipping her feet and her hands in the cooling water. The bite which was the inspiration for her breakthrough throbbed beneath the dressing which covered it. She would put more ointment on it tonight. Perhaps she ought to capture it on paper, like—like Archimedes’ bath. If she could draw. Which she couldn’t. No, what she would do instead was draft a paper for Papa to present to the Royal Society. Papa would be wildly proud of her discovery, and he would need some persuading to present her work as his own, but when he realised that if he did not it would not see the light of day—yes, he would do it, and that would be her gift to him to make up for all the pain her downfall had caused him.
This very satisfying idea distracted her for a few moments, and her plans for the morning distracted her for a few moments more. She must make a list of all that was to be done to make the stallions’ paddock safe, and then...
A dry sob seized her. Stephanie dropped her head on to her hands. What a fool she was! The unavoidable truth which she had been steadfastly refusing to face all day could no longer be denied. Despite every check and balance she had put in place, she had fallen in love with Rafiq. What an absolute fool she was.
Leaning back on the tiles, Stephanie gazed up at the desert sky. The sun had set, but the moon had not yet made an appearance. The air felt sultry, as if it might be contemplating rain. It had not rained since she arrived here more than six weeks ago. And she was procrastinating.
The Harlot and the Sheikh Page 18
