The Harlot and the Sheikh

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘There will be more crowds at each of the staging posts.’

  ‘Are you nervous?’

  He shook his head. ‘Our horses are already highly strung. It is better for them, and for me, if I remain calm.’

  ‘You’re going to win, Rafiq. I know you are.’

  He grinned. ‘Even though you’ve been at great pains to point out that I might not?’

  ‘Hush! Don’t let anyone hear you suggest such a thing. You’re going to win. I am certain of it.’

  His face became serious. ‘So am I.’ One of his team was calling to him. ‘The race is about to start. Tomorrow will be a day of celebration if we win, most likely a day of mourning if we lose, but whichever, I intend to absent myself as soon as I possibly can. We can celebrate or commiserate in our own way. Together. Alone. If you wish?’

  ‘Oh, I do wish, Rafiq, very much.’

  ‘Wish me something else, wish me luck.’

  She wanted to kiss him, but it was impossible. The eyes of everyone around them were watching. ‘You don’t need it, but good luck anyway. I will be waiting here at the finishing line tomorrow.’

  He pressed her hand, under cover of her cloak, then he left her. The crowd parted for him, cheering and shouting their support and encouragement. Fadil appeared at Stephanie’s side, guiding her over to the enclosure, to a privileged space where the starting line could be clearly viewed. A ladder was placed against the Sabr tower, and the crowd grew silent as they watched the man bearing the starting flag climb to the top, the tension sharp as a blade. On the starting line, twenty-five horses pranced and strained, their handlers keeping them on a tight rein, beside them stood the riders, waiting nervously.

  Rafiq was in the middle of the line, which was ordered according to the results of last year’s Sabr, with the outer positions given to the highest placed, the middle occupied by those who didn’t finish or didn’t run. The worst place to start because of all the jockeying for position, the bumping and boring, but Rafiq would claim no home advantage, as host. He fixed his headdress over his face as the starter reached the top of the tower. All eyes were on the flag raised high in the sky, Bharym’s royal insignia fluttering in the light breeze, and then the flag was dropped, the Sabr began, and the crowd erupted as the horses galloped into the desert a cloud of dust.

  * * *

  It would be at around ten hours before Rafiq completed his first lap of a hundred miles around the stamina-sapping desert course, all being well. Though most of the spectators had brought supplies and seemed set to settle down where they were for the duration, Stephanie rode back to the stables. It was unnaturally quiet, with only one guard on duty. She entered the little room which had become her office, opened her instrument case, closed it again. It was stiflingly hot today. The Sabr riders would need to have a care their horses didn’t overheat. The laps would have to be run at a measured pace.

  Quitting her office, Stephanie wandered aimlessly past the stalls, stopping to feed Sherifa some dates before heading back to the palace and the empty, unlocked harem. How long since she had discovered the source of the sickness? Seven, no, eight weeks. Eight weeks, since she had found that deserted courtyard and the stagnant fountain. Eight weeks since she and Rafiq had made love. Eight weeks since she had realised that she was in love with him.

  Tomorrow she and Rafiq would make love again. For the first time she would make love with the man she loved in the knowledge that she was in love. A love that must remain undeclared. The dull sensation which had been following her around all day began to crystallise into an inescapable conclusion.

  One she didn’t want to acknowledge. She wandered out to her courtyard, dipped her feet in the cool waters of the fountain. It really was stifling. She really didn’t want to face up to where her thoughts were taking her.

  But in the still of the late morning, in the still of the palace, it would not be ignored. Her work here in Bharym was done. These last four weeks, while Rafiq had been training, she had been waiting. As she carried out her diminishing duties, the time had lagged, stretched, stood still, yet all she could do was wait. Now the waiting was over. Tomorrow she and Rafiq would make love. And then she would leave.

  There it was, the image she didn’t want to conjure, Bharym and Rafiq disappearing into the distance as she rode away, heading back to England, to a future which should be bright and gleaming, but which had lost its lustre, for it was bereft of love. She could remain here another week, another month, another three, but to what purpose? Her work was done. Her future was hers to claim. And Rafiq’s own, very different future awaited him. A bright one free from guilt. Yes, there was satisfaction to be had in knowing she had helped him open the door to the possibility of happiness. A great deal of satisfaction. And there would be satisfaction too, in making the success of her own life she was determined to achieve, and in repaying Papa with his Royal Society paper on insect-borne infection. She would find contentment, once she had recovered from the heartache of leaving. But she had the long journey from Arabia to England in which to do that.

  The decision was made. The deed would be done. Telling herself firmly that there was no time to be wasted on tears or regrets now, Stephanie headed back out to the stables to begin preparations for her departure.

  * * *

  The first lap took just nine hours, the early pace fast. Rafiq made no bid for the lead, content merely to remain in the pack with the front runners. Ten of them were grouped together as they made the fifth change of horses at the starting line, the gathering gloom pierced by the hundreds of bonfires lit to keep the spectators warm. There were eight of them still together at the sixth and seventh changes. And then only four at the eighth and last. Lameh was as determined as ever to prevent Rafiq from leaping on to his back, but Rafiq was in no mood to tolerate the stallion’s customary defiance, and Lameh, for once, seemed to sense this, and was quickly brought to the bridle.

  Twenty-five miles, and three riders to beat, one of them sporting Prince Salim’s colours. Lameh was eager to pin his ears back and gallop flat-out, but Rafiq reined him in. This last leg was the hardest, rocky underfoot for the large part, with some steep climbs and treacherous descents before the home straight. On the first lap, several horses had fallen to their knees on those descents. Rafiq had no intentions of allowing Lameh to do so.

  ‘You must do this for your dam,’ he whispered to the stallion, ‘and I do this for her mistress.’ It was astonishing, now that he no longer needed to win, how confident he was about winning. There was still a great deal at stake, but it no longer felt like he was racing for his life. For Elmira. For his people. For his kingdom. But not for his life. That belonged to him.

  Eighteen hours into the race, every muscle and sinew ached but on he rode with grim determination. Two miles to go, the final and steepest descent safely accomplished, and there were only two of them left in contention, he and Salim’s man. ‘Let’s show them that Bharym breeds the best bar none,’ he said, crouching over the thoroughbred’s neck, urging Lameh into a final gallop.

  Though he had never doubted, his heart was pounding as the finishing line came into sight. Close behind him, he could hear the thundering hooves, the panting breath of his competitor, but Rafiq did not look over his shoulder. He was dimly aware of the crowds, the flags, the cheering as he raced by, but his entire being was focused on crossing that line first, on the trophy that he would claim for his people and for Elmira. As Lameh galloped across the line to record the narrowest of victories, Rafiq reined him in. As his entourage crowded around him and his subjects roared their approval, Rafiq saw her standing quietly by the enclosure, waiting for him, beaming, clapping. Stephanie. His own and very personal prize.

  * * *

  Rafiq was paraded in state on camel back, astride his father’s monstrous, throne-like saddle, all the way from the finishing post to the city, bearing the huge gold Sabr troph
y. His people were ecstatic. The festivities which his secretaries had planned so meticulously for just such an outcome would last for days, all across the kingdom.

  He stood on the podium which had been set up in the city square. There were a number of faces at the window of the royal viewing gallery. He knew one of them was Stephanie, but he could not make out which. He summoned Prince Salim on to the podium. He lifted the gold Sabr trophy high. ‘Today I raced in honour of your daughter, the Princess Elmira. It is appropriate therefore that I bequeath the trophy to you to keep in perpetuity. It is time to put the past behind us. Next year there will be a new Sabr, open to all horses of any breed. Fresh blood, my people. A fresh start for all of us.’

  * * *

  Stephanie decided to wear the pink gown for the first time, to mark her last night with Rafiq. It seemed appropriate somehow, as it was something the old Stephanie would never have dared wear. The bells tinkled on the matching pink slippers as she paced the terrace by the Pool of Nymphs, waiting for him. When she left the city, he was still being besieged by milling crowds. He had underestimated their enthusiasm and their desire to include him in their celebrations.

  The flambeaux were lit, and all the lanterns too. Finally her straining ears heard the sound of the connecting door from the Hall of Campaign being opened, and she made her way swiftly inside to await him. He would have crossed the poolside to the terrace, surprised not to find her there, as she had told him she would be. Then he would have noticed the open door to the library. And then the open door to the changing room. And finally the tepidarium. And now...

  The door of the Great Bathing Chamber opened and closed. The steam dispersed. ‘Stephanie?’

  He was wearing a white silk tunic. There were slippers on his feet. His hair was damp from his bath. He was freshly shaved. When he saw her waiting by the marble table, he smiled at her. His sinful smile. Her heart ached with the love for him she must keep hidden.

  ‘Stephanie.’

  No one would ever say her name in that way again. He swept her into his arms, and she let her kisses say the words she could not utter.

  ‘I am sorry I could not get here sooner.’

  ‘You are here now, that is all that matters.’

  More kisses. She wanted more kisses, and more kisses, and more. A lifetime’s store of kisses in one night. Tearing herself free, she began to unfasten the buttons on Rafiq’s top, kissing his throat, his chest. ‘Take it off,’ she said.

  He did as she asked, pulling the tunic over his head, the movement rippling through the toned muscles of his stomach, his shoulders, his arms. ‘Now you,’ he said.

  But Stephanie shook her head. ‘Not yet. First I want to thank you for all that you have given me, all that you have taught me.’

  His eyes gleamed. He kissed her hard on the mouth. ‘How do you plan to do that?’

  ‘Take off the rest of your clothes, and I will show you.’

  Another kiss. His hand on her breast. She was so desperate for him that she almost succumbed, but she could wait. She wanted this to be special. The gift of her love. Actions would speak louder than words. She disentangled herself, and undid the sash that held his trousers. They slid to the floor. He was already aroused. And so was she.

  ‘On the table,’ she said, kissing him. ‘On your back.’

  That slow growl of a laugh that made her shiver, and then he did as she bid him. She kicked off her slippers. His gaze was riveted on her. She undid the sash which held her robe in place, and let it fall to the ground. Next, the buttons, each one undone slowly and deliberately, and her robe joined the sash on the floor. Rafiq’s eyes were dark with desire. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

  Her camisole was pink silk. The steam was making it cling to her breasts. She peeled the garment from her body. Next her pantaloons. His face, his body, made it clear how much her actions aroused him. His response made her confident. Her body delighted Rafiq. Now she would show him how much his delighted her.

  She picked up the little vial of oil and stepped on to the table, kneeling between his legs. She leaned over him, allowing her nipples to brush his chest. The rough hair made them tingle. When she kissed him, his erection pressed into her belly. Their kiss was savage.

  She trickled the oil on to his chest. As she worked it in with smooth strokes of her palms, his muscles rippled, his breathing quickened, her own excitement mounted. Sweeping strokes with soothing oil. When she leaned over to kiss him again, their bodies slipped and slid together. She sat back. She worked her way down. His hard belly. A muscled flank. The other one. His eyes never leaving her. Colour slashing his cheeks. More oil on her hands, sliding them up the inside of his thighs, drawing a deep moan from him. Then more oil, and she cupped him carefully, tenderly, feeling him tighten, watching his member swell.

  And then more oil. ‘Let us test ourselves,’ she whispered, using his own words, smiling his sinful smile. She circled the silken length of him, stroking up to the tip slowly, feeling him pulse beneath her, relishing his groan, the way he bit his lip, the way his eyes were still fixed on her.

  Another slow stroke. And then another. And then his hand gripped her wrist. ‘Stephanie,’ he said hoarsely, ‘I think I might fail your test.’

  She shook her head, smiling, but she let him go. ‘Not a test, Rafiq. A new experience for both of us, something you once told me sounded tempting.’

  His eyes widened. His smile was positively wicked as she faced him, lying back on her hands, slipping her feet on to his shoulders. ‘Love’s Fusion, Stephanie?’

  ‘Love’s Fusion,’ she agreed. Love. Fusion. She couldn’t think of anything more apt.

  He lifted her on to him. She was so aroused that when he entered her, she could already feel the first tensing prelude of her climax. ‘Let us test ourselves,’ he said, holding her still.

  Stephanie tightened around him. ‘No. Let us forget ourselves.’

  They moved together, and Love’s Fusion drew Rafiq high inside her. She shuddered. Again, and she cried out. But Love’s Fusion did not allow her to kiss him. Love’s Fusion was delightful, but it was about pleasure, not love. Fusing.

  ‘Not this,’ she panted, sliding her legs down. ‘I want...’

  ‘Kisses,’ he said, pulling her on to his lap.

  ‘Kisses,’ Stephanie said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Love. Fusing. Lips and tongues and drugging kisses. Her breasts crushed against his chest. Rafiq inside her, around her, pulsing, pushing, thrusting, kissing, stroking, until her climax shook her, making her cry out, spiralling out of control, forgetting herself, barely noticing that he did not, lifting her free as his own release drew a harsh cry from him. A cry in the form of her name.

  * * *

  They lay on the table wrapped in each other’s arms for endless moments. Rafiq’s heart was pounding, yet he felt weightless, a mindless pleasure, a floating sense of peace suffused him, a feeling he could not put a name to. He was here, where he was meant to be.

  An odd thing to be thinking. It was most likely the result of the day. The culmination of so much. The Sabr was won. He had made his reparation. His people thought him a hero. And right now, he couldn’t care less about any of it. After the euphoria of crossing the finishing line, all he had cared about was finding Stephanie. And here she was, curled up in his arms smiling that smile of hers, and, yes, that’s exactly what he was feeling. He was here, where he was meant to be.

  He kissed her lingeringly. The perfumed oil was heady. It made their skin slick. Parts of them were melded together in a very delightful way. A fusion. Love’s Fusion. His heart lurched for no apparent reason. Stephanie’s smile was languorous. She looked now exactly as he had first imagined her, sated, her lips swollen with kisses, her eyes heavy with passion. He kissed her again.

  She sighed softly. ‘Rafiq? Surely you can�
��t...’

  He ran his hand down her side, to the sweet indent of her waist, then back up to the voluptuous curve of her breast. ‘Stephanie.’ She arched up as he grazed her nipple. His shaft, lying against the soft flesh of her outer thigh, stirred. ‘Stephanie,’ he said, ‘I think I can.’

  She laughed. A throaty sound that spoke of invitation and expectation. ‘Rafiq.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. ‘In that case, I can too.’

  * * *

  He woke in the cold light of dawn on the terrace, alone. The lamps were still lit in the library, but there was no sign of Stephanie. They had gone for a swim, and then they had sat together on the cushions wrapped in drying sheets watching the stars. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the exertions of the race had finally taken their toll. Or perhaps it was their intense and prolonged lovemaking.

  Rafiq pulled on a robe from the changing room and sat down in the library. Let us forget ourselves, she had said last night, and he so very nearly had. He had lost himself in her. Holding her, kissing her, touching her, it had felt as if their bodies were one. As he rocked them into a slow climax that second time, she had clung so tightly to him, he had pressed himself so tightly against her, they had been conjoined. Not Stephanie and Rafiq, but some new entity. When she came, when she called out his name, such a fierce need to spill himself inside her had gripped him as to almost overwhelm him. He had not, though it felt wrong, not right. And afterwards, holding her, his face burrowed in the nape of her neck, breathing in the scent of her, and of them, he had felt such a profound tenderness envelop him. He had wanted to hold her like that for ever. He hadn’t wanted to let her go.

  He would have no option but to let her go when her appointment was over. Three more months, and then there would be no Stephanie in his stables, no Stephanie in his palace, no Stephanie in his bed, no Stephanie in his life. The ground tilted. His heart lurched. But he had always known she would leave, that she would return to England to claim her precious independence, leaving him to—how had she put it?—grasp his own future. Which he could do now—thanks not to winning the Sabr, but thanks to Stephanie.