Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye
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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.
She loved him so much, and it was so very different from the last time as to be futile to attempt a comparison. It was Rafiq’s absurdly handsome face that had attracted her, but it was the man she had fallen in love with. She loved him because he respected her, and because despite the fact that he was a prince, he tried to treat her as an equal. He did not shy away from pointing out her faults, but he never failed to recognise her achievements. She loved him because he listened to her, and because he understood what she meant, even when it wasn’t what she actually said. She loved him because he wasn’t just playing the Prince, but because he was a prince in the true sense of the word, an honourable man who wanted what was best for his people. She loved him because he put those people first, even when his instincts were to act otherwise. And she loved him for the way he agonised over that fateful choice, even though his agonising pained her.
This morning had been magical. It had been magical, because she was in love. The fierce attraction which had drawn them together from the moment they met might be nothing more than that for Rafiq, but for Stephanie—oh, what a fool she was not to have noticed the way it had subtly changed, from physical experimentation, to powerful mutual pleasure, to a communion of their bodies, to an expression of her love. Because that’s what it had been this morning.
Thank goodness Rafiq had not guessed. She would have to make very sure that he continued oblivious, because love didn’t change a single thing between them. She wasn’t that much of an idiot. Pushing herself upright, she shook her feet dry. She was a silly fool, but no one need ever know. In a few months’ time she would return to England and get on with her new life.
Beneath her bandage, the insect bite itched. Stephanie stopped short in the act of scratching it. She had found the cause of the sickness. The terms of her appointment were for six months, but she had found a cure. The cure was prevention. Her work here was, in theory, over.
Her stomach lurched. It was too soon. Far too soon. She was not ready to return to England yet. Besides, there was still work to do. Until it was done, she refused to think about it.
‘What happened?’
Stephanie quickly scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Rafiq. I’m so sorry.’
‘Sherifa.’
He stood transfixed. The mare was still on her feet, but only just. Her beautiful glossy grey coat was matted with sweat. Her flanks were quivering, her nose was streaming, and her cough had that unmistakable harsh, hacking sound. ‘It started about four hours ago,’ Stephanie said. ‘I’ve been with her ever since. I sent for you immediately, but...’
‘I was otherwise engaged. How bad is it?’
‘Bad,’ Stephanie said, unable to prevent her voice from wobbling. ‘We have to keep her standing. I have been trying to keep her cool, keep her nose clear, but her heart is racing, and she is struggling to breathe. It is—it is bad, Rafiq. I am so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault. Your theory—It was always—Well, now we have the proof, unfortunately, that you must have been wrong.’
‘No.’ She mustn’t cry. She mustn’t wallow in self-pity. ‘I’m afraid that Sherifa is proof that my theory was sound. You see, I—When I went out to the stallions’ oasis, I...’ She caught herself on a sob. ‘I took Sherifa, Rafiq. I rode Sherifa out to the oasis. I didn’t take her into the paddock, I left her tethered outside, but she was there. And those biting flies—when I was collecting samples, it is mostly likely that one of them landed on me, then transferred to Sherifa and—and you see there is no other explanation. It was six days ago, well within the boundaries of the usual incubation period. Sherifa is my proof, and if she