Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye
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to her rang in her ears, reinforcing her determination to live up to those expectations and by doing so repair some of the heartache she had caused. She was here now. It was up to her to grasp the opportunity and make of it what she could.
* * *
In the central courtyard, Stephanie’s escort handed her over to another intimidating official after a prolonged and, as far as she could discern, acrimonious dispute. There was much gesticulating, many pointed looks in her direction, and several minions sent scurrying. As this new official finally made her a formal bow, he eyed her from below beetled brows as if she might at any moment metamorphose into a brigand, or perhaps explode like a cannonball.
It was growing dark as she followed the man across the now deserted courtyard, the servants, the official who had escorted her here, the camels and mules bearing her luggage having all melted away in the gloom. A hazy half-moon swathed in thin cloud hung in the sky as she followed the official through a door at the far side.
Long narrow corridors with marble floors, tiled walls, their double-height ceilings supported with soaring arches, were lit at regular intervals by flickering sconces. Guards stood impassively at each door, their short-sleeved black abba cloaks worn over white dishdasha tunics doing nothing to disguise their muscular bulk. On their heads chequered red keffiyeh headdresses were held in place with an igal formed by a twisted black scarf. A lethal-looking scimitar hung from one side of a belt, from the other a khamjar, or dagger, the sheath emphasising its vicious curve. As the official passed, each guard solemnly bowed his head. As Stephanie trailed in his wake, she could sense their eyes boring into her back. By the time she arrived at a huge set of doors, she was out of breath and bristling with nervous anticipation.
Two particularly menacing guards manned this portal. Her escort announced her in a tone that clearly indicated his desire to wash his hands of her. ‘Most Royal Highness, Prince Rafiq al-Antarah of Bharym, I present to you, the English Woman.’
A small but determined shove to the small of her back propelled Stephanie from the spot where she had temporarily taken root, forcing her to step into the magnificent chamber with its high vaulted ceiling. Quite overawed, she gazed around her at the dark marble pillars veined with gold. More gold was evident in the richly painted friezes and cornicing. The tiles on the high walls dazzled with multi-hued jewel colours. The stained glass reflected the light from the star-shaped chandeliers. Rich silk rugs covered the massive floor, and heavy embroidered brocade drapes fell in lustrous folds from the only piece of furniture in the room. A gilded throne. On which, imperiously, sat the Prince.
The doors behind her closed with a soft click. Glancing back over her shoulder, Stephanie discovered that she was quite alone with the royal personage. She had no idea what to do. Should she approach him? She took a tentative step. Curtsy? She hesitated. Or would he expect her to fall to the floor in obeisance? Completely unable to decide, she was still poised to perform any or all of these acts when the Prince rose from the throne, and she froze.
He was very tall. And extremely forbidding. And quite the most stunningly handsome man she had ever seen. Stephanie stared, round-eyed and open-mouthed. It was rude of her, and it was gauche, but she simply couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Prince Rafiq was dressed from head to foot in white and gold. A white silk tunic high at the neck and tight at the sleeves, clung to a well-muscled body, long legs, a broad expanse of chest and wide shoulders. The heavy belt slung over his slim hips was studded with precious stones. The sheath of his scimitar was similarly jewelled. The thin cloak which covered his tunic seemed to be spun from silver and scattered with tiny diamonds. His keffiyeh, made of the same material, was held in place with what looked like rope woven from gold.
But it was the face framed by the headdress which held Stephanie’s attention. She had encountered some handsome men in her time, but this man could have served as a model for perfection. Skin the colour of sand in shadow. Sculpted cheeks, a nose verging on the aquiline, offset by a mouth that managed to be at the same time both utterly sensual and completely unforgiving. Under his high-arched brows, his eyes were such a dark brown shade as to be almost black. She could not see his hair, but she was willing to bet that it was the colour of night. A fallen angel steeped in sin. She had no idea where that fanciful notion came from, but sinful in every way exactly described this man.
And sinful in every way exactly described her thoughts. For goodness sake! She of all people should be wary of harbouring such dangerous notions. It was not the Prince’s handsome looks which should be occupying her mind. Though his lids might be heavy, his gaze seemingly merely languidly contemplative, his expression almost one of dignified lassitude, Stephanie was not deceived. Here was a man so accustomed to power he needed no ostentatious demonstration of it. Prince Rafiq could be wearing tattered rags, and still she would have been in no doubt of his status. It was in his eyes. Not arrogance but a sense of assurance, of entitlement, a confidence that he was master of all he surveyed. And it was there in his stance too, in the set of his shoulders, the powerful lines of his physique. Belatedly garnering the power to move, Stephanie dropped into a deep curtsy.
‘Arise.’
She did as he asked, acutely conscious of her dishevelled appearance, dusty clothes, and a face most likely liberally speckled with sand. Those hooded eyes travelled over her person, surveying her from head to foot with the dispassionate, inscrutable expression she had seen the Duke of Wellington adopt when inspecting his troops. It was a look which could reduce the staunchest, most impeccably turned out of officers to blithering idiots.
‘Who are you, and why are you here?’ Prince Rafiq asked, when the silence had begun to stretch her nerves to breaking point. He spoke in English, softly accented but perfectly pronounced.
Distracted by the unsettling effect he was having on her while at the same time acutely aware of the need to impress him, Stephanie clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself to meet his eyes, answering in his own language. ‘I am here at your invitation, Your Highness.’
‘I issued no invitation to you, madam.’
‘Not as such, admittedly. Perhaps this will help clarify matters,’ Stephanie said, handing him her papers.
The Prince glanced at the document briefly. ‘This is a royal warrant, issued by myself to Richard Darvill, the renowned Veterinary Surgeon attached to the Seventh Hussars. How do you come to have it in your possession?’
Stephanie knitted her fingers more tightly together, as if doing so would stop her legs from trembling. ‘I am Stephanie Darvill, his daughter and assistant. My father was most concerned to read of the malaise which has afflicted your stud farm but he could not, in all conscience, abandon his regiment, with Napoleon on the loose and our army expected to go into battle at any moment.’ Which was the truth, though far from all of it.
‘And so he saw fit to send his daughter in his place?’
The Prince sounded almost as incredulous as she had been, when Papa suggested this as the perfect solution to her predicament. The enormity of the trust her father had placed in her struck her afresh. She would not let him down. Not again.
‘My father tutored me in the physiology of horses and the treatment of their various ailments,’ Stephanie said more confidently. ‘From a very early age, I have worked at his side, learning from him. In addition, for the past year I have been working at one of England’s largest stud farms, located near Newmarket racecourse. So I do have relevant expertise, Your Highness, though I would never claim my father’s vast experience.’
‘Richard Darvill has the reputation of being the foremost equine expert in the world. His fame has spread even here, to Arabia.’
‘It is a fame well earned,’ Stephanie said proudly. ‘In fact, it would be no exaggeration to say that my father is something of a visionary. He has fought tirelessly over the years to bring the practice of veterinary medicine out of the dark ages, to persuade the army farriers to abandon their unnecessarily cruel and largely futile treatments. To introduce new methods, new ideas based on the principles of that radical surgeon, the great Mr John Hunter himself. My father—’
‘I am aware of your father’s