Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye
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‘My misfortune is entirely of my own making, Miss Darvill.’ She frowned at the bleakness evident in his tone, and Rafiq, knowing enough of her already to guess that she would pursue the matter, unaware or careless of the fact that to do so amounted to gross impertinence, forestalled her. ‘What matters is not how this plague came to visit the Bharym stud, but whether you can put an end to it.’
Most men would furnish him with a blustering affirmative. No man would dare reply in the negative. Stephanie Darvill was silent for a long time, biting her lip, when she eventually spoke, choosing her words with care. ‘I can promise that I will do my utmost to save your horses, but I can offer no absolute guarantees that I will be able to do so. Perhaps that is not the wisest response to your question,’ she added with a grimace, ‘but it is the most honest one I can give you.’
She could not have given him a better one. Rafiq permitted himself a small smile. ‘Your honesty is refreshing, and strangely reassuring. I am surrounded by people who tell me what they think I want to hear, rather than what I need to know.’
‘Does that mean you will permit me to examine your horses?’
Her eagerness was touching. ‘None of my bloodstock is at present infected by this plague. The affliction takes hold suddenly and violently. We lost Inas, a four-year-old mare, two weeks ago. Since then there has not been another occurrence, but that has been the pattern. I don’t doubt there will be another, and another, in due course. Tomorrow I will introduce you to my Master of the Horse.’ Rafiq paused, wincing at the thought. If only there was a convenient way of removing Jasim temporarily from the stables.
Once again, he was getting ahead of himself. Jasim was a problem only if he decided to appoint the intriguing Miss Darvill. ‘We will talk more when you join me for dinner. You have endured a long and gruelling journey and will no doubt wish to bathe and refresh yourself first.’
His invitation clearly startled her. ‘Join you? But I have not the correct attire. I thought—that is I did not expect...’
‘Any expectations I had flew out of the window, Miss Darvill, when you walked into this Royal Receiving Room,’ Rafiq said ruefully, taking her hand between his. ‘Your arrival here in Bharym has been most unexpected. I hope it will also prove most effective.’ A thick hank of hair had fallen over her forehead, partly obscuring one of her eyes. For some reason, it increased her sultry air. His fingers tightened on hers. ‘Welcome to Bharym, Miss Darvill.’
He lifted her hand to his mouth, meaning to brush only a courteous kiss to her fingertips, but as his lips touched her skin, a bolt of desire shot through him, turning the gesture from one of polite courtesy to an overture he should not be making. She gave a little gasp. He had a glimpse of the heat he felt reflected in her eyes before she snatched her hand away, and he wondered if he had imagined it.
‘I will have you escorted to the harem,’ Rafiq said. ‘Lest there be any misunderstandings,’ he could not resist adding, ‘my harem functions only as the quarters of the palace set aside for the female servants. I am sorry to disappoint you, but it contains not a single concubine. You will be the only other occupant.’
After following another servant through a different maze of corridors, Stephanie came to a halt outside a door guarded by a veritable giant of a man. A grille slid briefly open. The door swung inwards. The servant made his bow and ushered her in, where a genteel-looking older woman stood, obviously awaiting her arrival. ‘I am reliably informed that you speak our language, madam?’ she said after they had exchanged a formal greeting. ‘My name is Aida, Mistress of the Harem. You will be so good as to follow me.’
She led the way into a huge terraced courtyard, the centre of which was open to the dusky desert sky. The floor was cool tiles studded with mosaic. A fountain tinkled, but Stephanie barely had time to register any of this before she was whisked off to the far corner. ‘Your quarters, madam. I hope they meet with your approval.’
‘Oh, my goodness.’ Stephanie stared in wonder at the luxuriously appointed chamber. Somewhere between leaving the dhow this morning and the long, arduous trek through the desert, she seemed to have left reality behind and stepped into a dream world.
‘There is a sitting room and dining salon across on the other side of the courtyard,’ Aida informed her. ‘I have taken the liberty of pouring you a refreshing cold drink. If madam would excuse me, I will ensure that the bath is made ready.’
‘Thank you.’ Stephanie picked up the tall frosted glass. The drink was both sharp and sweet, delicately scented with rosewater.
A high divan bed dominated the room, a homage to opulence. She had never seen anything so sumptuous. She trailed her fingers through the layers of voile hangings, stroking the silk covers, lifting a soft velvet cushion to her cheek. The tassels tickled her chin.
She was in a royal harem. In a royal palace. Belonging to a royal prince. Who happened to be the most handsome man she had ever met. Yet his harem was conspicuously bereft of concubines and wives. Had she misheard him or misunderstood him? Prince Rafiq must be around thirty, maybe a year or so older at most. Surely it was expected of him that he marry, if only for the sake of an heir? Royal families, whether Arabian or British, were not so very different in that respect.
Stephanie refilled her glass and perched on the edge of the divan. Prince Rafiq’s marital status was not any of her concern, of course. Nor indeed, was the fact that when he had kissed her hand she had felt the most delicious frisson, had been so certain, for just a fleeting moment, that he felt it too. It was quite ridiculous to imagine that a man as attractive as the Prince could find her desirable. And even if he did, she wasn’t going to be so stupid as to reciprocate his interest in her. She had sworn to learn from her mistake. This was the perfect opportunity to prove that she had!
Stephanie gave herself a shake. This room might look fit for a princess, but she was not here to lounge about dressed in silks and eating sweetmeats, she was here to try to cure the terrible sickness with ailed Prince Rafiq’s Arabian thoroughbreds. A misfortune entirely of his own making, he had said, which was odd. How could he imagine that it was his fault? He did not strike her as a superstitious man. He had not summoned a soothsayer to his aid, but a man of science. ‘And what landed on his doorstep instead was a mere woman of science,’ Stephanie muttered to herself, ‘who is likely going to have to work magic of some form, if she is to succeed in finding a cure.’
The butterflies in her tummy, which had never quite stopped fluttering since her arrival here, started up again in earnest. She so desperately wanted to succeed. So much depended upon it. She would no longer be a lost cause. She would have the means to support herself, and if she succeeded, the prestige of this appointment would surely outweigh the scandal which, despite a year spent in what amounted to hiding, still clung tenaciously to her like a noxious smell. Papa would never have urged her to come here had he thought her skills inadequate to the challenge, she reminded herself. He most certainly would not wish to do further damage to her already dented confidence by setting her up to fail. So she had better get on with it, starting with making sure she wasn’t late for her dinner appointment with the Prince.
Opening the trunk which contained her clothes, and which had been deposited at the bottom of the divan, Stephanie groaned. There was absolutely nothing within in which to make a good impression. She had packed solely for her role as horse doctor, boxes of books and notes and instruments, expecting to live in the stable quarters and to spend her time with the horses. Her dismay was compounded as she turned away from her meagre attire to the long mirror which stood by the high lacquered cabinet.
She must have imagined the flicker of desire in Prince Rafiq’s eyes when he kissed her hand. The man was sin incarnate, whereas she looked as if she had been rolled first in oil, then in the desert sand. Her hair managed to be both limp and wild at the same time and her face—now she could see why desert travellers used their keffiyeh for protection from the sun. With considerably less than an hour to make herself presentable, Stephanie tore off her clothes and rushed