The Harlot And The Sheikh. Marguerite Kaye

tilted her head, her lips parted. He bent his head, drawn irresistibly to her. The sound of a door opening and then being hastily closed made them jump apart.

      ‘Forgive me,’ Rafiq said, taking another step backwards, away from further temptation.

      ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Stephanie said, blushing furiously. ‘It was as much my fault as yours. I should not have—but I am fatigued. The effects of a surfeit of sun too, no doubt. So there is nothing—’

      ‘The hour grows late,’ he said tersely, cutting short her embarrassment and his own. ‘We will meet in the stables in the morning. As of this moment, you are formally appointed Royal Horse Surgeon.’

      His words, spoken primarily to remind himself of her purpose here, made Stephanie gasp. ‘The appointment will be for six months,’ he continued in a brusque manner, ‘by which time you will either have cured this plague which has descended on Bharym, or we will have established that you are incapable of curing it. Your remuneration will be on the terms I proposed to your father.’

      She gazed speechlessly at him. He wished she would not look at him that way, as if she was having to work very hard to prevent herself from throwing her arms around him in gratitude. ‘The appointment may be terminated by me at any time prior to the end of the six months,’ Rafiq continued, more sternly than he intended, ‘if I feel your presence has compromised the smooth running of the stables. You understand?’

      ‘Perfectly.’

      ‘Excellent. Then I will see you in the morning.’

      ‘Rafiq.’ He had turned to leave, but Stephanie caught his sleeve, yet another breach of protocol. ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a shy smile, ‘for trusting me. For giving me this opportunity to prove myself. I am extremely grateful and very much aware of the honour you confer on me. I promise you I will do all I can not to let you down.’ She surprised him once again, this time by bending over his hand, pressing a light kiss to his knuckles before opening the door herself, startling the waiting guard.

      Watching her follow a servant along the corridor back to the harem, her sashaying walk drawing his eyes to her swaying rear, Rafiq sighed. His passions had been all but dormant since this plague descended. It was inconvenient to say the least, to have them reawakened by the woman who had come to Bharym to cure that self-same plague. Though perhaps it was apt. A sign that he was coming back to life.

      The end which would be a new beginning was so terrifyingly, tantalisingly close. The vision he had once carried so close to his heart, of the colours of Bharym tied to the Sabr trophy, of the victory flag flying proudly above the palace and above every city and village in the kingdom for the first time in two generations, was one he hardly dared conjure for fear the fates would deprive him of it.

      But they would not. Stephanie Darvill would ensure that they could not. His stud would bring victory to Bharym, confidence to his kingdom, joy to his people, and quieten his troubled conscience. Payment for his crime. Reparation fully made, all debts repaid.

      Departing the dining salon, Rafiq headed for his own chambers, and the meagre solace it provided.

       Chapter Three

      Exhausted as she was, Stephanie was far too anxious to sleep. Tossing and turning on the huge divan, she spent the night alternating between feeling daunted by the enormity of the task which lay ahead and reliving her dinner conversation with Rafiq. Her excitement at her appointment was mitigated by embarrassment and no little confusion at the unexpected manner in which the encounter had concluded.

      From the moment she had set eyes on the Prince in all his regal splendour, she had reacted to him on an almost visceral level. Her skin tingled when he touched her. She had wanted him to kiss her. No, the urge was stronger than that. She had longed for him to kiss her. When his fingers had trailed down her cheek, her throat, they had set off the most disconcertingly pleasurable fluttering low in her belly.

      Stephanie pulled the lace-edged sheet over her face, her toes curling up in mortification. Had experience taught her nothing! Painful enough to have her exploits openly discussed in the officers’ mess, but Rafiq was a royal prince and any scandal would be magnified a thousandfold. Even more importantly, he was her employer and her potential route to salvation. This time it was not simply her reputation but her entire future that was at stake.

      Stephanie groaned. Casting back the sheets and abandoning the divan, she opened the door of her chamber and padded across the courtyard to the fountain. Above her, the stars were fading, the sky turning from indigo to grey as dawn approached. One of Papa’s tenets was that a good veterinarian learned more from experience than they ever did from textbooks. It was a tenet that she ought to apply to all aspects of her life. Experience had taught her that she lacked judgement when it came to matters of the heart, and that she could not trust her feelings. Experience had also demonstrated graphically the unbridgeable gulf between her own lowly origins and those with lofty pedigrees to protect. More than anything, experience had taught her a very hard lesson in the differing social status afforded to men and women. While a gentleman could boast about his conquest with impunity, the conquest herself was branded a harlot. The iniquity of it could still make her clench her fists with fury.

      But there was one field in which she could succeed on her own terms. One field in which, second only to Papa, she knew herself to be expert—more than the equal of any man, no matter how well born he might be. It was time for her to prove that. Returning to her chamber, Stephanie began to prepare for the long and taxing day ahead.

      * * *

      A little over an hour later, breakfasted, dressed and armed with her precious box of instruments, Stephanie emerged from the royal palace in the wake of a servant, into bright morning light and what was clearly the stable complex. She was dressed simply, in a cambric blouse teamed with her wide, plain skirt, belt, riding boots, and her broad-brimmed hat. Despite having decided to leave her jacket behind, she was already too hot, and despite the confidence-boosting talk she had given herself en route, she was already feeling nervous.

      Rafiq, in contrast, looked cool, confident and regal as he strode across the cobbles to meet her. Today, he wore a plain white open-necked shirt tucked into riding breeches, worn with long boots. His hair was swept back from his brow, the natural curl forming a wild halo which, combined with the smattering of dark hair at his throat, gave his handsome looks a savage edge. Despite herself, Stephanie’s stomach lurched as he approached, a combination of attraction and apprehension that did nothing for her composure.

      ‘Good morning, Your Highness,’ she said, making a curtsy, conscious that there would be many eyes watching them.

      ‘I trust you slept well?’

      ‘Oh, like a babe in arms,’ she said, the silly lie making her colour. Panic threatened to render her ineffectual. There was a world of difference between her dream of treating the thoroughbred horses of a royal prince and the reality which now confronted her. These stables were overwhelmingly and entrancingly beautiful, and clearly more prestigious than anything she had ever before encountered. She wasn’t just daunted, she was petrified.

      ‘As you can see from the position of the sun, we are on the north side of the palace,’ Rafiq said. ‘It is cooler here, which makes it the ideal location for the stables.’

      Stephanie felt far from cool. Perspiration trickled down her back. Her corsets, though she had laced them loosely, felt far too tight. The huge paddock to the front of her was shaded by clusters of tall palms and acacia trees with their feathery leaves and white flowers. At the furthest side a large pool of water gleamed, reflecting the tall spikes of papyrus grass in shades of sea-green, their fronds tipping down to the pool as if to sip from it. The dusty ground was covered in patches of scrub, burnt brown, acid-yellow and silvery-grey in colour, but nevertheless giving the paddock a veneer of lushness.

      ‘Bharym’s relative proximity to the sea, and those mountains over there,’ the Prince said, pointing to the rugged violet-coloured hilltops in the distance, ‘mean that we are blessed