The Harlot And The Sheikh. Marguerite Kaye

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 achievements, Miss Darvill,’ the Prince interrupted her. ‘It is the reason I requested his help and not his daughter’s.’ He eyed her with another of those cool looks of his that were beginning to get under her skin just a tiny little bit. Though not as effectively as his next words. ‘Apart from anything else, you are a woman.’

      ‘Daughters usually are.’ Stephanie gritted her teeth. It was hardly the first time she had encountered such prejudice. ‘I find it is not a factor which weighs heavily on my animal patients’ minds.’

      ‘Perhaps, but I cannot believe it is a factor their masters so readily ignore.’

      ‘One of the many reasons why I prefer horses to men,’ Stephanie retorted. Her headache was intensifying. She pulled off her hat, raking her hands through her sweat-damp hair. No point in antagonising the Prince. It was far more likely to get her thrown out into the desert than gain her entrance to the stables.

      ‘Your Highness,’ she said, striving for a more conciliatory tone, ‘I understand that my arrival here has come as a surprise, to put it mildly, but I assure you I possess the necessary expertise to be of assistance to you.’ Rather belatedly she remembered the letter her father had written and handed it over. ‘This should provide you with the reassurance you seek.’

      The Prince broke the seal and scanned the note, written and signed in Papa’s precise handwriting. ‘A most impressively effusive testimonial. One that I trust is not distorted by a father’s benevolence.’

      Taking the letter back, Stephanie refused to lose heart. ‘My father is a man of science. He prefers to deal in facts, not emotion, as do I. The fact is, Your Highness, you would not have sent all the way to England for assistance if the situation was not dire, or if you had anyone else who could help you. I am not my father, but I am here with his blessing, I am an excellent veterinarian, and I promise you I will do my utmost to help you. So why don’t you forget that I’m a woman and permit me to attend to your sick horses?’

      * * *

      He ought to be outraged by her temerity in addressing him thus, but Rafiq was, reluctantly, impressed by the petite female glowering up at him, her big brown eyes defiantly challenging, seemingly oblivious of the fact that she had broken almost every rule of propriety, breached all etiquette and ignored every protocol.

      She was not as young as he had taken her for—twenty-five or six, perhaps. Though her hair was streaked with gold by the sun, he guessed it must be naturally darker, for her brows and lashes were a very dark brown. Her skin was not that of an English rose but more olive in tone, flushed by the sun but not burnt. She was not beautiful. Her cheeks were too round, her eyes far too bold, her chin too decided. She had far too much strength of character to be anything so insipid as pretty, but there was something very attractive about her, an indefinable allure he could not name. Despite the evidence of her long day’s travel, despite the fact that there was nothing remotely provocative about either her appearance or her demeanour, she gave him the impression that she had just risen languorously from a night of tumultuous and highly satisfying lovemaking.

      He doubted that he would ever be able to do as she bid him, and forget that she was a woman. Looking at those pink lips, plump as pillows, he could not think of anything other than kissing them, of stripping the masculine attire from that very feminine form to discover if her nipples were the same shade of pink. Was her waist, cinched by that belt which looked as if it was meant to holster a gun, really as small as it seemed? Did those riding boots of hers stop at her calves, or her knees, or reach up to the soft flesh of her thighs?

      Forget she was a woman! No, he could not do that, but he could remind himself that it was not the most salient fact about her, Rafiq thought grimly, and he could acknowledge that there was one thing on which they were agreed. He needed someone to save his horses. Could that someone really be this woman?

      ‘My scepticism as to your abilities is understandable, Miss Darvill,’ he said. ‘I am sure even you would concede that a female practitioner is extremely rare, if not unique, in your chosen field.’

      It seemed she would concede no such thing. ‘Why would I make a false claim to skills and expertise I do not possess,’ she demanded of him, ‘when I can so easily be proved wrong? I have no desire to be thrown into your dungeons or cast out into the desert for being an imposter, I assure you.’

      She