Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye

added considerably to his allure. Her body responded with a jolt of pure lust that left Stephanie smiling idiotically back, quite transfixed for several seconds, oblivious of where they were and who was watching, until Rafiq broke the spell, turning abruptly on his heel.

      ‘Come,’ he said brusquely, ‘let us proceed with your introductory tour. The stable layout is straightforward. There are horse stalls lining both walls. The tack rooms and the feed stores are at the back, and in the centre there is a training arena.’

      She followed him inside, quickly shaken out of her daze as the dry, dusty scent of the desert gave way to the more familiar one of hay, leather and the unmistakable odour of horse, but instead of calming her, it stretched Stephanie’s nerve endings still further. It was pleasantly cool in here, the slatted shutters across the high windows filtering out the worst of the harsh sunlight, the terracotta floor tiles and white-marble interior further mitigating the heat. The room was immense. A cloistered ceiling was supported at intervals by plain Doric columns, with at least thirty large stalls set on either side. As she gazed around her, her mouth was as dry as if she had swallowed half the desert. ‘And you say this layout is replicated in the other wing?’

      ‘We have at present a string of over one hundred horses. The majority are mares, obviously, for Arabian mares are most in demand for their gentle temperament, their stamina and their affinity with people, but we also have a number of stallions, mostly for breeding purposes. They are kept out in the desert in a separate paddock. There is another segregated area at the end of this wing for the mares currently in foal, and we have other paddocks for the camels, the mules, and for the horses who have been put out to pasture.’ Her expression must have looked every bit as daunted as she felt, for Rafiq smiled reassuringly. ‘Your duties will be restricted to the care of animals suffering from the infection. Everything else is Jasim’s domain.’

      Stephanie cleared her throat, striving to keep her voice steady. ‘I had no idea, I confess, of the enormity of your equine empire. The value of the horses in this part of the stable alone is inestimable. How many of them race competitively?’

      ‘None, at the moment. We have been keeping our powder dry with respect to the Sabr, until we felt we were competitive enough to win.’ Rafiq frowned heavily. ‘If this sickness persists, even if it does not strike down the horses which we have specifically trained for the race, I cannot in all conscience compete. I will not expose the livestock of others to this plague that ails us.’

      Walking down the central isle, Stephanie noted that everything in the royal stables was immaculately clean, the equipment pristine. It was obvious that these horses were extremely well cared for, and she said so.

      ‘Naturally,’ was Rafiq’s response as he stopped in front of a magnificent mare. ‘Sherifa,’ he said, opening the stall gate for her. ‘She has blessed us with three top-class foals, haven’t you, my beauty?’ The mare was a grey, with the finely chiselled bone structure, arched neck and high-carried tail so typical of the breed. She tossed her head playfully as he patted her neck.

      ‘Your affection is obviously mutual,’ Stephanie said. ‘She is a magnificent creature.’

      ‘She is indeed,’ Rafiq replied, rubbing the horse’s nose. ‘She has been with us for five years. Sherifa was my late wife’s horse.’

      ‘Aida mentioned the Princess Elmira. My condolences for your sad loss.’

      ‘The marriage was arranged. My wife died two years ago.’

      Stephanie was struggling to interpret his carefully neutral tone. An arranged marriage, but that didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t loved her. Did he imply that two years was time enough to grieve and recover, or insufficient?

      ‘You will wish to examine Sherifa?’

      It was a command, not an invitation. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Flustered, Stephanie stepped into the stall. The mare, sensing her nervousness, backed away from her, her breath exhaling in short puffs, her nostrils flaring. She knew better than to attempt to touch such a highly strung horse when her own nerves were so taut. Closing her eyes momentarily, she took several deep breaths.

      ‘Hello, Sherifa.’ Stephanie held out her hand. The mare’s mouth was soft. Her eyes were gentle. ‘Lovely girl.’ Her fingers were perfectly steady as she stroked the mare’s nose. Calm suffused her. Beginning the meticulous process of examination, she utilised all of her senses just as her father had taught her, in the same way as the great Dr Hunter had tutored her father. By the time she had finished, her mind was completely focused on the task in hand and not the distracting prince standing behind her watching her every move.

      * * *

      Later that day, with a weary sigh, Rafiq closed the weighty leather-bound tome that was the official Bharym Stud Book, carefully fastening the lock with the heavy gold key. There were now six yearlings overdue to be delivered to their carefully vetted owners. Though Jasim assured him that no mention of the plague had passed his lips, Rafiq knew it was only a matter of time before word got out.

      Only a matter of time too, until the sickness struck his stables again. Watching Stephanie at work this morning, any remaining doubts he had as to her claim to be Richard Darvill’s assistant had dissipated. His Head Groom, Fadil, had also initially been highly sceptical of her abilities. It had not taken her long to prove her mettle though, with her plethora of probing questions, her refusal to accept anything other than extremely detailed answers, and her complete confidence when faced with examining Basilisk, a strapping specimen of a stallion with every bit as lowly an opinion of females as Jasim.

      Rafiq smiled to himself. Naturally, he would remain cautious. Of course, it would be foolish to hope for too much. But there was hope. It had arrived in the delightful and distractingly desirable form of Stephanie Darvill. It was too early for her to have made any meaningful progress, he knew that, but he was anxious to hear her initial thoughts and, yes, there was no harm in admitting, he was eager to enjoy more of her company. These last months had been claustrophobic, exposure to company curtailed by necessity. What he needed was a fresh perspective and an escape, if only for a short interlude.

      Pausing to instruct a servant as to his specific requirements, Rafiq headed for the stables. Stephanie was sitting on a bench in the inner courtyard, shaded by the balcony on the floor above, watching the constant stream of horses being led in and out for exercise in the relative cool of the late afternoon. Her hair had obviously escaped from its pins at some point in the day, and was now carelessly tied back, though the usual tress had escaped to fall over her brow. It was a lighter shade than the rest, almost golden. Her skin in the bright sunlight seemed more olive, though her cheeks were flushed. She wore the same skirt that she had arrived in. Practical perhaps, but it was far too heavy for these conditions, and though her white top looked to be cotton, it was tightly fitted from neck to wrist. No wonder she looked like a wilting flower in dire need of water.

      ‘Your Highness.’ She jumped to her feet when she saw him, dropping into a curtsy.

      ‘Please, there is no need for such formality here at the stables,’ Rafiq said. ‘Tell me, what are your first impressions of my horses?’

      She beamed. ‘I have never seen such magnificent specimens. I’ve examined Sherifa, of course. And Kasida. Tamarisk. Mesaoud. Azrek. Nura. Riyala. Shieha. I am afraid I can’t remember all their names.’

      Her enthusiasm was endearing. Her smile was dazzling, drawing attention to the perfect whiteness of her teeth, the endearing little fan of faint lines that appeared at the corner of her eyes when she smiled. She had the kind of slightly husky voice that disconcertingly made Rafiq picture her wearing nothing but her underwear. ‘The Bharym Stud Book records every horse, every bloodline, back into the mists of myth and legend,’ he said, trying to banish the vision which had floated into his mind.

      ‘Legend?’

      ‘It is said that the Arabian horse was first formed from the south winds. That is why the Bedouins call them Drinkers of the Wind. It is said that a herd of these wild creatures was tamed, and then as a test of their obedience, first deprived of water, then sent racing towards an oasis. Only five returned