Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye

the sires, back to one of those original breeds.’

      ‘It’s a charming tale,’ Stephanie said, looking more dubious than entranced. ‘But I confess, I’m rather more interested in the story of this Sabr race. In the stables, your men can talk of little else.’

      Rafiq smiled. ‘It is something of a national obsession with my people. I thought you might like to take a ride out to the oasis where we graze our stallions. It is cooler out there, and it will allow you to see a little of the desert landscape, but if you are too fatigued...’

      ‘No, I would love to do so.’

      ‘Good. I will see that the horses are readied.’

      * * *

      Stephanie watched him go, enjoying the rear view of Rafiq in his long boots and riding breeches striding towards the stalls. When he returned, he was leading three horses. He had put on a white-silk keffiyeh held in place with a plain black scarf. It framed his face, drawing attention to the breathtaking perfection of his features.

      ‘I had them put on an English saddle for you, but you will have to ride astride.’

      ‘Luckily I learnt to do so at an early age.’ Stephanie picked up her hat from the seat beside her. ‘I was quite a tomboy when I was growing up.’

      ‘Now that, I find easy to believe, since you are a walking paradox.’ Rafiq produced another square of white silk, folding it to form a headdress. ‘Put this on, it will protect you from the worst ravages of the sand much more effectively than your hat,’ he said, placing it over her head.

      He tied it in place with a bright red scarf, tucking her hair under it. Though his touch was impersonal, she was none the less acutely aware of it. Standing directly in front of him, her face was level with his throat. His shirt was white, with a high neck, fastened with a row of tiny pearl buttons. He smelled of the soap made with olive oil, reminiscent of the one she had used this morning.

      ‘There.’ Rafiq took a step back. ‘You can tuck the ends in like this.’

      ‘Yes. Thank you.’ Flustered, Stephanie turned her attention to her horse. ‘Kasida,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘Rafiq, I cannot possibly ride such a prize horse.’

      ‘Do you not consider yourself an accomplished enough horsewoman?’

      ‘No, I—I mean obviously, I’ve ridden racehorses before at the Newmarket stud, but Kasida...’

      ‘Stephanie, I know you well enough already to be convinced that if you thought you couldn’t handle her, you would say so. Am I correct?’ He waited until she smiled and nodded reluctantly. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

      Her heavy wide skirts made her feel uncomfortably hot, but at least they gave her freedom of movement. Putting her boot in the stirrup, Stephanie managed to mount with relative decorum, and a great deal of excited anticipation.

      ‘Kasida is one of our gentlest mares,’ Rafiq said, mounting his own horse. ‘Unlike Basilisk, here, who does not like to be mastered—as you know from examining him earlier. He is one of our best stud stallions, however. Now he has performed his duties, I will return him to the stallions’ paddock and return on this other mare.’

      Taking up the rope halter of the spare horse, he preceded Stephanie out of the stable yard. Just like all the stable hands, Rafiq rode Bedouin style, with no stirrups and only a rope halter instead of a bridle or bit, which required an adroitness which Stephanie could not imagine replicating. Basilisk, despite Rafiq’s assertion, seemed to be very well aware which of them was in command. As they left the stable compound, passing the drinking pool and out on to a wide flat expanse of desert, Rafiq urged the stallion into a gallop and Stephanie gave herself over to the thrill of the ride.

      The ground consisted of compacted umber-coloured earth rather than sand. Every now and then, a cluster of acacia trees, a patch of bright yellow and green indicated the unmistakable presence of water. The distant mountains which she had thought uniformly an unusual violet colour, now took on multiple hues, the highest peaks a pale silvery-blue, shading to amethyst and violet, lavender and lilac, while the foothills segued from plum to a peaty brown. She had imagined the desert to be flat, uniform sand and little else, much like the terrain she had traversed from the Red Sea port yesterday, but the Kingdom of Bharym was like nothing she had witnessed on any of her travels. Above her, the sky and the sparse puffy clouds seemed to reflect the mountains, a palette of blues that would have taxed the most talented of artists to capture. Stephanie was thinking that she had never seen anything so beautiful, when the oasis came into view, and took her breath away.

      The water was deep blue, consisting of a lake with a palm-covered island in the middle. Around it, the ground was lush with verdant greenery making a meadow of the desert, sweetly scenting the air, and reflecting in the mirror-like surface of the water. But there was little time to admire it, for Rafiq had ridden on at a brisk canter.

      She heard the whinny of the stallions before she saw them, Kasida’s ears pricking up in response. The enclosure was high-walled. Dismounting, she waited while Rafiq unlocked the gate, pausing only for her to lead her horse in before closing it behind her. A collection of the finest stallions she had ever seen greeted her in the huge compound, in the midst of which was another smaller pool and a large cluster of shady palms. Stephanie gazed around her in astonishment. ‘How many are there in the herd?’

      ‘Thirty-two, including Basilisk,’ Rafiq replied, removing the saddle from the stallion and setting him free to trot off and rejoin the milling herd. ‘Now we have completed our business, we can enjoy what is left of the daylight. Come.’

      He led her round to the far side of the oasis, where a charming little stone bridge led to the island. Enchanted, Stephanie picked her way across, through a gap in greenery to a clearing in the shady embrace of a circle of palm trees. The ground was covered in rugs and strewn with plump cushions. A large hamper sat in the middle. ‘Oh, what a delightful surprise!’

      ‘I was reliably informed that you were so engrossed in your work today that you did not stop to eat,’ Rafiq said, opening the hamper and beginning to lay out the contents, ‘and so I took the liberty of having some food sent ahead.’

      His thoughtfulness, his generosity, but more than anything his willingness to trust her, to have faith in her, brought a lump to her throat. ‘Thank you, you are very kind,’ Stephanie said, sinking on to a large cushion.

      The tremble in her voice made Rafiq look up from pouring them both a cool drink. ‘What is wrong, was this a mistake? Are you fatigued?’

      She shook her head, managing a weak smile. ‘I’m just being silly. Everything is perfect.’

      He pressed a tall, cool glass into her hands. ‘Drink this, you may be a little dehydrated, especially if you have not eaten.’

      Stephanie took a sip. ‘Thank you.’

      He set a plate of food in front of her. ‘Eat.’

      ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness. At once, Your Supreme Highness.’

      Her teasing tone earned her one of Rafiq’s rare and perfect smiles. ‘Eat,’ he commanded.

      Suddenly ravenous, she did. The food, like last night, was a delicious mixture of fresh, citrusy salads, spicy meats, and light, flaky pastries. She sampled more adventurously than she had at dinner, though a pickled chilli made her gulp down an entire glass of sherbet in one mouthful. Finally, too replete to manage even a fig drizzled with honey, she pushed her plate to one side and washed her hands. ‘That was delightful,’ she murmured contentedly.

      ‘Yes,’ Rafiq said, ‘it was.’

      She had the distinct impression he was not talking about the food. His smile had a sinful quality about it—though what she meant by that, she had no idea.

      ‘This precious race of yours,’ she said, striving to focus her thoughts on the reason she was here, ‘the Sabr. Tell me about it.’

      ‘History, heritage, heart,’ Rafiq intoned.