Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye

breasts brushing his chest, making her nipples tingle. And the unmistakable ridge of his arousal brushing—

      The kissing stopped abruptly. Rafiq shifted, creating a gap between them, and let her go. His eyes glittered black, like anthracite. His breathing was very slightly irregular, though not as fast as her own. ‘I have been wanting to do that since last night, but I should not have taken such a liberty. Forgive me.’

      His words were like a dousing of cold water. ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Stephanie said, horrified to discover that her voice sounded tearful. ‘I wanted you to kiss me.’ She turned away, snatching up the keffiyeh and silk scarf from the ground, throwing it over her head and most of her face. ‘I can’t think what came over me. It won’t happen again.’ The simple act of tying the scarf in place defeated her. She snatched the headdress off, scrunching the soft silk between her fingers. If she did not put an end to this highly distracting, highly dangerous attraction between them, it would fatally compromise her very reason for being here. ‘Rafiq,’ she said resolutely, ‘I am your Royal Horse Surgeon. A Royal Horse Surgeon has no place kissing the Royal Prince who appointed her.’

      His smile faded abruptly. ‘You are not a servant, Stephanie, and even if you were, I would never take advantage of my position.’

      She believed him. She did believe him, there was no comparison between Rafiq and—and it made no difference. Her face was scarlet now. She would have given a great deal for a freak wave from the oasis to envelop her, but nature resolutely refused to co-operate, forcing her to continue. ‘Rafiq, I merely meant that as your Royal Horse Surgeon, your horses should be my primary—my only focus. We do not have time to indulge in—in kissing, even if we want to, even if it was not completely wrong for me to—you are not only a prince, Rafiq, you are my employer,’ she said wretchedly.

      ‘You are, of course, quite correct.’ His tone was clipped. His expression was decidedly haughty. ‘Your first and only concern must be for the welfare of my horses. I have state business which will take me out into the desert for a few days. You will be able to work without distraction. For now, it is time we returned to the palace before it gets dark.’

      And that was Rafiq’s final word on the subject. The journey back to the palace was a total contrast to the outward leg, conducted at a sedate trot and in virtual silence. Ample time for Stephanie to reflect, and to regret, and to aver that she would not be so foolish as to play with fire again.

       Chapter Four

      The massive double doors of the cavernous Hall of Campaign closed behind the last of the Village Elders as they trooped out in single file. Quarterly Petition Day was usually one which Rafiq relished, for it allowed him to familiarise himself with the more general concerns and welfare of his people, as well as the specific requests their Elders made on their behalf. Today however, the major topic of conversation for all concerned was whether or not Bharym would finally be re-entering the Sabr this year. The same question had been the very first on the lips of the Bedouin Prince he had been to visit.

      Ten days in the desert, away from the palace, had given Rafiq a great deal of time to reflect. Though he had not yet spoken to Stephanie since his return late last night, he had received a comprehensive report of her progress. There had been no new case of the sickness since her arrival nearly two weeks ago now, but there had been another new arrival in his absence. A foal to Sarmadee, which he had been informed Stephanie expertly delivered. The foal had appeared with one hoof bent back, a presentation that could have proved fatal for both foal and mother were it not for Stephanie’s intervention, performing a birthing manoeuvre which required a difficult balance between strength and delicacy. Fadil, who had assisted her, was almost as impressed by Stephanie’s achievement in coaxing the highly reluctant mare to her feet, against all the animal’s natural instincts, as he was by her saving the foal. There was no doubting, from the respect in his Head Groom’s voice, that Stephanie was doing what she said she would do, and winning his men over. He had been right to send Jasim away. When his Master of the Horse did return to the stables, he would find it more difficult to undermine the new Royal Horse Surgeon.

      Rafiq sat down on the divan, removing his formal headdress and the belt which held his scimitar in place, setting both down beside him. Ten days since he had seen Stephanie. Ten days since he had returned to the palace from the oasis in high dudgeon, furious with her for compelling him to concede that he should not be distracting her from her task. More than sufficient time for him to cool his both his ardour and his temper. Stephanie Darvill appeared to be exactly what she claimed, an excellent veterinarian, and an excellent veterinarian was all he required, but still, he had not been able to forget that kiss.

      Did she think about it? Her response had made it clear that she wanted him as much as he had wanted her. Why was such a sensual woman determined to sacrifice her life to animals, to what she called her vocation? She had told him that very first day that she preferred horses to men, but he had taken it for a witticism. She had also told him that she ‘wasn’t that sort of woman’, but though her kisses had been neither practised nor artful, they were not the kisses of an innocent. What kind of woman was she?

      A woman whose kisses were sweet and heady. Whose smile connected straight to his groin. Whose smoky voice conjured up a vision of her voluptuous body naked, tangled with silk sheets. Perfume, and the distinctive scent of female arousal. That frisson of anticipation like no other just before he entered her and afterwards, sated, flesh clinging damply...

      Rafiq shook his head ruefully. Stephanie Darvill was here to minister to his horses, but he might as well stop pretending that he didn’t wish she might minister to him. She reminded him of the decadent delights of the flesh, the pleasure of a union which was not a marital duty. Impossible that these fantasies could be fulfilled, but there was no harm in indulging in them. And no point in denying that whatever else she might be, Stephanie Darvill was a fascinating woman.

      * * *

      Stephanie discovered the array of outfits laid out on her divan when she returned from the stables in the heat of the afternoon. Aida had worked quickly. And expertly. The garments were simple and practical as Stephanie had requested, but the Mistress of the Harem’s creations were also unmistakeably feminine, and quite exquisite. There were several tunics in the male dishdasha style which could respectably be worn for her work in the stables, loose muslin robes with long sleeves, high necks fastened with tiny buttons, in soft shades of cream, lemon, mint-green and sky-blue. There were two white muslin cloaks with matching headdresses which would protect her from the desert sands when riding, and a variety of silk scarves with which to tie them. Undergarments comprised of sheer silk were shockingly flimsy, pantaloons and camisoles trimmed with lace replacing her stiff petticoats and corsets.

      Stephanie picked up a handful and let them fall in a soft cloud back on to the divan. Plain clothes, fit for the stables, she had requested, but these garments seemed redolent of the harem. And there were some things Stephanie had not requested. A vibrant gown of silk woven in a splash of pinks, cerise and fuchsia, violet and lavender, the long sleeves slashed to fall open at the shoulder, with a tasselled belt and a long length of voile to be draped mantilla-like into a veil, if required. There were pink slippers to match, the curled toes adorned with tiny silver bells. And a robe which might be for dressing, or which could be worn over a dishdasha to make it more formal, in bottle green, fitted at the waist, the sleeves and hem embroidered with a bold symmetrical pattern in the russet colours of English autumn leaves that reminded Stephanie of the tiled ceiling in Rafiq’s private dining room.

      Rafiq. She was aware that he had returned to the palace. She suspected that Fadil had fully briefed him. Perhaps that was how it was to be from now on, she was to be kept at arm’s length. A good thing, she thought, for it would mean she had no further opportunity to make a fool of herself. No chance to prove she had grossly exaggerated the effect of that kiss. No excuse to kiss him again.

      Stephanie quickly stripped and, donning her dressing wrapper, padded through to the bathing chamber where her bath was waiting. Stepping into the soothing water, she closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind, but it was no use, the image which lurked there was too