Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye

      ‘And my mother-in-law will compliment my cooking!’

      These last two sallies provoked an outburst of laughter, but no matter how preposterous Stephane might think some of the claims being made for the Sabr—for there was a part of her that still couldn’t credit a race with such power—she was left in no doubt of his people’s feelings for Rafiq. He was not only a prince but a hero to them.

      They had reached a surprisingly large open square, right in the middle of the city. Rafiq held up his hands, said some words Stephanie could not catch, and the crowd began to disperse. ‘What is happening?’ she asked, when he beckoned her over.

      ‘It is the hottest part of the day. Everyone retires inside,’ he answered, ushering her towards the tallest building on the square and producing a key. ‘Including us.’

      ‘Goodness, surely not another palace?’

      Rafiq laughed. ‘No, it is merely the royal viewing gallery.’

      ‘To view what, your subjects going about their daily business?’

      For answer, he led her up three steep flights of stone stairs and through a door into a high-ceilinged room, the principal feature of which was the window. Or row of windows, to be more precise, six tall arches divided only by the thinnest layer of supporting brickwork, facing out on to the piazza they had just left.

      ‘It is breathtaking,’ Stephanie said, ‘and it makes me a little giddy. ‘I can see why you call it a viewing gallery, but what do you view? Oh, goodness, surely not...’

      He laughed, for the horror of what had just crossed her mind must have been clearly reflected on her face. ‘No, we do not carry out either public executions or floggings, nor have there been either in Bharym for a great many years.’

      Stephanie shuddered. ‘In the military, regrettably, flogging is all too common.’

      ‘How so?’

      She stared out at the piazza, deserted now, for the sun was at its zenith. ‘We have been at war for a very long time. Some of the men have been away from their families for years, since only a very small minority of them are permitted to have their wives travel with them—and to be honest, many chose not to, for the conditions are very harsh. It is not surprising that they reach a point where homesickness overrides loyalty to the crown. Or where the constant risk of death erodes their willingness to fight. As if a whipping would make any difference,’ she said bitterly. ‘We treat our soldiers a great deal worse than our horses, in the army. No officer would dream of beating his horse, but most officers believe it their duty to beat their men. Save my father. Just one of the many things which sets him apart.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      Stephanie shrugged. ‘He has served for most of his career with the Seventh Hussars, but it is only recently that he was promoted from army farrier to Veterinary Surgeon, an appointment which in theory carries with it an officer’s rank.’

      ‘In theory?’

      ‘Papa is the son of a Scottish farmer, Rafiq. The officers of the Seventh like to think they are more blue-blooded than their horses—and they pride themselves on their horses’ lineage. They dare not shun Papa outright, but none would ever invite him to spend his leave on their family estates. Not that my father would accept such an invitation, unless it was to spend time in their stables. Papa has never been the least bit interested in pedigree, human or equine.’

      If only he had been, if only he had taught his daughter to make the distinction, she might not have made such a catastrophic mistake. ‘What do the Princes of Bharym witness from this viewing gallery then,’ Stephanie asked, in a determined effort to lighten the mood, ‘if not ritual punishment?’

      Rafiq duly obliged. ‘The Dash of the Camels,’ he said with a grin.

      She was so surprised she burst out laughing. ‘The Dash of the Camels. It sounds like an Arabian version of a Scottish Reel. I take it that it’s not a dance?’

      He shook his head, smiling. ‘It is a race, three times around the circumference of the piazza, riding camels bareback. They have a similar event, I am told, in Sienna, Italy, known as the Palio. Though they take it much more seriously, and they race horses.’

      She gazed down on the square which was not actually a square, but an out-of-shape rectangle, with what looked like some hair-raisingly tight corners, and said so.

      ‘You are right,’ Rafiq said. ‘We lay down wet sand, but it is still very, very tricky. Though of course that is part of the challenge for the riders.’

      ‘And a source of amusement for the spectators, presumably? Where do the crowds stand?’

      ‘In the middle of the piazza of course.’

      ‘There are certainly advantages to being a prince. You have a prime view, and you’re not likely to be stampeded.’

      ‘It is true, a number of the camels do finish riderless, but we put up barriers to prevent them from endangering the crowds. It is a fun event, a spectacle for the populace,’ Rafiq said. ‘Every village enters their best jockey and camel, they parade it around the piazza ahead of the race, and there are prizes for the best-looking one, and the ugliest.’

      ‘Do you refer to the jockey or the camel?’ Stephanie said, laughing. ‘I would imagine the ugliest camel prize to be hotly contested. To my eye they seem to have been constructed from a jumble of disparate parts selected from a number of different animals. And as to their smell...’ She made a face. ‘Whether it is produced from the front end or the rear, both are noxious. When is this Dash? I would love to witness it.’

      ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed it. It took place six months ago. I don’t put any of the royal camels forward since the Dash is a race belonging to the people. Besides, though it seems to have escaped your notice, my camels are white thoroughbreds and extremely rare, though I admit that a pedigree does not preclude the particular camel perfumes you allude to,’ Rafiq said, with a smile. ‘I took the liberty of ordering refreshments for us, I hope you don’t mind.’

      Stephanie, thinking that she would be unlikely to mind any liberty Rafiq chose to take, followed him to the back of the room, where a set of screens concealed an alcove containing a table laden with covered dishes, and a mountain of multi-coloured cushions.

      ‘Everywhere we go, sumptuous banquets appear as if by magic. I do not mean to sound ungrateful—it is simply that your world and mine, they are so very different.’

      ‘I was thinking only this morning, that very same thing,’ Rafiq said, waiting until she had settled at the table before seating himself with his usual fluid grace. ‘I have never met anyone like you before. And now you are blushing. Are you truly so unaccustomed to receiving compliments? I find that very difficult to believe.’

      ‘I am perfectly happy to be complimented on my skills as a veterinarian.’

      ‘Being a veterinarian, Stephanie, no matter what you may think to the contrary, does not preclude you from being an attractive woman.’

      He smiled that smile again, and it did exactly what it did every time. Every particle of her was alerted to his presence. Every bit of her focused entirely and only on him. On his mouth. On his eyes. On the hard muscled body seated tantalisingly close to her. Her mouth went dry. ‘We agreed we could not afford to be distracted.’

      ‘Last night, this morning, caring for Batal together, proved where our priorities lie, don’t you think?’

      ‘I—I suppose it did, although we still—afterwards, we did kiss.’ Her heart was pounding. Her voice sounded odd.

      ‘A tender and heartfelt thank you, born of relief. Am I wrong to suggest that we might indulge ourselves, now that we have proved we won’t compromise our relationship as prince and veterinarian?’

      She wasn’t sure what he was proposing, but she was curious to know. She bit her lip, laughed shakily. ‘I was thinking