Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye

her to hold him before easing back out, until he knew she could not hold on any longer, and he licked into her purposefully, feeling her swell and harden under his tongue, tighten around his fingers, until her climax rocketed through her, her wild cries, the deep pulsing inside her, almost setting him over the edge.

      One last deep kiss, and he let her go, picking up his sodden robe and draping it around himself, before he helped her up, draping her robe around her shoulders, kissing her softly on the lips.

      ‘I will leave you now, for I believe I have reached the limits of my self-control,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the hamam bath.’

      ‘But what are you going to do?’

      ‘I am going to jump into the ice-cold water of the Pool of Nymphs.’

      * * *

      The hamam bath was deep, the waters hot, burbling from little jets. Stephanie lay back, closing her eyes and enjoying the sensation of the water pummelling her body. She let her mind drift, reliving the sensations of Rafiq’s hands on her, his mouth, his tongue. And that most intimate of kisses. She could never ever have imagined such a thing.

      Opening her eyes, she gazed up at the twinkling lights in the cupola. She could admit now that she had lain awake last night, fretting. She could admit now that she was vastly relieved to have relations restored between them, and in such a delightful way. She could admit now that Rafiq’s opinion of her mattered a great deal.

      More than it ought. Her insides did a strange somersault. Stephanie sat up. She had better be careful. She had better be very, very careful. Forcing herself out of the soporific warmth of the bath, she decided that a harsh dose of reality was required. Wrapping one of the huge drying sheets from a shelf in the tepidarium around her, she made her way back outside to the Pool of Nymphs. It was almost pitch dark, for the flambeaux had burned out, and the only light came from a hazy moon. The greeny-blue waters were perfectly still. Casting off the drying sheet, she plunged in.

      The water was icy compared to the heat of the bath. The pool was much deeper than she expected. She emerged from it coughing, splashing, her hair plastered over her face, and with difficulty managed to reach the safety of the steps, where her scrambling was assisted by a strong pair of arms.

      The scream died in her throat when she realised it was Rafiq. ‘What are you doing here? I assumed I was alone.’

      He wrapped her in the drying sheet, guiding her to the cushions in the gloom of the terrace. ‘I was lying under the stars enjoying the sense of solitude. Does that sound strange to you, a prince who wants occasionally to escape his responsibilities?’

      She shook her head, then realised that Rafiq wouldn’t be able to see her. ‘If you mean can I understand that you must sometimes feel both your duty to rule and this palace suffocating, then, yes, I can. There are so many rooms, and every one of them with a different defined purpose. The Hall of Campaign. The Royal Receiving Room. The Banqueting Chamber. The guards’ quarters. The menservants’ quarters. The harem. A place for everyone, and a guard to ensure that everyone is kept firmly in their place.’

      She sensed from his stillness that she had upset him. ‘Including you?’ he asked.

      ‘I am not at all ungrateful Rafiq. I am living in the lap of luxury in this palace. I am eating the most wonderful food. My clothes are laundered for me, my bath is run for me—it is wonderful, but—oh, I don’t know. It’s that horrid locked harem door, more than anything. That little grille which Aida peers through. And the armed guard outside.’

      ‘The harem is locked and guarded in order to protect the privacy and virtue of those within it.’

      ‘I know. And it’s a tradition that is thousands of years old, and I truly am not meaning to sound like one of those awful people who visit foreign countries only to deride the customs. It is just that I am not accustomed to it, and I never could be, no matter how luxurious. I can’t help thinking that it must have seemed like a gilded cage to a nomadic Bedouin like the Princess Elmira.’

      The moment the words were out, she wished them unsaid. The air between them seemed to freeze. ‘What have you heard?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Stephanie shifted on her cushion, but it was so dark now, she could make out only his silhouette. ‘I only meant that as a Bedouin, accustomed to roaming the desert, it must have been an enormous change for her.’

      ‘Too much of one.’

      His voice cracked. Horrified Stephanie fumbled for his hand. ‘Rafiq, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m so sorry.’

      He shook himself free and got to his feet. ‘I recall telling you, here on this very terrace, that I do not care to talk about the past.’

      Stephanie scrambled up, tripping over the drying sheet. ‘I’ve talked about my past with you. It was painful, and I was terrified that you would judge me harshly, but—but you helped me see it in a different light. You helped me put it behind me. So don’t you think...?’

      ‘No.’ Unlike Stephanie, Rafiq seemed to have the night vision of a predator. He steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. ‘There is only one thing which will allow me to put my past behind me.’

      ‘The Sabr,’ she said, not because she understood, but because it seemed to be the answer to everything.

      ‘The Sabr,’ Rafiq said heavily. ‘My only route to atonement.’ His grip on her tightened. His lips were cool on her forehead and then he was gone, his shadow merging with the night.

      Stephanie shivered. Inside the library, the lanterns still burned. She dressed hurriedly in the changing room, and brought one of the lanterns back out to the terrace. Was there a group of servants responsible solely for the palace lighting? There must be a great many of them. It must be a very tedious occupation.

      She sat down on Rafiq’s cushion, shaking her head to clear it. Rafiq wanted to win the Sabr for his people. He wanted to win it to restore his family name. She understood both of those things, but what had he meant when he said it would allow him to put his past behind him, to atone? It made no sense.

      She furrowed her brow, trying to recall exactly what had been said before this strange declaration. Elmira. He had once again been refusing to talk about Elmira, but what could Elmira have to do with the Sabr? Poor Elmira, who had died in her sleep two years ago. Elmira who, according to Jasim, paid the price for contaminating the stables with her presence. What heinous crime had she committed to force Rafiq to take Jasim’s side against his own wife?

      It was cold. The sky was dark, a layer of black cloud blanketing the stars and the moon. Rafiq couldn’t have made it clearer that whatever atonement the Sabr represented, he would not confide in her. It hurt a little, but it was another apposite reminder. There were boundaries she must not cross, had no right to cross. She must not confuse the physical intimacy between them with anything more profound.

      Picking up the lantern, with a silent apology to the servant who would discover it missing in the morning, Stephanie left the Pool of Nymphs and headed reluctantly back to her own luxurious prison quarters in the harem.

      * * *

      Rafiq sat alone at the second of the four Sabr marker towers. He could hear Nura, the chestnut mare he had ridden out, snickering softly to herself, though the night was too dark to see her. Black cloud covered the moon and the stars, but he did not need his eyes to sense the desert that surrounded him. The vastness of it never failed to fill him with awe. He leant back against the cool stone of the Sabr post, rubbing his eyes. He had intended to come out here to think only of Stephanie, to relive those charged moments in the hamam, but Stephanie had unwittingly conjured Elmira’s ghost. The two women were so very different. When he was with Stephanie, he had a taste of his future, free of guilt. He didn’t want to think of Elmira when he was with her. He didn’t want to make any sort of connection between them.

      But Stephanie had made it all the same. A gilded cage, she had called the harem. Rafiq dropped his head into his hands, groaning with despair. Guilt descended on him like a carrion crow, doubts, like the predator’s vicious