Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye

the renowned English expert to whom he had turned in desperation—more in hope than expectation, if truth be told. Perhaps even now Richard Darvill was on his way, the royal travel warrant which Rafiq had enclosed with his letter helping to speed him towards Arabia. Even Jasim, fiercely resistant to any outside interference in what he considered his personal fiefdom, grudgingly conceded the English horse doctor’s reputation was unimpeachable, his fame well earned.

      It was reputed the man could work miracles, bring horses back almost from the dead. Rafiq certainly needed nothing short of a miracle now. These stables, the thoroughbred racehorses within, had to be protected at all costs. He owed it to his people to be the Prince they believed him to be. He owed it to his father’s memory to repair his family’s reputation. Most importantly of all, Rafiq owed it to himself to honour the debt he had incurred. He had carried the burden of his guilt for so long, he would not permit the fates to extend his punishment any longer. His atonement would be made. He could not alter the past but he would ensure something positive emerged from the darkest chapter in his life. It could never be enough, but it was all he could do.

      Two weeks later

      The end of Stephanie’s long journey was finally in sight. The dhow in which she had sailed the length of the Red Sea from Egypt docked at the closest port to her landlocked destination just as dawn was breaking. On the quayside, a tall, austere-looking man scrutinised her papers before beckoning her to follow him.

      A small train of camels awaited them at the end of the quay. Stephanie’s cumbersome baggage was secured on the accompanying mules while she was assisted into the saddle of a camel with brusque efficiency. The official then took the reins, indicating by means of hand gestures that he would lead her mount. His inscrutable expression faltered only when she spoke to him in his own tongue, informing him that she understood him perfectly well and was grateful for his assistance. But if Stephanie imagined that her command of his language would encourage the man’s demeanour to soften, she was mistaken. The official responded to her overture with a formal bow before turning his attention back to the four men who accompanied them. His short, sharp instructions were immediately and efficiently obeyed. Within half an hour of setting foot on land, Stephanie was once again aboard a ship. Only this time, it was a ship of the desert.

      They traversed the bustling port, a chaotic melee of people, camels, mules and goats. Wagons piled high with goods fought for space on the stone jetties. A cacophony of bleating and braying and shouting filled the air, the clatter of hooves and wheels on the rough-hewn roads competing with the cries of the drivers and riders, the sailors and dock hands, and the excited knots of children who followed anything and everything, for no other reason, it seemed to Stephanie, than for the simple joy of adding to the noise and the crush.

      As they left the coast the sea breeze quickly died and the briny air gave way to a burning heat. The sun rose and the wide road which led them inland narrowed to a rocky track which opened up on to an expanse of true desert, as the air around her grew hotter and drier. Her face protected from the worst of it by her wide-brimmed hat, Stephanie nevertheless began to feel as if she were sitting inside a huge kiln. Occasional gusts of wind blasted red-hot sand on to her face like the fiery breath of a lion. The light cotton jacket and blouse she wore felt like they were made of thick pelts of bearskin. Perspiration trickled down her spine, pooling in the small of her back where her wide belt cinched her waist. Her undergarments and stockings clung unpleasantly to her damp skin. Her eyes, her mouth and her nose were gritty with sand and dust. Inside her long riding boots, her feet throbbed.

      * * *

      Some time around noon, when the sun had reached its zenith, her guide informed her that they had crossed the border into the kingdom of Bharym. Here, they made the latest in a series of stops for refreshments, just at the point where she thought she might die of thirst. She, who had refused to wilt under the blazing heat of the Spanish sub in the height of summer, was struggling not to drink the entire contents of her goatskin water flask down in one gulp. This furnace-like heat, this desert terrain, should not be alien to her. It was in her blood, for goodness sake, she had reminded herself at the second stop, trying in vain to mimic the measured sips taken by her escorts. But the heat in Alexandria and Cairo had not prepared her for this. She shook her flask, aghast to find it almost empty. When the silent but obviously observant official handed her another, she was too grateful to be embarrassed.

      * * *

      As the day wore on and the rolling gait of the camel took its toll on her stomach and her head, Stephanie ceased to care what he thought of her. All she wanted was for the journey to be over, for then she could clamber down from this animated fairground ride and out of the blazing sun. Yet on they travelled.

      Finally, the imposing walls of a city reared up, nestled snugly in the foothills of a range of flat-topped mountains. Constructed of red stone decorated with paler swirls which reminded Stephanie of an elaborate cake, and surmounted by wide ornate battlements, the parapets were triangular in shape rather than the more traditional rectangular design. Like ravening teeth, she thought with a shudder.

      The city gate was an enormous, soaring stone arch with a fortress-like tower set on either side, like two impassive sentries. Though every other camel and mule and cart on the road passed through it and into the city, Stephanie’s caravan continued onward, following the contour of the city walls before beginning to climb the wide, clearly marked route which led upwards, where her final destination came into view.

      The edifice which could only be the royal palace stood on the plateau of a hill overlooking the city below, enclosed entirely behind a set of soaring square walls. Tiny rectangular windows were inset at regular intervals on the lower level and seemed to monitor her approach, making Stephanie feel distinctly uncomfortable. The excitement which had gripped her since this undertaking had first been proposed gave way to acute apprehension. She was not expected here. Would she be welcome? Behind those shadowed windows, many pairs of eyes might be watching her arrival. Her presence must inevitably be giving rise to speculation.

      The shame which had been her constant companion for the last year crept stealthily up on her. She caught herself as, instinctively, she bowed her head. She had travelled halfway across the world in order to leave it behind. Here in far-flung Arabia, whatever else might become of her, she would not be publicly branded a scarlet woman, a harlot.

      Stephanie sat up straight in the saddle and turned her attention back to the present. Much larger arched windows were set higher into the walls of the palace, which replicated the design of the city walls. A decorative band was cut into both the walls and battlements, formed from what looked like dazzlingly white stone. Alabaster? The fang-like battlements took on an air of menace as she drew nearer, the many hooves of the caravan resounding over the piazza, where the marble floor was veined with something that glimmered like gold, but couldn’t possibly be. Well travelled as she was, she had seen nothing to compare with this palace. It was intimidating, stark, yet utterly exotic and magically beautiful.

      As the double doors swung open her stomach knotted with nerves, making her forget her travel weariness and discomfort. The Prince who lived behind these walls must be wealthy beyond her comprehension. Of the man himself, she knew only what she had gleaned from those who considered themselves experts in such matters, that the Prince bred and sold his thoroughbreds only to a privileged and chosen few, personally vetted by him. To own one of Bharym’s Arabians was fast becoming an honour which no amount of gold could buy. A clever and cunning prince, she had thought cynically. Men, especially rich and privileged men, always wanted what they were told they could not have, be it horse or woman. Was she not living proof of that? And proof too, that once obtained, the object of desire quickly lost its lustre.

      No more, Stephanie reminded herself sternly! There would be no more looking over her shoulder. She had had a year, time enough to come to terms with her shame and her guilt, to curse the lack of judgement which had led to her downfall. She had paid a high price for her sin, and inflicted a great deal of pain on the two people in the world she loved most. Now it was time to make amends by taking control of her own life, mitigating the effects of her foolishness by putting the past firmly behind her.

      If, that was, the Prince accepted her proposition. Stephanie shuddered, reminding herself that the Prince knew nothing of her