Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye

‘Who gave the order to have the foal put down, if not you?’

      ‘I did, sire.’ The Master of the Horse had been lurking in the shadows of the main doorway. Now he came forward, making a bow. ‘I was forced to come to the stables personally, in order to ensure my orders were implemented, Your Highness. When I was informed that Fadil had fallen under the spell of this woman...’

      ‘You have been given specific instructions to remain at the training grounds. Your only concern for the present is the Sabr horses.’ Rafiq spoke in his soft, icy tone that made everyone shrink back. ‘Why have you seen fit to disobey me again?’

      Jasim dropped his worry beads. ‘Your Highness, my own orders were being disobeyed. My own Head Groom had the nerve to suggest that I—I, the most respected trainer in the whole of Arabia, should pay heed to what that—that woman suggested. To imagine that a woman, that she could think to know better than I! These are my stables. My own Head Groom...’

      ‘My stables, Jasim. My Head Groom, Jasim. You have not answered my question. This is not the first time I have had occasion to speak to you. Why have you seen fit to disobey me?’

      The silence which followed was terrifying. Stephanie was afraid to breathe. Only Rafiq seemed unaffected, waiting still as a statue, his eyes hooded, the slight thinning of his mouth betraying his fury.

      When Jasim spoke, it was in a broken whisper. ‘It will not happen again, Your Highness.’

      ‘No, it will not,’ Rafiq said curtly. ‘Pack your things. I will have one of my secretaries arrange to pay you what you are owed.’

      ‘Highness! I beg of you—you cannot mean this.’ Jasim threw himself to the ground. ‘You cannot have thought—the Sabr...’

      ‘Three times, I have warned you. I have granted you considerable leeway because there is no doubt as to your horse-training expertise, but you have gone too far. Now get out, your services are no longer required.’

      ‘Rafiq,’ Stephanie said urgently, ‘truly, you don’t need to take such drastic action on my behalf.’

      ‘I am taking action on my own behalf. Long-overdue action. Now, I had not finished breakfast. You will come back to the palace and share a cup of coffee with me.’

      ‘But...’

      ‘Stephanie, the entire stables are watching us.’ Rafiq detached her hand from his. ‘You are now in sole charge,’ he said to Fadil. ‘Miss Darvill?’

      * * *

      ‘Coffee?’ Without waiting for an answer, Rafiq poured Stephanie a cup from the silver pot. It was a fresh pot, he noticed, though he had not ordered one. Which of his servants had observed their return? Which had anticipated that he would return here, to the Courtyard of the Fountain? And who had known to place two cups on the tray where there had been only one before? He took such things for granted. He had only recently started to notice them, truth be told. Stephanie again.

      He handed her the coffee, stirring in the sugar which she preferred, and which he loathed. It had not been on the tray earlier, either. ‘You asked me once if I had a team of servants dedicated to the lighting and dousing of lamps in the palace.’

      She smiled faintly. ‘You couldn’t answer me.’

      ‘I enquired. It seems I do.’

      She put her coffee down on the table under the lemon tree untouched. ‘Rafiq, you can’t put victory in the Sabr at risk. Jasim is the best trainer in Arabia, there is no doubt of that. Much as it goes against the grain to defend him—you simply can’t sack him.’

      ‘It is already done, Stephanie.’

      ‘This is my fault,’ she said wretchedly, wringing her hands. ‘I should have informed you that there was likely to be an issue, but you have been so busy. I thought that he would see reason, I didn’t think for a moment he would simply go ahead and order...’ She shuddered. ‘That man. That gun. If I had not been there...’

      She was pacing by the fountain. She had lost the scarf which bound her hair back in her scuffle with the stable hand. Her tunic was blue stripes today, the one that reminded him of a blending of the Arabian sea and sky. A week since they had returned from the horse fair, and their glorious morning in the tent. He had missed her terribly.

      ‘Stephanie, come, sit, drink your coffee.’

      She sank on to the cushions under the lemon tree beside him. Her hands were shaking as she picked up the delicate little cup. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. ‘You can surely find some other way to discipline him,’ she said, setting her cup back down. ‘You can’t risk the Sabr, Rafiq, not now.’

      He emptied the dregs of her coffee, refilled the cup and stirred in another spoonful of sugar. She was right, it was a risk, but he could not regret it. He felt—lighter? Yes, he felt lighter. ‘I should have rid myself of the man long ago,’ he said. ‘I knew he would never tolerate you. There is a pattern, after all. If I had acted the first time...’

      He took a sip of his own coffee and set his cup down with a weary sigh. ‘As you pointed out yourself, he should have realised that we are all on the same side. But he never would acknowledge that. I should have known better. It makes me wonder—but that is pointless.’

      ‘Do you mean Elmira?’ Stephanie asked softly.

      Rafiq closed his eyes, leaning back against the trunk of the lemon tree. ‘Interfering in the smooth running of the stables, that was what he told me she was doing. Then it was undermining it. And finally it progressed to contaminating it. I didn’t question him. Now I’ll never know.’

      ‘Could you—do you want to tell me about it, Rafiq?’

      ‘No, Stephanie, I don’t. Suffice it to say that I am relieved to be rid of the man.’

      She smiled at him, and he felt the tension in his shoulders ease, at the same time as her smile set off a different kind of tension. He took her hand, kissing her palm.

      She curled her fingers around his, and settled down by his side, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘How is your own training progressing?’

      He laughed sardonically. ‘Painfully. The running changeovers from horse to horse are the most technically difficult element. I seem to spend the greater part of the day sprawled on the ground.’

      ‘Poor Rafiq. Are you terribly bruised?’

      ‘Very.’ Her hair tickled his chin. He slid his arm around her waist.

      She lifted her head. ‘Would you like me to kiss it better?’

      ‘Yes.’ He gazed into her big brown eyes. ‘Oh, yes.’

      She kissed him gently on the lips. ‘Where is it painful, Rafiq?’

      ‘Here,’ he said, kissing her again, more deeply. ‘Definitely here.’ She tasted so sweet. He could drown in her kisses. He had been longing for those kisses all week. He ran his fingers through her hair, kissing her eyelids, her salty, tear-stained cheeks, then her mouth again, laying her gently down on the cushions, kissing her again and again. ‘I can never have enough of your kisses,’ he murmured. ‘Never.’

      Her fingers were tangling in his hair. ‘Where else, Rafiq? Where else do you hurt?’

      ‘Here,’ he said, pulling his tunic over his head to bare the bruises on his chest, pulling Stephanie on top of him.

      ‘Oh, poor you.’ She kissed him softly, her hands fluttering over the purple-and-yellow bruises. ‘Poor you.’ More kisses. Her tongue licking over his nipple. His chest was heaving. He was achingly hard. Her touch was soothing and arousing at the same time. More kisses, tracing the curve of his ribcage. Her tongue dipping into his navel. She was setting him on fire. ‘Better?’

      ‘Not yet.’ He pulled her tunic over her head. Beneath the filmy fabric of her camisole, her nipples were alluring circles. He stroked them, feeling her shudder