Historical Romance Books 1 – 4. Marguerite Kaye

He eyed her with another of those cool looks of his that were beginning to get under her skin just a tiny little bit. Though not as effectively as his next words. ‘Apart from anything else, you are a woman.’

      ‘Daughters usually are.’ Stephanie gritted her teeth. It was hardly the first time she had encountered such prejudice. ‘I find it is not a factor which weighs heavily on my animal patients’ minds.’

      ‘Perhaps, but I cannot believe it is a factor their masters so readily ignore.’

      ‘One of the many reasons why I prefer horses to men,’ Stephanie retorted. Her headache was intensifying. She pulled off her hat, raking her hands through her sweat-damp hair. No point in antagonising the Prince. It was far more likely to get her thrown out into the desert than gain her entrance to the stables.

      ‘Your Highness,’ she said, striving for a more conciliatory tone, ‘I understand that my arrival here has come as a surprise, to put it mildly, but I assure you I possess the necessary expertise to be of assistance to you.’ Rather belatedly she remembered the letter her father had written and handed it over. ‘This should provide you with the reassurance you seek.’

      The Prince broke the seal and scanned the note, written and signed in Papa’s precise handwriting. ‘A most impressively effusive testimonial. One that I trust is not distorted by a father’s benevolence.’

      Taking the letter back, Stephanie refused to lose heart. ‘My father is a man of science. He prefers to deal in facts, not emotion, as do I. The fact is, Your Highness, you would not have sent all the way to England for assistance if the situation was not dire, or if you had anyone else who could help you. I am not my father, but I am here with his blessing, I am an excellent veterinarian, and I promise you I will do my utmost to help you. So why don’t you forget that I’m a woman and permit me to attend to your sick horses?’

      * * *

      He ought to be outraged by her temerity in addressing him thus, but Rafiq was, reluctantly, impressed by the petite female glowering up at him, her big brown eyes defiantly challenging, seemingly oblivious of the fact that she had broken almost every rule of propriety, breached all etiquette and ignored every protocol.

      She was not as young as he had taken her for—twenty-five or six, perhaps. Though her hair was streaked with gold by the sun, he guessed it must be naturally darker, for her brows and lashes were a very dark brown. Her skin was not that of an English rose but more olive in tone, flushed by the sun but not burnt. She was not beautiful. Her cheeks were too round, her eyes far too bold, her chin too decided. She had far too much strength of character to be anything so insipid as pretty, but there was something very attractive about her, an indefinable allure he could not name. Despite the evidence of her long day’s travel, despite the fact that there was nothing remotely provocative about either her appearance or her demeanour, she gave him the impression that she had just risen languorously from a night of tumultuous and highly satisfying lovemaking.

      He doubted that he would ever be able to do as she bid him, and forget that she was a woman. Looking at those pink lips, plump as pillows, he could not think of anything other than kissing them, of stripping the masculine attire from that very feminine form to discover if her nipples were the same shade of pink. Was her waist, cinched by that belt which looked as if it was meant to holster a gun, really as small as it seemed? Did those riding boots of hers stop at her calves, or her knees, or reach up to the soft flesh of her thighs?

      Forget she was a woman! No, he could not do that, but he could remind himself that it was not the most salient fact about her, Rafiq thought grimly, and he could acknowledge that there was one thing on which they were agreed. He needed someone to save his horses. Could that someone really be this woman?

      ‘My scepticism as to your abilities is understandable, Miss Darvill,’ he said. ‘I am sure even you would concede that a female practitioner is extremely rare, if not unique, in your chosen field.’

      It seemed she would concede no such thing. ‘Why would I make a false claim to skills and expertise I do not possess,’ she demanded of him, ‘when I can so easily be proved wrong? I have no desire to be thrown into your dungeons or cast out into the desert for being an imposter, I assure you.’

      She threw back her shoulders as she spoke to him, looking him straight in the eye—or at least as straight as she could, given that she was a full head smaller than him. He admired her nerve, though her lack of deference was beginning to get under his skin. ‘You forgot to mention the option of being escorted to my harem, Miss Darvill, and incarcerated in luxurious surroundings to await my bidding.’

      He had meant only to put her in her place. Her reaction to this sally took him completely aback. Her eyes flashed in anger. Her hands curled into fists. ‘I am not that sort of woman,’ she said, through gritted teeth.

      Her words piqued his interest. What type of woman was she? The challenge in her eyes, the defiance in her stance made it clear she was accustomed to fighting her corner, but why choose such a difficult fight in the first place? And how had such an attractive woman, one who, it seemed, had spent her life surrounded by elite English army officers, managed to remain defiantly unmarried? Sultry, that was the word he had been searching for. Stephanie Darvill was sultry, and she was either wholly oblivious, or wholly indifferent to this fact.

      Not that it was in any way relevant. It was not her appearance but her sex that was the issue. If by some miracle she was the skilled veterinarian her father’s letter claimed, she was going to have to work in his stables, with his men. Her very presence there would be seen by many as close to sacrilege. And as for one man in particular...

      But he was getting ahead of himself. ‘While I appreciate your father’s good intentions, you must understand that your arrival here in his stead is a rather mixed blessing. Loath as you are to accept the fact that your sex is irrelevant, the fact of the matter is that it would make your appointment as Royal Horse Surgeon problematic. You will excuse me for a moment, Miss Darvill, I need to order my thoughts.’

      Rafiq stalked over to the row of windows at the far end of the Royal Receiving Room and gazed out on the Courtyard of the Mirrored Fountain. The situation was, as the redoubtable Stephanie Darvill had rightly pointed out, dire. The plague would strike again and again, until it struck at the very heart of his ambition, wiping out the racehorses in which he and his people had invested all their hopes. This year was to be their year, the year the Sabr was recaptured.

      Yes, the situation was dire indeed, but did it warrant the undoubted risk of appointing this woman? He turned from the window to study her. She stood with her arms crossed, her expression an endearing mixture of defiance and supplication. For weeks, months, Rafiq had been struggling to keep himself from the pit of despair. Could this female prove to be his unlikely saviour? Even if her spirit and her courage were sufficient to the challenge of working in the exclusively male preserve of the stables, her claims to expertise could still prove to be exaggerated.

      He wanted to believe her, though he must be careful not to allow his hopes to override his caution, nor indeed her disconcerting allure to cloud his judgement. ‘You speak our language exceedingly fluently,’ Rafiq said, re-joining her. ‘How does an Englishwoman come to be so proficient?’

      ‘My mother is Egyptian, Your Highness.’

      Which explained her colouring, he thought, careful not to allow his surprise to show. ‘Your command of Arabic would certainly be an advantage if I did appoint you.’

      ‘Though it is hardly the decisive factor. I do understand that.’

      Her words had just the faintest hint of irony in their tone. Not something he was accustomed to encountering, which gave him pause for thought. ‘The decisive factor, Miss Darvill,’ Rafiq said coolly, ‘is whether you can promise me that you will save my horses?’

      Her face fell comically. ‘No, I cannot, Your Highness. If such an assurance is a condition of my remaining here then I must reluctantly take my leave. My father taught me never to offer any such guarantees. Even in the most routine of cases, the vagaries of nature cannot be discounted. From the details of the sickness you gave in your letter