There is an ante-room through that curtain where you may first refresh yourself.’
There were rose petals scenting the water in the urn. There was a fresh cake of soap in a dish. There was a stack of soft towels. And a mirror. Stephanie stared at her reflection, wondering that she did not look more different. Her complexion had a rosy blush to it and her hair had escaped from her scarf, and her lips—yes, it was obvious that her lips had been satisfyingly kissed. She wrapped her arms around her waist. Those kisses had not been the only satisfying thing. She still couldn’t quite believe it. That Rafiq had—and then she had...
And the result had been earth-shattering. So much, much more than she could have imagined. As if her body had broken into a million little shards of indescribably intense light. When it ended, when she sank slowly back from the sparkling sky where she had been flying, she felt as if she was reassembled in a different manner. Her smile had a touch of smugness to it now. She was just a little bit pleased with herself.
‘Harlot,’ she told her reflection. ‘Brazen hussy.’ The words that had stung, made her hang her head in shame for the wrong she had done, had a very different effect on her now that they were not being whispered behind her back, publicly branding her. Here in Bharym, she was not Stephanie Darvill, fallen woman, she was the Royal Horse Surgeon, and in public she would make damned sure that was how it would stay. But in private she rather liked the idea of living up to the names that had condemned her. She would like to be a great deal more wicked, provided she took great care there were no unfortunate consequences.
Her face fell. Mama’s words, and Mama’s biggest concern, when the vicious rumours of her daughter’s ruin reached her. The resultant scene had been mortifying for mother and daughter—Stephanie resorting to medical terminology in order to try to reassure Mama that she knew enough of the workings of the body to have managed that risk, at least, seemed to appal Mama even more. If Mama could see her now, proving every insult hurled at her to be true, she would be shocked to the core. As far as Mama was concerned, her daughter’s fall from grace could only be mitigated by a lifetime of chastity. It’s what Stephanie had believed too, and thought she had come to terms with in that last long, lonely year at Newmarket.
But she was on the other side of the world now, and Mama would never know what her daughter was getting up to here. When she returned to England, Stephanie Darvill’s fall from grace would be history, and Stephanie Darvill, veterinarian to a royal prince, would make her fresh start. She would make her own way, and she would ensure that people judged her only on her medical skills. She would prove herself the equal of any man.
But England was months away. She was in Arabia now, and she intended to make the most of it.
* * *
Rafiq poured Stephanie another glass of iced pomegranate juice and helped her to some honey-drenched pastries. ‘You are very subdued. Are you regretting what happened?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no. Quite the contrary.’ Her smile sent the blood rushing back to his groin. ‘You know Rafiq, that an enquiring mind, and a willingness to experiment are fundamental to my success as a veterinarian.’
It took him a moment to understand her meaning, but when he did, his shaft, not yet fully subsided, stirred into life. ‘Are you suggesting that we experiment with pleasure?’
She chuckled. ‘I’m suggesting that I would like to experiment. I doubt very much that I can teach you anything.’
He touched her cheek. ‘You underestimate yourself. Today was as new an experience for me as it was for you. Everything with you feels like the first time.’
‘Well, it is pretty much all new to me.’ Stephanie set her empty plate aside and licked her fingers. ‘I will rely on your experience to guide me. As a veterinarian, I can consult any number of instruction manuals and handbooks, but there are no textbooks for fallen women to follow.’
‘You would be surprised,’ Rafiq said.
Her eyes widened, not with shock but with curiosity. She was a bold innocent, another in her litany of paradoxes. It was a heady combination. ‘There are many such books. My grandfather, I am sorry to say, was an avid connoisseur of such matters, and has an extensive collection. Though I must say, I prefer your suggestion, of experimentation.’
Her expression clouded. ‘I have almost everything to learn, while you—I am afraid you will be disappointed.’
‘Stephanie, you are incapable of disappointing me.’ He kissed her hand tenderly. ‘Every day you surprise me.’
‘By being insubordinate and disrespectful and...’
‘With your refreshing honesty. And your novel slant on the world.’ He kissed her hand again. ‘You make me see things differently.’
‘Now that is a compliment which I am happy to accept.’
His laughter obscured the pounding at the door at first. Rafiq jumped up, adjusting his clothing. When he returned, his face was grim. ‘Another case of the sickness has struck. One of my brood mares this time. We must make haste and return to the stables.’
* * *
Stephanie got a taste of what it would feel like to race in the Dash of the Camels on the manic journey back to the palace. Clinging on grimly, she let her beast take its lead from Rafiq’s, feeling as if she were being tossed about in a storm at sea, though the sick feeling in her stomach had as much to do with the anticipation of what lay ahead of them. Rafiq had no details, save that Batal was continuing to make an extraordinary recovery. He had sent his man back ahead, with word that they were on their way.
‘Two cases in twenty-four hours,’ she said to Rafiq, panting breathlessly as they slowed in front of the imposing façade of the palace. ‘That has not happened before, has it?’
Grimly, he shook his head. The huge door in the wall which connected to the stable complex swung open. ‘I should have stayed,’ Stephanie said. ‘I should have been here.’
‘It is not your fault. Whatever happens, it is not your fault.’
Rafiq dismounted quickly before helping Stephanie down. In the archway of the stable buildings, a man was waiting, silently watching their approach.
He was tall with a slight stoop, and very thin, dressed in the traditional robes, a striped tunic under a loose cloak. His headdress of muslin fell almost to the ground, and was held in place by a thick double band made of silk rope. The face framed by his long pleated and oiled locks, was of a man who could have been any age from forty to sixty, with a strong aquiline profile, and a narrow chin made prominent by a pointed beard. Though his stance conveyed an air of sanguine world-weariness, his hands belied this, working incessantly at a set of worry beads. Stephanie felt a horrible, almost palpable, sense of foreboding.
Stepping towards them from the shadows he made his formal greeting, not to her, but to Rafiq. ‘Your Highness. I regret to inform you that you are too late. The mare, Anadil, is dead.’
‘No! Oh, Rafiq—Your Highness...’
‘Miss Darvill, may I present to you Jasim, my Master of the Horse? Jasim, as you are aware, Miss Darvill is my recently appointed Royal Horse Surgeon.’
She received the very smallest of bows in answer to her own formal greeting. Jasim’s eyes did not deign to meet hers, though whether he had noticed her slip in addressing Rafiq informally, or simply because she was a woman, Stephanie had no idea, and at this moment could not have cared less.
‘Where is Anadil? I’d like to see her, please.’
She spoke brusquely in Arabic, directly to Jasim, but he ignored her, looking to his master for direction. ‘Do as she asks,’ Rafiq said curtly.
‘But, Highness, the animal is dead.’
The Master of the Horse knew as soon as the words were out that he had made a mistake. Rafiq’s expression froze. He seemed, to Stephanie, to grow at least six inches. Jasim’s knees bent, stopping just short of obeisance. ‘Do you recall,’