Rafiq watched her covertly, noting the effort it took her to regain her composure. The robe she wore was cut demurely enough at the neck, but it was still low enough to show the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. Her curves distracted him. He wondered if the ribbon tied at the neckline was the only fastening of the dress. He wondered what she wore beneath that gown. It looked flimsy enough, but it was most likely an illusion. In his limited experience, the complexity of the undergarments worn by European women seemed expressly designed to repel a man’s advances.
Miss Darvill herself, on the other hand, seemed designed to encourage just such advances, yet she was not married, and nor was she, in her own words that sort of woman. What sort of woman was she? And why did she crave what she called independence? Would she live alone? Why would a woman wish for such a thing? Though admittedly, his experience of Western women was not extensive, he did not think they were so very different from women in the East. Didn’t all women wish for a husband, children? But this woman—he had never met anyone quite like this woman.
‘I have no interest in marriage, Your Highness,’ Stephanie Darvill said, interrupting his thoughts, ‘and I confess I fail to understand what my aspirations—or lack of them—in that direction have to do with my ability to cure your horses. Save of course,’ she added tightly, ‘that as a single woman without a husband to dictate my movements, I was free to travel to your aid.’
‘My apologies,’ Rafiq said, equally tightly, for he was quite unaccustomed to being placed in the wrong. ‘You are in the right of it. What matters are your skills as a horse surgeon, and whether those skills will compensate for the disruption your presence in my stables will undoubtedly generate, for they are an exclusively male domain.’
‘Then they are no different from any other stables in which I have worked.’
‘The difference, Miss Darvill, is that here you have neither your father’s presence nor his reputation to shield you from what can be a rough-and-tumble environment.’
‘Not as rough and tumble an environment as a battlefield,’ she countered, ‘although Papa would never permit me anywhere near the actual fighting. I was left in sole charge behind the lines. My place will be taken by his new assistant, in this conflict with Napoleon that is to come. For all I know, battle may even have commenced by now.’ For a moment she was lost to him, her gaze unfocused, her thoughts clearly with her family, but then she gave a little shrug, a tiny smile. ‘He made me promise not to worry about him. It is a promise we who followed the drum—family, servants, wives, children—were always being obliged to make, though I doubt any of us ever managed to truly keep it. It was worse, in a way, being so far from the battle lines, imagining what was happening not just to one’s family but one’s friends, and of course the horses. Though I would never equate an animal with a human life, I do not subscribe to the view that they possess no feelings.’
‘Nor I,’ Rafiq said warmly. ‘In fact I would go further, and say that there can be a true affinity between a horse and a rider.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ Miss Darvill said enthusiastically. ‘If a man is afraid going into battle, he transmits that fear to his horse. I have seen it so many times. And though you may scoff, I have also seen a horse make a man braver with a display of—of eagerness. That sounds silly, but...’
Rafiq shook his head, smiling. ‘Not at all. Arabians, mares especially, are highly valued for their fearlessness in a battle charge, which can give a rider the confidence he lacks, or enhance what fortitude already exists. But it is more than that. In the most hostile parts of the desert, I have seen a horse struggle on, carrying her master to the safety of an oasis when all hope seemed lost.’
‘And in battle too,’ Stephanie said eagerly, ‘there have been many, many times when Papa has witnessed horses returning men almost dead in the saddle to the safety of our lines, often at great cost to themselves. And those same men, they will do almost anything to save their horses too. I have seen the most battle-hardened of soldiers weep for the loss of his steed. And weep too, when an animal which looked beyond recovery has been saved against the odds. That,’ Stephanie Darvill said, clasping her hands together fervently, ‘is one of the very best aspects of my vocation.’
He could not help but be endeared. ‘Your love of horses shines through.’
She beamed at him. ‘As does yours.’
‘I quite literally grew up around horses,’ Rafiq confided. ‘When I was three months old, I was sent out to be raised by a Bedouin tribe. It is the custom here, for a prince’s sons to live outside the palace confines for ten years in this way. Bedouins treat their horses as part of the extended family. They even bring them into their tents at night to shelter from the chill desert air.’
‘Those early years then, sowed the seed of your ambition to establish the Bharym stud farm?’
‘Bharym has a proud legacy of breeding the finest thoroughbreds. It is part of our heritage.’
She flinched at the edge in his voice. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea. I was under the impression that this stud was relatively new.’
‘In a literal sense you are correct,’ Rafiq said stiffly. ‘The stables were rebuilt when I inherited the kingdom eight years ago, but I believe—and my people also—that they are a continuation of what has gone before. The seed of my ambition, as you put it, was planted fourteen years ago, on the day when Bharym lost the Sabr.’
‘The Sabr? Aida—your Mistress of the Harem—mentioned this Sabr, what is it?’
‘The Sabr is the most prestigious annual endurance race in all of Arabia.’
‘Like the Derby in England?’
‘There is no comparison,’ Rafiq said. ‘To win the Sabr brings prestige not only to the owner, but to the whole kingdom. The Sabr is a symbol of national pride.’
‘So this race, it is to win it that you established—re-established—the stud?’ Stephanie Darvill was frowning. ‘Your Highness, this outbreak of sickness, why must it be kept secret? Aida—you must not think badly of her, she said nothing indiscreet, save only that it was not to be talked of.’
‘This year, after fourteen years’ absence, we finally have a string of horses with sufficient stamina and fleetness of foot to compete with the very best. All my people’s hopes are pinned on winning. This sickness puts not only a horse race but Bharym’s entire future at risk.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I am certain that to you that must sound preposterous. How can a mere horse race determine the fate of a kingdom? With respect, you are a stranger, you cannot understand the history of Bharym and the Sabr, but I assure you, its importance to my people cannot be overstated.’
To say nothing of how critical it was to him. Could this foreign woman save the race for them? Could she be the one who would help him defeat the fates and secure a future for his country, his people, himself? A preposterous notion, he’d thought when he first set eyes on her, but now—now, his instincts told him to trust her. And his head told him he had no better option. ‘Tomorrow,’ Rafiq said, ‘I will tell you the story of the Sabr. Then you will understand how vital it is that you save my horses.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Does that mean you will permit me to treat them? I cannot tell you how much this means to me, Your Highness.’
Her smile, the first real smile he had been granted, lit up her face. ‘Rafiq,’ he said, checking first that the servants had left the room. ‘When we are alone, you may call me Rafiq.’
‘Then I must be Stephanie.
