picked up a handful and let them fall in a soft cloud back on to the divan. Plain clothes, fit for the stables, she had requested, but these garments seemed redolent of the harem. And there were some things Stephanie had not requested. A vibrant gown of silk woven in a splash of pinks, cerise and fuchsia, violet and lavender, the long sleeves slashed to fall open at the shoulder, with a tasselled belt and a long length of voile to be draped mantilla-like into a veil, if required. There were pink slippers to match, the curled toes adorned with tiny silver bells. And a robe which might be for dressing, or which could be worn over a dishdasha to make it more formal, in bottle green, fitted at the waist, the sleeves and hem embroidered with a bold symmetrical pattern in the russet colours of English autumn leaves that reminded Stephanie of the tiled ceiling in Rafiq’s private dining room.
Rafiq. She was aware that he had returned to the palace. She suspected that Fadil had fully briefed him. Perhaps that was how it was to be from now on, she was to be kept at arm’s length. A good thing, she thought, for it would mean she had no further opportunity to make a fool of herself. No chance to prove she had grossly exaggerated the effect of that kiss. No excuse to kiss him again.
Stephanie quickly stripped and, donning her dressing wrapper, padded through to the bathing chamber where her bath was waiting. Stepping into the soothing water, she closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind, but it was no use, the image which lurked there was too enticing. There was Rafiq with his sinful smile. His arms around her waist. His mouth on hers. She could feel the touch of his tongue. She could taste his lips. His hair was silky-soft. And his body was hard.
Her own tightened in response. Not tension but anticipation. That feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff again. That warm, trickling heat again. That odd feeling. Yearning? Wanting? The frustrated urge to touch and to stroke, to discover for herself the ripple of Rafiq’s muscles under his skin. And to have him touch her, stroke her, his hands on her naked body.
Stephanie sat up in the bath, picked up the fresh bar of olive-oil soap which Aida insisted on providing every evening, and began to wash. What was wrong with her! The memory of those kisses ought to fill her with shame, not fill her with longing for more. She was not a harlot, despite what they said, so why was her body trying to beguile her once again into acting like one? Respectable women did not crave kisses. They did not enjoy kisses. They were not disappointed when the promise of those kisses was unfulfilled.
But Rafiq’s kisses were so very different. His ardour had been—not restrained exactly but kept tightly leashed. His kisses coaxed and teased, as if there was all the time in the world, as if those kisses were the whole point, not a prelude. Rafiq’s kisses were very different indeed to Rupert’s.
Rupert!
She stepped out of the bath and began to dry herself ruthlessly. She would not allow his name to contaminate her new life. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, screwed her eyes tight. She was not a harlot, no matter what the whispered innuendoes had claimed. She was a silly fool who had thrown away her reputation on a man who had no respect for her, never mind any intentions, but she would not allow the mortification to follow her here. She would not!
Returning to her bedchamber, Stephanie found Aida awaiting in an agitated flutter. ‘His Royal Highness requires your presence in the Hall of Campaign without delay, madam. Which of your new garments would you like to wear?’
* * *
Stephanie had donned the beautifully embroidered green robe over the mint-green tunic. On her feet were slippers of the softest leather, which slipped and slid on the polished marble floors she crossed. Her body, freed from the confines of her corsets, felt strange. Bits of her moved of their own accord. Her unstockinged legs felt shockingly naked, even though they were clad in pantaloons under her tunic. The silky fabric of her undergarments was a constant and distracting caress.
The Hall of Campaign, Aida had informed her, was where Rafiq carried out state business. Today was one of four set aside each year during which each of Bharym’s Village Elders were permitted to petition the Prince. The audiences had begun at daybreak and had only just finished. Stephanie was prepared for a formal state room similar to the Royal Receiving Room, but when the double doors were flung open, she gasped in astonishment.
The chamber was a massive space with a soaring vaulted ceiling supported by six—no, eight—ribbed columns on either side, splitting the space into three distinct aisles. The lower walls were covered in a frieze of dark wood carved into intricate scrollwork, while above rows of huge circular ceramics studded the plaster. Thin metal rails were fixed at half the ceiling height to the columns, and from these were suspended hundreds of glass-domed lanterns, at present unlit, for the sun had not yet gone down, and light blazed in through the enormous circular window facing her. Under which was a divan. Sitting on which was Rafiq.
He was dressed as he had been when first she met him, in his formal robes. White silk, gold, diamonds, though his headdress, belt and scimitar had been discarded and lay on the divan beside him.
‘Your Highness.’ Her stomach was a swirling cloud of butterflies, just as it had been that first time. She was glad of the excuse to curtsy and not have to meet his gaze.
‘Stephanie, we are quite alone, there is no need to be so formal.’
He took her hand, helping her up. Just the touch of his fingers made her tremble and blush. She mustn’t think of the last time she had seen him. She mustn’t think of that kiss. ‘I expect you wish to know how I am progressing,’ she said, keeping her gaze on her feet.
‘I do.’
Relieved to be on safe ground, Stephanie launched into the report she had been preparing, refining and rehearsing for the last ten days. It was extensive and comprehensive, and as she drew to a close, she was slightly breathless. ‘I have taken the decision to isolate the horses which are being trained to run in the Sabr, and to keep them at the training grounds, well away from the stables.’
Rafiq’s expression brightened. ‘You think that will prevent them from becoming infected?’
‘I honestly don’t know, since we have not established the source of the sickness or indeed the method of infection, but as a precaution it can certainly do no harm. Since it seems to strike randomly it occurred to me that by compiling a diary of events of the circumstances surrounding each case of infection, we might identify some commonalities.’
‘An excellent idea.’
‘Thank you.’ If she didn’t look at him, she would be able to keep her mind focused. ‘As a result I have been able to discount any link between the disease and the animal feed, or the water at the stables paddock.’
‘Fadil is most impressed with you.’
She wished he wouldn’t smile, it made him unbearably beguiling. She oughtn’t to allow herself to become too pleased with herself, though it was very good to have it confirmed that she had made as good an impression as she had hoped, and that the Head Groom’s respect was based on her skill, and not his Prince’s authority. ‘It is a start, but I haven’t achieved anything of note yet.’
‘You saved Sarmadee’s foal, and possibly Sarmadee herself, if there had been further complications with the birth. That is both of note and most impressive.’
‘It was nothing,’ Stephanie said, but she couldn’t help smiling. ‘Nature is just so wonderful. It is like watching a miracle every time. ‘They are both doing very well.’
‘And so are you. When I said that I wished to know how you are progressing, I meant you,
