She led the way into a huge terraced courtyard, the centre of which was open to the dusky desert sky. The floor was cool tiles studded with mosaic. A fountain tinkled, but Stephanie barely had time to register any of this before she was whisked off to the far corner. ‘Your quarters, madam. I hope they meet with your approval.’
‘Oh, my goodness.’ Stephanie stared in wonder at the luxuriously appointed chamber. Somewhere between leaving the dhow this morning and the long, arduous trek through the desert, she seemed to have left reality behind and stepped into a dream world.
‘There is a sitting room and dining salon across on the other side of the courtyard,’ Aida informed her. ‘I have taken the liberty of pouring you a refreshing cold drink. If madam would excuse me, I will ensure that the bath is made ready.’
‘Thank you.’ Stephanie picked up the tall frosted glass. The drink was both sharp and sweet, delicately scented with rosewater.
A high divan bed dominated the room, a homage to opulence. She had never seen anything so sumptuous. She trailed her fingers through the layers of voile hangings, stroking the silk covers, lifting a soft velvet cushion to her cheek. The tassels tickled her chin.
She was in a royal harem. In a royal palace. Belonging to a royal prince. Who happened to be the most handsome man she had ever met. Yet his harem was conspicuously bereft of concubines and wives. Had she misheard him or misunderstood him? Prince Rafiq must be around thirty, maybe a year or so older at most. Surely it was expected of him that he marry, if only for the sake of an heir? Royal families, whether Arabian or British, were not so very different in that respect.
Stephanie refilled her glass and perched on the edge of the divan. Prince Rafiq’s marital status was not any of her concern, of course. Nor indeed, was the fact that when he had kissed her hand she had felt the most delicious frisson, had been so certain, for just a fleeting moment, that he felt it too. It was quite ridiculous to imagine that a man as attractive as the Prince could find her desirable. And even if he did, she wasn’t going to be so stupid as to reciprocate his interest in her. She had sworn to learn from her mistake. This was the perfect opportunity to prove that she had!
Stephanie gave herself a shake. This room might look fit for a princess, but she was not here to lounge about dressed in silks and eating sweetmeats, she was here to try to cure the terrible sickness with ailed Prince Rafiq’s Arabian thoroughbreds. A misfortune entirely of his own making, he had said, which was odd. How could he imagine that it was his fault? He did not strike her as a superstitious man. He had not summoned a soothsayer to his aid, but a man of science. ‘And what landed on his doorstep instead was a mere woman of science,’ Stephanie muttered to herself, ‘who is likely going to have to work magic of some form, if she is to succeed in finding a cure.’
The butterflies in her tummy, which had never quite stopped fluttering since her arrival here, started up again in earnest. She so desperately wanted to succeed. So much depended upon it. She would no longer be a lost cause. She would have the means to support herself, and if she succeeded, the prestige of this appointment would surely outweigh the scandal which, despite a year spent in what amounted to hiding, still clung tenaciously to her like a noxious smell. Papa would never have urged her to come here had he thought her skills inadequate to the challenge, she reminded herself. He most certainly would not wish to do further damage to her already dented confidence by setting her up to fail. So she had better get on with it, starting with making sure she wasn’t late for her dinner appointment with the Prince.
Opening the trunk which contained her clothes, and which had been deposited at the bottom of the divan, Stephanie groaned. There was absolutely nothing within in which to make a good impression. She had packed solely for her role as horse doctor, boxes of books and notes and instruments, expecting to live in the stable quarters and to spend her time with the horses. Her dismay was compounded as she turned away from her meagre attire to the long mirror which stood by the high lacquered cabinet.
She must have imagined the flicker of desire in Prince Rafiq’s eyes when he kissed her hand. The man was sin incarnate, whereas she looked as if she had been rolled first in oil, then in the desert sand. Her hair managed to be both limp and wild at the same time and her face—now she could see why desert travellers used their keffiyeh for protection from the sun. With considerably less than an hour to make herself presentable, Stephanie tore off her clothes and rushed through to the bathing chamber clad only in a dressing robe. The room was decorated entirely in cool creamy-white marble. There was a washing fountain, and a long table which would presumably be used for massage, besides the huge bathing tub which was filled with warm water, the surface strewn with flower petals.
‘Thank you,’ she said to Aida, who discreetly—to Stephanie’s relief—left the room. Though she longed to luxuriate in the delicately scented water, there was no time for anything other than a very swift but efficient toilette. Emerging much cleaner and considerably refreshed, she secured her newly washed hair in a chignon and was once again faced with the dilemma of what to wear. Aside from her spare riding habit and accompanying supply of shirts, she had only packed only nightwear, undergarments and one day gown. Fashioned from plain white cotton, with short puffed sleeves and a high waist, the décolleté gathered with a satin ribbon, the wide panel of white-work embroidery running down the centre of the gown from neckline to hem was the gown’s only adornment. Clad now in her chemise, corsets and stockings, Stephanie held the dress up for Aida’s inspection. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have anything else, do you think this will suffice?’
The Mistress of the Harem looked dubious. ‘It is a pity I had not more notice of your arrival. I would very much appreciate the opportunity to dress a fine lady again.’
‘Oh, I’m not a lady, I am an army officer’s daughter and work with horses.’
Stephanie held the dress against her to study it in the mirror. It was a comfortable, cool garment, and it was her favourite. The trouble was, her affection for it showed all too plainly in its almost threadbare state. Perhaps she would ask Aida to make her a new gown. Nothing extravagant, but...
‘You said that you would appreciate the opportunity to dress a fine lady again,’ she exclaimed, turning back to face Aida. ‘What did you mean by that? Do you refer to—to concubines?’
Aida flushed deeply, looking even more shocked than Stephanie felt. ‘Indeed no, there have been no such women in the palace since the reign of Prince Bassaym, the grandfather of our revered and honourable prince. No, I refer to...’ She paused, looking over both shoulders before continuing, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I refer to Prince Rafiq’s wife, the Princess Elmira.’
So he was married. Why then had he implied that he was not, with his reference to an empty harem? And where was his wife, if she was no longer resident in the harem? ‘I don’t understand,’ Stephanie said. ‘Is the Princess Elmira elsewhere at present?’
‘I’m afraid the Princess Elmira is no longer with us.’
‘No longer—oh! I’m so sorry, do you mean she is dead?’
‘Two years ago, the Princess Elmira died tragically in her sleep,’ Aida said in hushed tones. ‘Such a mortal blow for the Prince and for our people, for we long to see the Royal House of al-Antarah flourish once more.’ The Mistress of the Harem shook her head sadly. ‘But as it is for Bharym, so it is for Prince Rafiq. Until the Sabr is reclaimed, none of us can truly be happy.’
‘The Sabr?’
‘The Sabr,’ Aida repeated reverentially. ‘You said you work with horses. That explains your presence here, madam. The Prince has summoned you all the way from England in order to safeguard our chances, yes?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘At the stables