Glancing over at Rafiq, she felt her sense of foreboding increase. She didn’t want to replace her memories of him with any others. Most likely she wouldn’t have to. When she returned to England, she would have to be very careful of her reputation. Another melancholy thought. England. Grey skies. No Rafiq.
‘Oh, no, Stephanie Darvill,’ she muttered under her breath, making the camel’s ears twitch. ‘You would not be so foolish.’
No, she would not! She would not forget what she was here to do. She would not forget that when she had done it, she was going back to England. She would not forget that he was a prince and she was a farrier’s daughter. And even if she was so incredibly foolish as to forget all these things, she would remember that she was a fallen woman, and that, ironically, the downfall which had freed her to play the harlot would be her downfall, because no man, and especially not a prince, would actually marry a fallen woman. Dally with her perhaps, but marriage would be out of the question.
All of which should reassure her, yet as they approached the palace, Stephanie could not recapture her elation. Perhaps it was because they were returning to the palace. Rafiq would turn back into a prince, and she would once again be his veterinarian. Yes, that could be it. Then there was the fact that he was going to start training for the Sabr, which was bound to leave him with even less time to throw off his princely mantle than before. That also, was a sound reason.
They arrived at the stables. Rafiq helped her down. ‘I will leave you to your duties, you will no doubt be anxious to check what has transpired in your absence,’ he said, making straight for the palace.
Not a trace of the turmoil she was feeling. It had been a pleasure for him, but no more. ‘What more could there possibly be?’ Stephanie muttered under her breath. She knew the answer, but she refused to countenance it. She would content herself with what she had. It was a great deal more than she could have imagined a few months ago, the promise of a future where she was no longer a burden, where she had the freedom to do what she loved best. She wasn’t going to jeopardise it by giving way to feelings which had no future at all.
As she handed the camels over to one of the stable hands, Stephanie was about to head to the harem to take a bath, when Fadil accosted her. ‘If you please, Miss Darvill, could you take a look at the new foal? I don’t think it is the sickness but there is something wrong.’
* * *
Rafiq lay in his bathtub. In his bedchamber, his man would be laying out his formal robes for the Council meeting he had called this afternoon. In his office several secretaries would be cancelling, delegating, rearranging his official engagements from now until the date of the Sabr. Another team of secretaries would be in charge of the Sabr itself. This year, his people would throng to the race. The celebrations would have to be arranged well in advance. He would not allow himself to think of failure. He would meet with Jasim in half an hour’s time. A meeting of extreme import to discuss Rafiq’s personal training regime and the progress of his crack team of horses. A few months ago, a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t have dared hope. Now, he was relying on it.
Actions spoke louder than words. Stephanie. He sank further into the hot water, draping a wet flannel over his face. Such actions. He had known from the moment they first kissed how it would be. It had been better. Better than he had imagined. Better than any other time before. Better than he had thought possible.
She was so bold. There were no half-measures with Stephanie. When he touched her, she made no attempt to disguise the effect he had on her. And when she touched him—the way she looked at him, as if she were trying to read his thoughts, as if every thought mattered. Wanting to understand him.
Rafiq sat up, snatching the flannel from his face. They had made love—that was all. It had been highly satisfying, but that was all it had been. A distraction. A very pleasant distraction. But none the less, a distraction is what it was. He had no time to be wallowing here reliving it. He had a race to win.
* * *
The foal had been born while Stephanie and Rafiq were away at the horse fair, suffering its first seizure the day they returned. She was not surprised when he suffered a second seizure at eight days old, and although it left the beautiful young creature exhausted, she and Fadil had been able to prevent him doing any damage to himself. She had seen such seizures occasionally afflict thoroughbred foals during her time at the Newmarket stud. They were not fatal and the foals eventually grew out of them naturally. ‘A watchful eye to manage him through any further seizures, guard him carefully if they occur, just as we did just now, and with a bit of luck, when he is a year, eighteen months at the most, he will mature into a fine, healthy stallion,’ Stephanie told Fadil.
But someone must have informed Jasim, because he was waiting for her when she arrived at the stables the next morning. ‘Why are you wasting my men’s time on a weakling?’ he demanded.
They were in the middle of the courtyard and quite alone but Stephanie knew that every single stable hand, the men she had worked so hard to win over, would be watching. She stepped forward. ‘You should not be here,’ she said.
As usual, Jasim’s long fingers were working incessantly at a set of worry beads. As usual, his expression was one of contempt. ‘These are my stables. The foal is under my jurisdiction. I am affording you the courtesy of informing you personally before I have my orders carried out.’
‘What orders?’
‘To have the foal destroyed. This is a stud farm, Miss Darvill. We breed thoroughbreds as a business. Sentiment has no place here. We do not harbour weaklings.’ He eyed her up and down disdainfully. ‘Nor the weaker sex. It is not long until the Sabr. Then your presence here will be nothing but an unpleasant memory.’
Jasim snapped his fingers, and one of the stable hands appeared. The tall, surly one, Stephanie noticed, the one who was always lurking. He was carrying a gun. ‘No!’
The man looked to Jasim. ‘Do as I instructed and despatch the foal.’
‘No!’
Jasim turned away. The stable hand began to make his way inside. ‘No!’ Stephanie rushed at him, grabbing the gun. Taken by surprise, the man loosened his hold on the weapon, but before she could grab it, he had recovered. ‘No,’ she cried out. ‘Why won’t one of you help me? I will not let you...’
He let go of the gun so suddenly that Stephanie fell backwards, clutching it. Fortunately, it did not go off.
‘Are you hurt?’
The reason for the man’s sudden compliance helped her up. ‘Fadil came and fetched me. He seemed to think that you needed help. You are hurt,’ Rafiq said, seeing her tear-streaked face. ‘Stephanie...’
‘No, no. I am perfectly fine, but—Rafiq, it is the foal. The one born eight days ago, to Dameer. He has been having seizures. I have seen it before, it is something which affects thoroughbreds, a problem with the bloodline, but the foal will grow out of it. There is no need to have him shot.’
‘Stephanie,’ Rafiq said gently, ‘you must know that sometimes it is better to put an animal out of its suffering, especially if it is liable to hurt itself.’
She drew herself up to her full, short height. ‘It is my vocation to prevent suffering, but it’s also my vocation to save lives, where possible, and I think this foal’s life should be spared.’
‘Your Highness.’ Fadil stepped forward, trembling but determined. ‘Miss Darvill has—she is right, Your Highness. The foal is perfectly healthy, save for the occasional seizure, which she has shown me how to deal with in such a way as to avoid injury. There is no reason why he will not make a fine addition to your stables. In effect, Your Highness, I would endorse Miss Darvill’s suggestion.’
‘Thank you, Fadil,’ Stephanie said,