LITMIR.BIZ

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hopefully restored patient later.’

      She watched him go, listened to him issuing orders in that commanding way he had, wondering what it was in his tone that made it clear he took instant obedience for granted, for she had never heard him raise his voice. She put her fingers to her mouth, reliving the gentle touch of his lips on hers.

      Batal brayed, a plaintive little sound, but a valiant one. Stephanie ruffled his ears. ‘You really were named well, my hero,’ she said softly. ‘You are going to get well, little man, I promise you.’

      A noise in the doorway made her turn. Fadil stood there, a gaggle of stable hands gathered behind him. ‘It was an auspicious day when fate brought you to us,’ he said. ‘His Royal Highness was a wise man to appoint you his Royal Horse Surgeon, Miss Darvill. Now we dare hope that the Sabr will return to Bharym as our Prince has promised.’

      * * *

      Rafiq, who had returned to the loose box to check on Batal, was not surprised to see Stephanie walk in. ‘You managed to obey my command for two whole hours,’ he said blandly, ‘I suppose I should consider that progress.’

      Stephanie had bathed and changed, her hair tied back with a fuchsia-pink silk scarf, a colourful contrast to the muted pink-and-cream stripes of her tunic and cloak.

      Though it had been a very different kiss, that kiss this morning, a kiss fuelled by relief on both their parts, by gratitude on his, it had been there all the same, that tiny thread of awareness that linked them, no matter what the circumstances. It was present now. He could no longer pretend that it was abstinence which fired his desire. It was Stephanie. This particular woman, most likely because of these peculiar circumstances. Circumstances which made him hesitate to act, for though his desire for her was fierce, his desire to rid himself of the past was even stronger, and Stephanie held the key to that. He could not afford to lose her. That much, he sincerely hoped, he had made clear to her, though she could never understand the true significance of the Sabr to him.

      Batal’s survival was a portent, another step towards the future, when Bharym’s people would recover their spirit, when Bharym’s Prince would rid himself of his guilt. He had a foretaste of how that would be when he was with Stephanie. He was a different man, with her. He caught himself sometimes, talking to her, teasing her, laughing with her, in a way that was quite alien to him. He didn’t recognise that man, but he enjoyed the change, no longer a man haunted by his past, but a man who relished the present. Stephanie gave him a glimpse of how it would be in the future. He wished fervently that there was a way to glimpse more of it, to indulge their mutual passion, without endangering the future itself.

      Was there a way? Watching her rise from checking Batal, Rafiq wondered. It could mean nothing to either of them, they had already established that. If Stephanie wanted to—and he was pretty certain she did, as much as he—then surely they could come to some sort of tacit understanding, within strict boundaries?

      Meeting her eyes as she dried her hands, Rafiq smiled.

      ‘I think Batal here has made a quite remarkable recovery,’ she said, ‘though how he became infected in the first place is a question which I can’t answer at the moment, for he shares neither food, water nor bedding with the horses in the stables.’

      ‘Batal is what we call a companion,’ Rafiq told her, ruffling the mule’s ears. ‘Despite his behaviour last night, he is a placid beast, and has a very calming influence on our more highly strung thoroughbreds. He has seen some of our most nervous mares through difficult foalings, some of our friskiest yearlings through their early training.’

      ‘So he may have become infected here?’ Stephanie said. ‘I will check when he last performed his companion duties. We will need to keep an eye on the other mules now too, lest Batal here has infected them, though proximity to an infected animal does not seem to result in contagion.’ Stephanie pursed her lips. ‘I have eliminated a good many causes, but I am still no closer to finding the source.’

      ‘You have only been here two weeks, and this is your first case.’

      ‘Yes, but...’

      ‘Enough, for now. I have a prescription for you, veterinarian. You will take a break for the rest of the day from horses and from the stables and from the palace,’ Rafiq said. ‘It is time you saw a little more of my kingdom.’

      * * *

      The city was far more extensive than Stephanie could have imagined from the glimpses she’d had when she first arrived in Bharym. Viewing it now from the vantage point which the approach from the palace afforded her, she could see that the red-brick buildings extended right into the foothills of the mountain, climbing in terraces up the sheer rock face. Though all the tightly packed buildings were square and flat-roofed, some were narrow, some broad, some had only two storeys while others soared six, seven, or more storeys high.

      She and Rafiq rode unescorted. ‘I believe I informed you on your first night here, that I have not my father’s fondness for pomp and ceremony,’ he told her, when she commented on this. ‘In his day, a journey to the city would have involved a caravan of at least thirty camels, and any number of standard bearers. My father had the most cumbersome saddle too, more like a mobile throne, which took a considerable toll on the camel which had to bear it.’

      But as they passed through the soaring stone arch of the city gates, it became apparent that Rafiq had no need of camels or bearers or throne-like saddles to proclaim his majesty. He wore a simple white tunic and cloak, his keffiyeh held in place with a red-silk scarf, the only gold the glittering hilt of the sabre hanging from the belt at his waist. She was reminded of her first glimpse of him in the Royal Receiving Room, her urge to kneel before him, distinctly different from the most disrespectful urge she had had the last time the Duke of Wellington had inspected Papa’s regiment. The Commander-in-Chief’s arrogant assumption of superiority had raised Stephanie’s hackles. Glancing over at Rafiq, smiling and gesturing his kneeling subjects to their feet, her blood heated for a very different reason.

      They entered an open space bordered by market stalls. Rafiq brought his camel to a halt, summoning one of the cluster of small boys who had gathered around to take the reins as he dismounted, gesturing to another small boy to tend to Stephanie’s animal as Rafiq helped her to dismount. ‘The streets are extremely narrow. It is easier if we progress on foot,’ he continued in English quietly. ‘It is my custom to hear informal petitions on such occasions, so we may be somewhat besieged at times but fear not, you will be perfectly safe.’

      She had no time to respond, for they were at that moment swept away into the recesses of the city. A noisy, cheerful, excited rabble of people of all ages surged in a wave around them, making their progress into a procession. Though she was separated from him, Rafiq made a point of halting every now and then, the crowd parting automatically to usher her through to join him, and then they continued.

      She was content to observe, and there was a great deal to absorb her attention. The city itself, with its myriad of idiosyncratic buildings, decorated with pale stone swirls which, when seen close up, formed themselves into elaborate geometric patterns. So closely packed were the houses that the cobbled streets were cool, even in the blaze of the afternoon sun. Fountains trickled at every junction, some mere stone pedestals, others in the shape of scallop shells, fishes, serpents. The air here smelt sweeter, with no trace of the dusty, gritty desert which lay beyond the gates.

      The women of Bharym wore no veils, though they protected their heads from the heat of the sun in a variety of ways. Some wore huge squares of fabric, big enough to act as both headdress and cloak, others cleverly draped long strips, like evening stoles, to form a hood and a scarf. A few sported turbans decorated with beads. And some, like Stephanie, wore a keffiyeh. The Sabr seemed to be their only topic of conversation when she chatted with them in their own language while Rafiq was otherwise engaged.

      ‘When the Sabr returns to Bharym, we can once again hold our heads high.’

      ‘When the Sabr returns, the rain will fall in torrents.’

      ‘When the Sabr returns, our Prince will be blessed with an heir.’

      ‘When

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