LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Nine

      Some of the women were veiled, many were not. Stephanie was at first quite overwhelmed by the crush of jostling bodies and the constant noise. Everyone seemed to speak at a shout and to walk at a snail’s pace save for children and dogs who raced about madly, screaming wildly with excitement, dashing between the tall poles to which the horses were tethered. Men and women bearing trays of hot food and cold drinks called out to advertise their wares as they wandered aimlessly, meandering back and forward through the crowds. The air was heady with the scent of food and animals and people.

      Content simply to absorb the atmosphere, unwilling to draw attention to herself, Stephanie kept in Rafiq’s shadow. Despite the fact that he was not here in any official capacity, he was recognised by everyone, and the question on everyone’s lips was the Sabr. Knowing how much it set him on edge, she watched with trepidation, and was consequently surprised to hear him not only joining in the speculation, but relishing it.

      ‘This will undoubtedly be Bharym’s year,’ he said. ‘This will be the year the Sabr returns to its rightful home.’ With each assertion, his eyes met Stephanie’s. His fingers gripped hers for a fleeting moment, under cover of the folds of her abba. ‘For the first time, I truly do believe it,’ he whispered.

      They joined the milling crowds examining the horses. ‘Though the trick is, as you will see if you observe closely, to pretend not to examine the best ones,’ Rafiq explained to Stephanie. ‘This is not an auction, but operates as a private bartering system. If a great deal of fuss is made over a horse then it attracts the attention of other buyers, thus raising the price. So a buyer feigns great interest in the horses he doesn’t want, while offering a lower price for the ones he does, hoping that by ignoring them, no one else will compete with him. Do you follow?’

      ‘No,’ Stephanie replied. He could tell she was smiling. ‘It is a preposterous system, since everyone knows the game and plays along accordingly. And, since almost every man and women here is an expert assessor of horseflesh, it must be obvious which are the best horses.’

      ‘Yes, the ones standing neglected,’ Rafiq answered, laughing. ‘It is the custom never to discuss the price paid, and one can never be sure if the seller is bluffing when he tells you that he has been offered a higher price so bargains are difficult to find. The horses I have purchased at these fairs have all been outrageously expensive, though admittedly of excellent quality.’

      ‘So you bought the stallions which formed your new stables at a horse fair?’ Stephanie asked. ‘I remember when you told me the story of the Sabr, you said that the stallions had cost you more than I could possibly imagine. At the time, I must say, I didn’t think you meant gold, but it seems you did.’

      She could have no idea, Rafiq thought. He felt a momentary urge to confide in her before ruthlessly quelling it. Was this what Stephanie meant when she accused him of hiding behind an impenetrable cloak? After the hamam, he recalled now, she had suggested he be more candid about his past, less guarded. They had been talking of Elmira. She could have no notion that they were talking of Elmira again. He didn’t like this habit Stephanie was developing, of reminding him of his dead wife, no matter how unwittingly. Finding her gaze still fixed on him, Rafiq wished that he had kept his face covered too. He shrugged, turning away. ‘I obtained the Bharym stallions from another source.’

      An answer that was not an answer, they both knew full well, but Stephanie had obviously decided not to spoil their unspoken truce, and merely nodded. He should have been relieved. Instead, he felt guilty. He watched her playing the game with the horse traders, amused to see that she was, typically, challenging the system by making a fuss over the finest of the horses, to the glee of their owners, and undoubtedly incurring the ire of potential purchasers, though naturally none betrayed themselves.

      Despite her veil, despite her perfect command of the language, she had been spotted as a foreigner, but she did not seem to be at all unnerved by the attention. He stood on the fringes watching her, ready to intervene if required, but could detect no sign of disrespect. It had been the same in the city, he recalled now. Her natural curiosity overcame any shyness, her modesty, her complete unawareness of her appeal, meant men, women and children alike were drawn to her.

      Stephanie wanted children. Lots of them, she had said. Stephanie’s independence was coming at an enormous cost. The unfairness of it struck him afresh. Why should she be punished so harshly! As a prince, he must marry a virgin, but Stephanie didn’t have any title at all. Was purity really so much more important than all her other qualities? She did not have to declare her loss of innocence to the world.

      His thoughts were making him very uncomfortable. Stephanie would be horrified if she were privy to them. She prized her precious independence beyond anything. She certainly had no intentions of getting married. Once bitten, twice shy, wasn’t that the English phrase? Hypocrite that he was, he was glad. He didn’t want to contemplate Stephanie with another man. He didn’t have any right to feel proprietorial about her, and she would be outraged if she knew, but that didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t bear the thought of it. Which would only be an issue when she left Arabia and returned to England. And then it would be absolutely none of his business what Stephanie did, so he needn’t concern himself with it at all.

      The tall man talking to her distracted Rafiq from this moral maze. Though his dress was not distinguished, consisting of practical desert clothes bearing the hallmarks of a long journey across the sands, the man himself had an unmistakable air of authority about him. And an edge of danger. The scimitar which hung from his belt looked well used. The man himself had the perfect build to wield it.

      Rafiq strode across the arena, pushing his way through the crowds. ‘May I be of service?’ he demanded.

      The tall man’s skin was deeply tanned, but his bleached brows and brilliant blue eyes betrayed him for a foreigner, albeit one who spoke perfect Arabic. ‘Not at all,’ he said blithely. ‘I was complimenting Miss Darvill here on her taste in horses—understandable now that I know she is your Royal Horse Surgeon. You must be Prince Rafiq.’ He held out his hand. ‘I have heard a great deal about your stud, and the Sabr race. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Christopher Fordyce.’

      ‘How do you do,’ Rafiq replied in English. The stranger might be dressed like a common man, but he had a most uncommon assurance. ‘You are a very long way from home, Mr Fordyce.’

      ‘Indeed. As is the delightful Miss Darvill here,’ he replied blandly. ‘You know, she is the third Englishwoman I have encountered here in Arabia in as many months. The region is awash with them! In Qaryma there was a botanist—though she’s likely back in England by now. And then, in Murimon, the Court Astronomer, would you believe?’

      ‘I am acquainted with Prince Kadar of Murimon. He owns one of my thoroughbreds.’

      ‘Lucky chap. I would very much like to own one of your highly prized horses, but I keep my ear to the ground and I know better than to ask whether you brought any along to sell today.’

      Rafiq stiffened. ‘Why is that? What have you heard?’

      ‘Only that it’s well known in these parts that you sell only to those and such as those, and not on the open market,’ Christopher Fordyce said, a slight frown pulling his bleached brows together. ‘No need to take offence.’

      ‘No offence was taken, I assure you. I take it that you are here to purchase some horseflesh, Mr Fordyce.’

      ‘Oh, I’m just passing through.’

      ‘First Qaryma, then Murimon, and now Nessarah. A rather circuitous itinerary. I am sure you have a good reason for it.’

      The Englishman laughed. ‘As good as reason as you do, for bringing Richard Darvill’s daughter all the way from England to tend to your Sabr runners,

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