A scant three yards away, the dark horseman reined back fiercely, bringing the stallion almost to its haunches. She started to shoot. Truly she did.
Then she saw his face.
The wide end of the scarf tied about his mouth had worked loose, slipping down. Dear God, she thought, stunned. The stranger from the garden. She recognized that lean, proud face. He was the same man who only two nights ago had frightened her, had nearly kissed her.
Could she kill someone she had conversed with such a short time ago, someone she had exchanged banalities with, however unpleasant? Her mouth went dry, while her mind wildly sought answers to the questions that were assailing her: why had he pursued her, why was he so determined to frighten her?
She raised her wavering pistol.
Amusement flickered across those arrogant features, as if he saw her dilemma and found it humorous. He made no move to retrieve the rifle that was now resting in its scabbard on his saddle. Instead, he leaned forward and spoke in the horse's ear, as if sharing the jest. Alysson clenched her teeth. When he sat up again, she aimed, this time straight at his heart.
He laughed. He actually laughed, the low rich sound daring her to shoot. His teeth flashed strong and white in the bright sunlight, a startling contrast against his desert- bronzed skin. Then he struck. Heedless of the danger he charged directly at her on his powerful mount.
Fury at his contemptuous mirth, terror at her imminent peril, overcame her misgivings. Her finger frantically jerked on the trigger.
But she had hesitated a moment too long; the bullet went wide, only grazing his arm.
She never got another chance to fire. The Berber crowded his horse against her, compelling her to stumble back, making her trip and lose her grip on the pistol. The next instant he flung himself from the stallion, landing nearly on top of her as she fell, yet somehow sparing her the full force of his weight. Even so, her breath fled her lungs. Alysson found herself on her back, sprawled beneath the hard length of him, her hands manacled above her head by his long lean fingers.
For nearly the first time in her life she was confronted with real fear. Wild, muscle-stiffening fear. His body was taut and dangerous, radiating menace from every muscle. She could feel it through the thickness of his robes, through her own suddenly inadequate layers of clothing. The threat was as palpable as his body's heat.
Alysson whimpered, the frantic sound of an animal entrapped, as she struggled against unyielding masculine strength.
"Be still!" he ordered in that low, fluid French she remembered from the garden. "I won't harm you.'
Her panic abated at his promise, at the quiet reassurance in his voice. She ceased fighting so wildly, though she continued to sob for breath as she stared up into golden eyes that gleamed.hot and dangerous. What would he do to her? Torture, murder, rape? Oh, God, what would this savage do?
Those eyes were so fierce, so unforgiving. Her heart pounded in her breast as she lay trembling beneath him.
The force of his unblinking, mesmerizing gaze held hers for the longest moment, before he slowly he sat up. Shifting his weight, he released her wrists but kept her thighs pinned beneath his. His mouth was ruthlessly set as he pushed back a fold of his burnous—the voluminous cloak the natives of Barbary wore—and glanced down at his left arm. The sleeve of his black tunic glistened with something dark and wet.
Blood. She had wounded him. Would he punish her for her act of self-defense?
Alysson held her breath as he reached for the scarf about his throat. Frozen, rigid, she watched him struggle to tear off a piece of the cloth.
He only meant to bind his wound, she saw with infinite relief. Holding one end of the cloth with his teeth, he wrapped the other about his arm and tried to tie a knot. She had tiie humanitarian impulse to offer her help with what should have been an awkward, painful task, yet he obviously didn't require her aid. His swift, practiced movements held the ease of a man accustomed to caring for himself, accustomed also to sustaining the injuries of battle.
Which of course he was, Alysson reminded herself. He was a warrior, a primitive Barbary tribesman to whom fighting and killing was a way of life. She couldn't afford to cherish any misplaced consideration for a man who, at the moment, held her totally at his mercy.
Her gaze flickered over his ruthless features. There was a cruel determination to his mouth that she hadn't noticed that night in the dim light of the garden. The sight made her quiver.
"What . . . do you want . . . with me?" she forced herself to ask, hating the way her voice shook.
He didn't answer, but he did look up, directing his fierce gaze at her again. Those eyes. Those predatory, fathomless eyes . . . They took on new menace now that she was in his power, striking fresh fear in her. They were amber- brown, glittering with flecks of gold, the irises ringed like a hawk's. She couldn't drag her gaze away.
To her relief, he returned his attention to his wounded arm. When he had finished securing his bandage, he reached inside the sash at his waist and pulled out a length of woolen cord, then proceeded to bind her wrists together in front of her.
He had been prepared to take her captive, Alysson realized. He had planned it all.
Oh, he was cunning, she thought bitterly, remembering the way he had singled her out the way she'd once seen a sheepdog cut out a ewe from a flock. She had apparently been his target all along. What a fool she had been to leave the relative safety of Gervase's men! Now she was isolated her from her party, with little chance of being found. She could only hope that her flight hadn't been in vain, that her uncle was safe. She could only hope that she would soon have an opportunity to escape from this madman.
When her wrists were fettered, he eased his weight from her and got to his feet. Alysson felt the sweet relief of her sudden freedom. With an effort she struggled to her knees, prepared to make what defense she could. But she hadn't counted on her body's reaction to fear. She couldn't stop shaking. And her head spun, making his dark form swim in her vision. He stood over her, tall and lean and fierce in his black desert robes.
The unaccustomed fear had also made her limbs weak. She managed to stand, but her legs wouldn't obey her when she tried to back away.
"Don't try to run," he advised her in that soft, pitiless voice. "I would only have to chase you."
She recognized the ring of authority in the low tone and her retreat faltered. Helplessly she watched as he retrieved her pistol. After removing the remaining bullet with a swift, practiced motion, he tucked the weapon in his waist sash beside a jewel-handled dagger, then moved toward her.
Alysson stood paralyzed—until he touched her. Then, with a soft cry, she went wild, kicking and lashing out, flailing at him with her bound hands. His hard arms came around her, crushing her to him, pinning her thrashing arms in his merciless embrace, holding her immobile.
"No! Let me go!" But her pleas and her efforts to free herself were to no avail.
Finally exhausted, she ceased her impotent struggles. Breathless, trembling, she raised her gaze to his. The terrible force of his stare made her quake.
"Do not fight me," he said softly. "You will only hurt yourself."
She gave in, her body slumping weakly against him in defeat.
Bending, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to her mount as if she weighed no more than a child.
She didn't struggle again. Biting her lower lip to hold back screams and tears, she lay tensely in his arms, accepting his superior strength. She would gain nothing by fighting him. For the time being she would have to yield. He was her captor . . . for the moment.
He set her on her horse, though he didn't allow her to have control of the reins; those he drew over the mare's head, before leading her to his stallion. After looping the free end of the reins around a buckle on his own saddle, he mounted the black horse.
When he gave her a brief glance over his shoulder, Alysson roused herself from her daze of shock and fear. "Where . . . are you taking me?" She forced the words pas
t her dry throat and was ashamed at how weak her voice sounded.
He didn't answer, nor had she expected him to. Instead he reached inside one of the leather pouches hanging from the pommel of his high-backed saddle and drew out a length of black cotton cloth.
"Cover your head and face with this," he said, holding it out to her. "You will need protection from the sun."
She wanted to rail at him, to throw his offering back in his arrogant face. What she needed was protection from him, not the sun. But she wasn't a fool. Now that she'd had a moment to calm down, she realized that to refuse the protective head-covering would only be spiting herself. She would end up with burned skin or worse, which would only put her at a farther disadvantage. She needed all the strength she could muster if she were to save herself from this ruthless villain.
With wary grace, she accepted his gift and tried to do as he bid, but her bonds made her attempts to fashion a headdress awkward. After a moment of watching her wrestle with the scarf, he nudged his stallion abreast of her mare and took the cloth from her.
When he lifted it to her hair, Alysson shut her eyes. If she didn't look at him, his fierce gaze would have no power over her. Still, she felt his eyes roam lightly over her face as he arranged the haik over her head and wound the ends around her neck so that her chin and mouth were buried in the soft folds. Both his scrutiny and his gentle touch so disturbed her that Alysson barely controlled the urge to shudder.
"I won't harm you," he said in that low voice she was learning to associate with fear.
Her only response was to avert her face. She didn't believe him; his reassurances meant nothing to her.
When he completed the task, they set out. Leading her mount by the reins, he nudged the black stallion into a gallop, and the gray mare followed obediently. For an instant
Alysson thought about flinging herself from her horse and trying to flee on foot, but she dismissed that, too, as foolish. If she didn't break an ankle at this speed, he would only catch her, and probably tie her to her saddle; the cord binding her wrists was uncomfortable enough as it was.
She looked around her, trying to determine where they were going. In the same direction her flight had taken her, she decided. South, toward the mountains and high plains. Berber warlords inhabited those rugged mountains, she remembered Gervase telling her. The thought gave her absolutely no comfort.
As she raced further and further away from her uncle and her party, waves of cold rage and fiery anxiety alternately swept over Alysson. Rarely in her life had she felt such helplessness, and never such terror.
But she couldn't give in to her fear. She had to compose her shaken nerves. She had to think! She had to recall what she knew about the Berbers and use her knowledge to her advantage. Much of what she'd heard was good. Gervase respected and admired the Berbers, in part because they could be expected to act more like Europeans—unlike the guileful Moors of the cities or the nomadic Bedouin Arabs of the plains. What was it Gervase had said? That the Berbers were known for their virtues of honesty, hospitality, and good nature . . . None of which, Alysson thought with a bitter glance at her brutal captor, did he possess in the slightest.
They also were known for their vast courage. That he did have, apparently. He had defied death to capture her, had even been amused by her attempt to shoot him. And in abducting her, he had also risked the wrath of the French government. Not that such wrath meant much. The Berbers in the mountains had resisted all attempts by the French Armee d'Afrique to bring them to heel, Gervase had told her. They were laws unto themselves, giving only condescending lip service to the Arab Bureau's efforts to organize their tribal factions into some civilized form of government.
Then there were the accounts of the recent war. Only a few days ago had she overheard an officer of the Foreign Legion speaking of the campaigns and fierce battles in which he'd fought against the Algerines. "It is better," the Legionnaire had said, "to die in the first assault rather than live as hostage. No man survives the unspeakable tortures the Arab army inflicts on its prisoners. That is why we kill our wounded rather than allow them to be taken alive."
Alysson's gaze stole to the black-robed Berber galloping just ahead of her. Would he torture her? He had said he wouldn't harm her. But perhaps her fate would be worse. In Barbary white women were sold as concubines or slaves . . . Could she bear such degradation, such horror? To be the plaything of some strange, savage man? Or many men?
Trembling anew, Alysson clasped the fingers of her bound hands to keep them from shaking. She did not cry easily, but tears would have brought a welcome relief just now. Still, it did not seem wise to show the slightest weakness before her abductor. Aloof and hard, he was a man to be feared. She'd felt the full force of his potential for violence—in the strength of his muscular body, in the glitter of his eyes, in the edge of his voice.
Alysson tore her gaze away, focusing instead on her surroundings. If she was to find her way back to her uncle, she had to concentrate on locating landmarks and committing them to memory. Minute by minute the terrain was becoming more hilly, the mountains growing closer, she realized with dismay. Soon they would leave the Plain of Algiers behind altogether—and civilization as well.
At the thought of her uncle, though, her worries shifted from herself to Honoré. What had happened to him? What had this blackguard done to him?
They rode at a relentless speed for several more miles, before finally Alysson could bear her fearful thoughts no longer. The uncertainty of not knowing was more nerve- racking than the truth.
Marshaling her courage, Alysson urged her racing mare forward, till she rode alongside the galloping stallion. Her captor turned his head slightly, one dark golden eyebrow raised in question. She started to shout at him, but realized it would be too difficult to make herself heard over the pounding hooves. Leaning forward as far as she could reach, she tugged on her mount's bridle, which made the mare swerve into the stallion. Thankfully, the Berber brought the grueling pace to a halt.
"What have you done to my uncle?" Alysson demanded in breathless English, forgetting that all their previous conversations had been in French.
Not a flicker of understanding crossed the carved mask of his features, but he set the horses in motion again, this time at a rapid walk.
"You . . . you savage brute. If you have harmed him, I swear I will see you hanged!"
"Either speak French or don't speak," the Berber answered in a mild tone.
Glaring, she took a breath and tried again in French. "Very well, what—have—you—done—to—my—uncle?" she said through gritted teeth.
"Not a thing. He was to be set free as soon as you were safely in my power."
Could she believe him? Alysson wondered, searching his face. His eyes were as bright as topaz, his gaze as intent as the sharp look of a hunting bird—and just as steady. They were not eyes that lied.
The tense set of her shoulders relaxed the slightest degree. At least that was some comfort; he didn't want her uncle. She didn't have to worry about Honoré as well as herself.
But Uncle Honoré would be frantic with worry for her, Alysson suddenly realized. She had to extricate herself from this situation before he worked himself into a frenzy.
But first she had to discover why this black-robed devil had abducted her, what he planned to do with her. Perhaps he might even be persuaded to release her, she thought with burgeoning hope. She hadn't yet tried bargaining with him.
"You don't have to go to the trouble of carrying me off," she said, trying to remain calm. "If you mean to hold me for ransom, I can tell you now, my uncle will pay a great deal of money to have me safely returned."
"It isn't money I want." Not a whisper of emotion was evident in his soft tone, or on his hard features.
"What is it then? What do you want?"
He didn't reply; his only response was a long, frustrating silence.
"The soldiers of my escort won't allow you to take me far. I expect they are directly beh
ind us. They will hunt you down and shoot you like a dog."
"I doubt it." He shook his head as if remembering. "Such brave men your guards were, to give you up without a fight. They had no more discipline than sheep."
Though she had thought the same thing, his scoffing tone goaded Alysson into defending her French escort. "They weren't at fault! They had no one to direct them. Their commanding officer became ill—"
Even as she said the words, sick understanding dawned on her. The lieutenant had become ill only that morning. As had Chand . . . Oh, God . . . Chand.
Anguish etched her features as she cast him an imploring glance. "Chand . . . my servant . . . please, tell me you didn't have him poisoned?"
"No." He shook his head abruptly. "Your servant is unharmed. The right herb sprinkled in his food merely made him ill. In a few days he will recover completely. But it will be too late for him to find you."
Absorbing the import of her captor's revelation, Alysson stared at him with mingled dismay and contempt. He had planned her abduction down to the last detail. "You bastard," she said with soft loathing.
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