Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  Her panic rising, she went on the attack, flailing and kicking at him with fury. When her fist managed to connect with his wound, she made him grunt in pain, but when she struck his shin with her bare foot, the blow hurt her far more than it could ever hurt him. With his superior strength, it was not long before he subdued her struggles. Swinging her up in his arms then, he carried her writhing body over to his burnous and laid her down.

  When he knelt beside her, Alysson tried again to break free, nearly sobbing in frustration and fear. But her efforts were in vain. He merely pinned her arms at her sides until she finally went still.

  "It will go easier for you when you accept that it is useless to defy me."

  Determinedly, he bent over her and attended to the small buttons that ran down the front of her shirt, brushing her flailing hands away when she tried to resist his efforts. Alysson squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears of fear and humiliation.

  "I said I wouldn't hurt you," he murmured, his low, controlled voice penetrating her daze. "Not as long as you obey me."

  That was the rub. If she obeyed his wishes, if she meekly surrendered, if she allowed him to have his way with her, then he would refrain from beating her or worse. Well, she wouldn't give in to his threats! She would never calmly accept her captivity. She would fight him every step of the way. She would resist him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  For the moment, though, she had to accept defeat.

  She remained rigid and unmoving as he lifted her slightly in order to draw off her shirt, clenching her teeth as he bared her upper body to the chill evening air. Beneath her linen chemisette, her nipples puckered against the cold.

  Alysson shivered in response, but her captor suddenly went still. When she fearfully glanced up at him, she realized he was staring down at her breasts with hot golden eyes.

  Never more aware of herself as a woman, Alysson flushed painfully. Frantically, awkwardly, she wrapped her arms around herself to cover her near-nakedness. "I despise you," she said with all the loathing she could muster.

  Wadding up her shirt, he tossed it aside. With a casual shrug, he glanced down the length of her body. "Be glad that I am letting you keep your breeches."

  There was a note in his voice that sounded suspiciously like amusement, but when she glared up at him, she could read nothing in his expression. The gathering twilight shrouded his thoughts.

  "A woman should not hide her femininity," he remarked casually. "You could learn much from my countrywomen. They would tell you a mere female must yield to the whims of a man."

  It was amusement she heard in his voice. He was deliberately trying to provoke her. It made her long to do him an injury.

  Just then, however, he stretched himself out beside her on the burnous, slowly, like a cat, looking every bit as alert as one. He held himself up on one elbow, his chest almost brushing her left arm, his shadowed face very near hers. Alysson tensed. She was totally at his mercy. If he chose to break his word, she would have little chance of stopping him from ravishing her.

  To hide her fear, she took refuge behind a show of contempt. "I have no intention of yielding to your whims," she retorted. "And I am not a mere female!"

  "No, you are a young lady, a wealthy Englishwoman . . . spoiled and pampered and petted from birth. I doubt if you have ever performed a day's work in your life."

  She had no reply for his cool accusation, for it was true. She was accustomed to having her every wish gratified by her servants, her commands obeyed. And she usually managed to get her way with everyone else. The men of her acquaintance especially leapt to do her bidding. She knew instinctively, though, this was one man she could not bend to her will. Dropping her gaze, Alysson helplessly hugged her body with her arms, rubbing her chilled, bare flesh. Never in her life had she been so shaken by a man.

  When she shivered, he reached all the way over her, his fingers grasping the far edge of his burnous. Alysson flinched in alarm as his chest pressed against her. "Don't touch me!"

  He paused for a moment, looking down at her, his expression enigmatic. Then he continued with his task, drawing the burnous over her bare shoulders, tucking the edge beneath her arm.

  He had only been trying to cover her, Alysson realized numbly.

  "I know," he said in a soft voice, but this time the scorn was unmistakable, "you don't want your lily-pure skin to be contaminated by a 'savage Arab.' "

  His characterization of her wasn't fair, she thought defensively. It wasn't because of his race that she didn't want him touching her. Unlike most of her fellow Europeans, she didn't consider Arabs automatically inferior because of the color of their skin. Besides, he wasn't even one.

  "You may be incredibly savage, but you aren't an Arab," she ground out. "You're a Berber."

  Mocking admiration shone in his eyes. "My congratulations. At least you can perceive the difference. That is far more than many of your race can do."

  Annoyed by his provoking sarcasm, she averted her face so she wouldn't have to look at him. "Leave me alone."

  Any gentleman would have taken her muttered demand as a dismissal. While he was certainly no gentleman, she at least expected him to take the hint and leave her in peace. Yet he made no move to go.

  "I am waiting," she said pointedly, echoing his earlier command. "I wish to go to sleep."

  "Please, be my guest."

  "Not until you leave!"

  "I am not going anywhere."

  Whipping her head around, Alysson scowled up at him. "You said if I took off my jacket I could have your burnous."

  "It is big enough for the both of us. We will share it."

  She gaped at him. "You can't mean for us to sleep together! ''

  "Can I not?"

  "It—isn't—proper," Alysson sputtered, embarrassment, frustration, and dread all warring within her. She had never been overly concerned about her reputation before, nor was that her chief concern now, but she had no qualms about claiming modesty if it would help protect her from this heathen.

  “I don't even know your name,'' she protested weakly. "How can I possibly sleep next to you?"

  His chuckle, when it came, was soft, amused. "You may call me Jafar. Does that make it more acceptable, now that we have been introduced?"

  "It most certainly does not!"

  "Just remember that you are my captive and that you have no choice but to accede to my wishes. That will appease your conscience."

  As he spoke, he sat up and fished in his sash for something. Alysson abruptly swallowed the retort on her tongue as her gaze dropped to his waist. In the gloom of nightfall she could make out the glittering stones of the jeweled dagger.

  Looking up, she caught the flash of white teeth as Jafar smiled. With exaggerated care, he drew the dagger from his belt and placed it on the ground at his other side, as far away from her as he could reach. Alysson pressed her lips together in anger and regret.

  Then he reached down and grasped her stockinged ankle.

  She nearly yelped. "What do you think you're doing!" she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly.

  He brushed her hands away. "Securing you for the night. I told you, I don't want you running off."

  In shock she watched as he encircled her left ankle with a length of woolen cord. He meant to hobble her like an animal!

  "Damn you . . . you . . ." She faltered, choking on her own words.

  But he wasn't tying her feet together. Instead, he was lashing her ankle to his. If she tried to untie the knot in the night, if she so much as stirred, he would feel her movements and prevent her from escaping.

  Shaking with thwarted outrage, Alysson clenched her fists so tightly that her nails scored her palms. "I swear to God, you will rue the day you came near me!"

  "Allah is more likely to sympathize with your plight than your Christian god."

  His blasphemy made her breath catch. Taking advantage of her momentary lapse of hostility, Jafar gently pushed her back down. To her shock and dismay, he g
athered her resisting body in his arms and drew the edges of his burnous around them both. Alysson found herself locked in his strong embrace, her head resting on his good arm, her nose pressed against his chest.

  She lay there rigidly, cursing him silently, trying not to quiver. She could feel the imprint of his hard body burning through her meager clothing, could smell his male scent. He smelled of horses and the desert wind . . . and something else, musky and pleasant. Something highly disturbing.

  Dear God, she couldn't possibly go to sleep this way. Even as exhausted she was.

  "I hope your wound is painful," Alysson declared, recovering her mettle. "Excruciatingly painful."

  "It is, but I'll survive. Go to sleep, Ehuresh. "

  She didn't understand the word, but she wasn't about to ask him what he meant. Still seething, Alysson wearily closed her eyes. Oh, how she hated him! It especially galled her that his warmth was so comforting, that he was protecting her from the cold. She didn't want his protection. She wanted nothing to do with him . . .

  Tense and restless, Alysson lay awake for a long while, stiffening every time she felt the slightest movement from him. It was nearly an hour before Jafar felt her slender form relax in his arms. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, but she had finally fallen asleep.

  Jafar permitted his vigilance to slacken while he tried to force his thoughts on something other than the young woman in his embrace. In all he was satisfied with the day. He had accomplished his purpose with little trouble. He had taken the woman of his enemy. And soon he would realize his ultimate objective. He had no doubt the colonel would come to rescue such a treasure.

  Yes, a treasure. Jafar smiled in the darkness, remembering her claim that she was not a mere, female. No, Miss Alysson Vickery was definitely unique. And unpredictable. One moment a spitting tigress, the next a frightened dove.

  The memory of her terror made his smile fade. He didn't like her fearing him. He did not want her recoiling from him in fright. He much preferred her defiancé—however annoying it might be, coming from a female. And that she possessed in full measure.

  Ehuresh, he had called her in his language. Defiant one. She was defiant yet vulnerable. And quite, quite lovely. There was a wildness, a sense of daring about her, an intensity that was incredibly arousing. What would it be like to have that wildness unleashed in passion, in his bed?

  The stallion snorted just then, making Jafar lift his head. Momentarily he searched the darkness with his keen gaze, but found the horses grazing peacefully.

  With a sigh, Jafar let his head fall back. His wounded arm was throbbing, but it was nothing that he hadn't experienced a dozen times on the battlefield.

  More severe, though, was another discomfort, the pain of having a lovely young woman in his arms—this lovely young woman—but not allowing himself to appease his male urges. Yet there was something elementally satisfying about holding her this way.

  Without waking her, he shifted his body, nestling her more comfortably in his embrace. A mistake, he thought, feeling her soft, ripe breasts press against his chest, the innocent thrust of one slender knee as it insinuated itself between his thighs.

  He closed his eyes as he vainly sought sleep.

  Ah, yes, painful but satisfying.

  Here, alone, with nothing but the stars and the wind and his defiant young captive.

  Chapter 4

  The east flushed rose and blue as Alysson stirred awake the next morning. Feeling the chill of dawn, she sleepily drew the burnous more tightly around her, vaguely missing the warmth that had sheltered her during the long night.

  The jingle of metal intruded on her hazy, disquieting dreams. A moment later she suddenly became aware that she was alone beneath the burnous. Her eyes flew open. Her Berber captor, the ruthless barbarian who had called himself Jafar, was bridling the horses.

  As if he felt her sudden scrutiny, he glanced over his shoulder, meeting her gaze. There was a shadow of golden- brown stubble on his jaw, Alysson noted, that gave his noble features a disreputable air. And he was eyeing her with a calm look that was no less dangerous for its lack of emotion.

  Abruptly Alysson tore her gaze away, wanting to bury her head beneath the burnous. The memory of being forced to undress before his eyes brought fierce color to her cheeks and sent her temper surging. She was unaccustomed to having her will thwarted, but this devil had done everything in his power to frustrate her and to show her how helpless she was against him. She was also weary from lack of sleep after the wretched night she had just passed. She had started awake every hour, only to find herself locked in this stranger's embraee, his hard body molded against her soft one. His disturbing proximity had left her shaken, her emotions in a state of turmoil. It alarmed her, the effect this savage barbarian had on her. Never before had she been so unnerved by a man. Never before had she been so acutely aware of a man's maleness, or of her own femaleness.

  Trying to forget that awareness and her humiliation—and to ignore the man who had caused both—Alysson rose silently and dressed. To her dismay she couldn't meet Jafar's eyes, although she was grateful when he allowed her, without comment, to move a short distance away for a few moments of privacy. She was less grateful when he offered her a piece of bread for breakfast, for his generosity did not extend to the goatskin water bag that hung from the stallion's saddle.

  He was waiting for her to ask for a drink, she knew, but she didn't intend to give in. She would not beg him, nor would she obey his arrogant whims.

  She was surprised to learn he intended for her to ride the mare, but decided it was because he wanted to spare his stallion, not because he cherished any newfound feelings of trust for her. When he would have helped her mount, though, Alysson recoiled, eyes flashing her loathing at his touch. "I can manage on my own!"

  A muscle flexed in his jaw, but he said nothing.

  Her temper simmering, Alysson pulled herself up on the mare. When he had gained his own saddle, they set out, with Jafar in the lead, in control of her reins. Alysson kept her gaze fixed on anything but him. She was determined to ignore her savage companion and his ridiculous demands that she do his bidding.

  Her determination wavered when a few miles later they came upon another spring. Alysson watched with undisguised longing as Jafar watered the horses and filled the goatskin bag.

  His penetrating glance, when he saw her licking her dry lips, was a pointed reminder that she had a choice. "You know the terms," he said calmly. "You have only to ask politely for a drink and agree to tend my wound, and you will be allowed to slake your thirst."

  "I am not thirsty," Alysson lied.

  She tried to make herself believe it as the morning progressed, but soon their climb ended and they left the relative coolness of the mountains. Before them stretched a broad plain rippling with mild undulations. They had reached the High Plateaux.

  When the hot yellow sun began to beat down upon her, her lie became a litany: I'm not thirsty. I am not thirsty. But by noon Alysson was willing to admit her misery. She was hot and dusty and hungry and perishing from thirst. She wanted a long cool drink. She wanted a bath. She wanted a soft bed. And more than anything, she wanted a weapon that she could use on this barbarian. At the moment she would relish murdering him by slow degrees.

  An Arab method of torture came to mind. She would stretch him out, stake him to the ground in the desert sand, pour honey over his body, and allow the ants to devour him, bite by stinging bite.

  Her fierce musings had no effect on her merciless captor. They kept up the same grueling speed, hour after hour. Alysson's weariness and craving for water grew, while her hopes of either escape or rescue sank with every endless mile. She could only pray that her uncle would make it safely back to Algiers rather than setting out in search of her. He could never endure these harsh conditions and would do better to leave the task of rescuing her in Gervase's more capable hands.

  By mid-afternoon the high tablelands melted into steppes covered with alpha grass.
In the distance Alysson occasionally glimpsed flocks of sheep and goats ranging on the grassy plains, but her Berber captor stayed well away from these manifestations of civilization.

  They stopped once more, later in the afternoon, to water the horses. Alysson's resentment at Jafar surged anew. He was trying to kill her, yet he took great care of the animals—slowing to a walk and letting them cool off before permitting them to drink, allowing time to pass before resuming the gallop.

  When she felt Jafar watching her with his shuttered amber eyes, though, she stiffened her spine. She didn't know how much longer she could hold out with her throat, parched as it was, and her swollen lips, but some last flicker of pride made her determined not to give in.

  Her pride waned, however, as her abductor carried her further into the interior. Alysson had to clench her teeth to keep from surrendering. She wanted to scream at him, to pummel him with her fists, to beg him to let her go, but as she had learned yesterday over and over again, struggling against him was useless, as were all her pleas and threats. He would not release her. He was hard and cruel and relentless, a man who tolerated no opposition to his wishes.