Fighting back a wave of angry sobs, Alysson glared at him, hating him with an intensity that left her shaken.
Jafar was undeterred by her malevolent look, partially because he knew how she was suffering. He felt a grudging admiration for her strength of will, despite his frustration at her rebelliousness.
When a short while later he saw her proud shoulders sag with weariness and despair, he abruptly brought the horses to a halt, determined to put an end to this futile battle. He had meant to teach her a lesson; indeed, he had expected her to give in long before now. But he couldn't allow her to continue suffering any longer. He couldn't bear to see her in such distress. He untied the goatskin and held it out to her. "Here, drink."
Alysson gave the water bag a longing look before raising her defiant gaze to Jafar. "I don't want it."
"Don't be foolish." He unplugged the nozzle and held it to her lips. "You will kill yourself with your stubbornness, and then you will be useless to me."
Alysson wanted to throw the bag in his face, but when she felt a cool trickle of life-sustaining liquid wash over her lips, she was lost. She opened her mouth eagerly, nearly gulping in her haste to satisfy her craving for water.
"Slowly," Jafar warned. He withheld the bag for a moment before letting her drink again, forcing her to take smaller sips. He took it away entirely before her thirst was completely quenched. "You may have more later. You will make yourself sick if you drink too much now."
Her face flushing, Alysson looked away. He had made no reference to her shameful surrender, nor did he repeat his demands that she do his bidding, but she felt the humiliation of her defeat all the same. And it was her defeat. He might have been the first to back down, but only because he needed her alive in order to carry out his nefarious plans, whatever they might be. And in doing so, he had forced her to face the reality of her situation—her helplessness, her power- lessness. She needed him in order to survive, and fighting him would only cause her more misery. The sooner she accepted that fact, the less wretched she would be.
They rode for another hour before the sun began to set. To her left, in the far distance, Alysson could see the beginnings of a mountain chain. Just beyond it to the south, where the rugged terrain sloped into a valley, she caught the golden flash of a river. She also glimpsed what might be a village nestled in the protection of the foothills, but her momentary spark of hope was short-lived. Any village here would likely be a Berber stronghold, and she would get no help from its inhabitants.
They stopped for the night beside a thicket of tamarisk shrubs and pistachio trees, where a spring gushed from an outcropping of rock. Like the previous evening Jafar fed the horses, then hobbled and unsaddled them before allowing himself or Alysson to eat. He didn't withhold water from her this time, but only because she finally brought herself to ask for it.
"May I have a drink?" she muttered when the bite of bread she had just swallowed stuck in her dry throat.
Jafar turned to eye her with a curious gaze. "What did you say?"
"I said, may I please have a drink of water?"
The words were polite, the tone like acid. Hesitating, he raised an eyebrow. "And my wound?"
"I will see to it."
"Very well," he replied mildly, his tone devoid of the triumph Alysson was certain he felt.
When they were done eating, he returned the remains of their meal to his saddlebag and pulled out various items from its numerous folds, including a cake of soap and a clean cloth. The soap surprised her, for it had to be European.
He meant to wash in the spring, Alysson realized when he carried the items over and set them down beside the bank. Having given her word, she followed Jafar warily, but she came up short when he began to remove his tunic. The unexpectedly virile sight made Alysson catch her breath. His powerful arms were corded with muscles, while his chest was lightly furred with hair made tawny by shades of gold. She couldn't help noticing, either, how the fine hair on his chest tapered to a narrow line at his waist and disappeared beneath the waistband of his loose trousers.
Her reaction alarmed Alysson. She had seen shirtless men before, of course—two of her uncles and Gervase, as well. But none of them had ever before elicited this sudden flut- tery feeling in her stomach. Perhaps because none of them were so . . . acutely male.
Alysson averted her gaze as, reluctantly, she forced herself to take the final steps to reach Jafar's side. From the heat that was flooding her cheeks, she knew she was blushing, yet she hoped her discomposure wasn't obvious. When he handed her the soap and cloth, though, she made the mistake of looking up at him. His tawny eyes gleamed bright with amusement.
"You only have to wash my arm, ma belle," he said in a tone laced with soft laughter, "not the rest of me."
By gritting her teeth, Alysson managed to repress a retort. But she was none too gentle as she washed away the dried blood that covered the gash on his left arm.
To her regret, the wound did not look as if it were in any danger of becoming putrid. It had already begun to heal, the edges starting to pucker with fresh pink skin. The wound would leave a scar, certainly, yet one mark more on his torso would hardly be noticeable. His upper body was branded with scars of various shapes and lengths that made Alysson certain she was dealing with a Berber warrior, a warrior who apparently had participated in countless battles.
Both his amusement and his naked chest making her keenly uncomfortable, she hastened to finish her task and bind the wound with a clean length of cloth. As soon as she was able, she retreated to the relative safety of his burnous, which he had again spread on the ground.
There she waited impatiently for Jafar to finish washing and shaving, using the small mirror and razor he had retrieved from his saddlebag. At least his barbaric traits didn't extend to his personal habits, she thought, stealing a glance at her captor.
Looking at him was a mistake. The rays cast by the setting sun lent his half-naked form a rare beauty that she had only seen captured on canvas by masters like Rembrandt. Against her will Alysson found herself watching the play of golden light on Jafar's muscled shoulders and lean torso.
Only when he turned toward her, wiping his smooth- shaven face with a cloth, was the spell broken. Only then did Alysson manage to drag her gaze away. Pretending indifference, she kept her eyes carefully averted from his half- naked form.
"I should like the chance to bathe," she said with more belligerence than she intended. "In private," she added in case he hadn't understood.
To her surprise, he nodded his consent. It was his next words that took Alysson aback. "But I will keep your clothing."
She gave him an incredulous stare. "If you expect me to undress in front of you, you are incredibly misguided!"
"If you wish to bathe, you will do as I say. I won't have you trying to escape the moment my back is turned."
"Will you turn your back?" Alysson asked hopefully, latching on to the possibility.
He hesitated. "Yes, if you are so determined to preserve your modesty." He held out his hand. "Your clothing, mademoiselle."
This was not her idea of how to preserve modesty. Alysson bit her lip, gazing at him in impotent frustration. "You are certainly no gentleman."
"Not the kind of gentleman you admire, no. But then, I have no desire to be considered in the same class as your fiancé, the colonel."
"You could not possibly be considered in the same class as Gervase. He is an honorable man."
"Obviously we disagree on our definitions of honor. But I do not intend to debate the point with you. Come, chérie, I am waiting."
"I hate you," Alysson declared in an adamant tone.
"So you have said."
Knowing he would not back down, Alysson took a deep breath and slowly, reluctantly, complied. She took off her boots first, then her jacket and finally her breeches.
At that point she faltered. Her cheeks flaming scarlet, she stood before him, dressed only in her chemisette and drawers, while his gaze dropped the
length of her body in a slow but dispassionate appraisal. She tried to hold her head high, to look scornful and proud, but her knees felt like water.
To her amazement, though, Jafar took pity on her and turned away. Alysson quivered in relief as he disappeared around the thicket. Turning, she quickly stripped off her underwear and knelt in the stream, then used his soap to scrub herself all over. The water was cold, while the evening breeze dancing over her wet body chilled her flesh. Yet not knowing when she would have another opportunity for a bath, she removed the pins from her hair and washed that, too.
On the other side of the thicket, Jafar busied himself sharpening the blade of his dagger. It was all he could do to keep his mind off the young woman behind him. Visions of Alysson at her bath, her slender, wet body glistening in the rosy light, kept intruding into his consciousness. He wondered if she would take advantage of his generosity and attempt to escape, but he forcibly prevented himself from checking on her. If she did try, he would find her soon enough, and he had promised to give her privacy—
Jafar shook his head in disgust. Twice now he had given in to her, against his better judgment. He was growing too soft with her. If he wasn't careful, he would be doing her bidding.
Already he'd found himself forgetting the circumstances between them; at least once he'd had to stop himself from speaking to her in English. And that could prove disastrous. If his fiery captive discovered his British background, it would be too easy for her to make the connection between himself and his other identity, Nicholas Sterling—and that knowledge could lead the French army straight to his tribe. As it was, he was fortunate she didn't remember meeting him that long-ago day in England.
When he had allowed her more than enough time to finish, Jafar returned to the camp. He found Alysson dressed again in her meager undergarments, kneeling beside the stream, combing her wet, tangled tresses with her fingers. Falling only partway down her back, her hair was not nearly as long as that of Algerine women.
He stood silently watching her for a moment. Seeing her shiver as an evening breeze blew over her damp skin, he had the fierce urge to warm her—with his body, with his hands and mouth.
"Are you quite finished, ma'amselle?" His voice was low and gruff and husky, not what he intended.
Alysson gave a start. Turning, she looked up at him with wary eyes.
Imperiously, Jafar held down his hand. "Come, it is time to sleep."
She stared at him. "Don't you mean to wear a shirt?" When Jafar raised an eyebrow, she stammered, "I m-mean, you might get cold."
His smile was soft, amused. "How, when I have you to keep me warm?''
The faint blush that rose to her cheeks was charming, Jafar thought, despite the way her narrowed gray eyes were flashing sparks at him. Meeting her defiant gaze, Jafar felt his will clash with hers. "Are you afraid of me?"
That challenge made Alysson lift her chin obstinately. "No, of course not!" she declared.
But she was afraid. She didn't want to sleep with a half- naked savage, especially when she was so meagerly dressed herself. He hadn't returned even her breeches. She felt exposed and altogether too vulnerable as Jafar drew her down beside him on the burnous. Yet her temper rose when, like before, he tied their ankles together. Alysson stiffened in silent resistance as he gathered her in his arms and settled her with her back to him, her head resting on his uninjured arm.
To her surprise, he spread her damp tresses out so they would dry more quickly. The gesture was gentle and considerate, but Alysson lay there tense and rigid, held in the warm curve of his body, her cheek pressed against naked flesh. How she hated this! The man-smell of his skin, clean and pleasantly soap-scented, was highly unnerving.
Still, his embrace was warm and somehow comforting. At her back she could feel his heart beating in slow steady strokes.
Alysson gave a drowsy sigh. She was more fatigued than she thought . . .
It was early the next morning when she opened her eyes to find a pair of topaz ones gazing down into hers. Jafar, she thought groggily, a strange sense of peace and contentment filling her. For a moment, before her mind began to function, she could only wonder at that strange sensation. It was the same feeling of warmth and security that sometimes came to her in her dreams. How very odd. Odder still was the fragmented memory that teased at her brain. She couldn't shake the feeling of having met him before. He looked so familiar, except for the soft light of desire in his eyes. That was new-
Shock and dismay suddenly flooded through Alysson. Jafar was stretched out beside her, his head supported by his elbow as he gazed down at her. Apparently he'd been watching her sleep.
Before she could open her mouth to speak, he lifted a tress of her chestnut hair, now dry and silky, from her breast. "You should let it fall free, instead of pinning it up."
Faster than a frightened rabbit, Alysson pushed aside the edge of his burnous and scrambled to her feet. "I do not require your advice on how to arrange my hair!" Flustered, mortified, she stalked over to the stream, searching for the pins she had left there the previous evening.
"At least you don't torture it into ringlets."
"It is too difficult to arrange in ringlets," Alysson said through gritted teeth, trying to regain her composure. "I am frequently without a maid."
He lay there, lazily watching her. His appraisal acutely disturbed Alysson. To her disgust and dismay, her fingers were less than steady as she used them to comb out the tangles in her hair.
"When we reach my camp," Jafar said after a moment, "I will see that you are provided with combs."
Alysson gave him a cautious glance. His generosity didn't interest her as much as where he might be talking her. "Where is your camp?"
"Another day's ride from here, on the fringes of the desert." When she was silent, he raised an eyebrow at her. "You wanted to see the desert, did you not?"
"Not in your company!"
She saw his mouth tighten, but he didn't reply. Apparently the hostilities had resumed between them. Which was perfectly fine with her, Alysson reflected. She didn't like it when he was treating her with gentleness or tender concern. It was far easier to remember how she despised him when he was acting the uncivilized heathen.
To the best of her ability, Alysson finished combing her hair before repinning it into a knot at her nape. Then she went over to the pile of equipment and clothing. Searching for her own garments, she found her jacket and one of her boots.
She started to put them on but was startled when Jafar's hand suddenly closed over her wrist in a grip that was firm but not painful. She hadn't heard him move. Flinching, Alysson stared up at him in bewilderment. Did he mean to refuse to allow her to dress?
"In this country," Jafar said in a warning tone, "you must be more careful. We will soon reach the desert, and you will have to remain alert if you mean to survive. Check your clothing for scorpions and vipers each morning before you dress."
He didn't mean to keep her half-naked, Alysson thought as a trembling sense of relief surged through her. She would rather face an army of poisonous creatures than be subjected to his hard golden gaze when she was so very vulnerable.
Her relief was short-lived. Despite his generosity in allowing her to keep her clothes and the haik to shield her head and face, Alysson's feeling of vulnerability, of helplessness, only increased the further they traveled.
Shortly the grassy steppes changed to uneven, broken country of sand and stones dotted with camel-thorn and an occasional shrub. Any civilized person would call this barren land the desert, Alysson reflected, yet she knew it was only the forerunner of the Sahara.
A few hours later, when Jafar slowed the horses to a walk, she made herself pay attention to her surroundings. If she could discover where she was, she might be able to determine where he was taking her.
With more curiosity then she'd felt in two days, Alysson glanced around her. In the distance ahead were clumps of rocky plateaus overhanging the arid flats. "Where are we?" she asked, tr
ying to keep her tone casual.
Jafar didn't answer, preferring not to divulge that this was the Jebel Selat. He didn't want her to have any information that she might use to her advantage. "Why do you wish to know?"
She understood quite well the reason for his caution, and the knowledge made her snap an unwise reply. "When the French army rescues me, I want to be able to tell them where to find you."
A muscle in his jaw tightened as he shot her a penetrating look.
Alysson sighed wearily, wishing she had kept silent, wishing it wasn't so hot, wishing she had never decided to come to this godforsaken land in the first place.
At least her savage Berber captor was soon forced by the terrain to keep the pace slow. Carefully he led her mare through barren hills topped with flat tablelike peaks, and down into gullies that had forgotten the taste of rain. Yet Alysson's discomfort only rose as the morning progressed. The glaring sun beat down on her mercilessly, and the rising heat only frayed her already raw temper.
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