Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  "This is not what I had in mind," Alysson muttered, "when I planned this expedition. I never expected this land would be so unattractive."

  Jafar glanced over at her. "You will find it beautiful after the rains, when the desert blooms."

  "I won't," she replied adamantly, shaking her head. "I will never again find anything the least appealing about Algeria. It is too hot."

  In response, he unstoppered the goatskin and poured a trickle of water over a scrap of cloth. "Wipe your face with this," he commanded, handing her the cloth.

  It felt cool and soothing to Alysson's sweating brow, but it didn't mollify her in the least. "If I had to be abducted," she said in a morose undertone, "why couldn't it have been during the rainy season?"

  The sudden smile he gave her bordered on beautiful itself. "This is the rainy season, ma belle. "

  Alysson returned a scowl that would have been lethal, could she had made it so.

  After that the country grew more fierce, if that were possible. They wound their way through inhospitable hills of red and gray sandstone and negotiated deep gorges studded with dwarfed Aleppo pines. The wind picked up then, bearing a dust that was coarse and gritty.

  "Do we never get to stop and rest?" Alysson complained.

  "Soon," Jafar said. "Cover your face."

  His "soon" stretched out into hours. They left the hills to ride swiftly over a flat, scrub-covered plain of salt- impregnated sand. Ahead of the galloping horses, scorpions and lizards darted for cover.

  Under different circumstances Alysson might have been impressed by the savage, pitiless beauty. But the heat and lonely monotony, the grueling pace and windblown grit, all served to drain away her energy. For a time, Alysson even thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, for to the east, beyond the arid plain, she frequently glimpsed a shimmer that looked very much like a huge lake.

  It was shortly afterward that Alysson found herself nearly falling asleep in the saddle. She caught herself with her head lolling forward, just as she was about to slide off her mount.

  Jafar saw the danger. Plucking her from the mare, he settled her before him on his stallion. Automatically she started to struggle, but he quieted her with a murmured command to be still. "You are tired. This way you can rest."

  Alysson gave a weary sigh as her head found a comfortable place in the curve of his shoulder. She must be growing accustomed to sleeping in his arms, she decided with resignation as her eyes fell closed. The thought was disturbing, but it didn't prevent her from seeking refuge in sleep.

  The afternoon dust was ripe and hot by the time she awoke, and the air was filled with strange sounds. Realizing the stallion had slowed to a walk, Alysson sat up groggily.

  The sight that greeted her made hope leap in her breast. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she feasted her gaze on a cool green forest of feathery date palms, beneath which grew a profusion of oleanders, tamarinds, and pistachio trees. They had reached a small oasis in the barren wilderness.

  The oasis was not unoccupied. At one end, near a well, some two dozen camels stood guarded by long-robed nomads.

  A hush fell over the crowd as Jafar and Alysson rode in. These were Arabs of the desert, Alysson surmised, returning their curious gazes. These men were thin-boned and glossy-haired, their olive-tinted faces marked by hawklike noses and dark liquid eyes. She wondered what they would say if she threw herself upon their mercy. It was possible they would agree to protect her from her Berber captor. Then again, they might very well ignore her pleas.

  The sharp interest of their gazes disturbed her, making her wonder if she had done something wrong. Perhaps sitting on a man's lap wasn't any more proper in their culture than hers. Awkwardly Alysson shifted her weight, striving for as much decorum as the intimate position allowed. Abruptly she felt Jafar's muscles tense—in the arm that was wrapped loosely around her waist, and the hard thighs that supported her own.

  Jafar murmured a silent oath, both because of the feminine pressure of Alysson's squirming, and because he recognized the Arab caravan. They were slave merchants, robbers all, noted for their viciousness and greed. Yet these traders were highly successful in their dealings, for they possessed abundant cunning and no scruples to speak of. Jafar had no doubt they coveted his young captive—if not for her slender, almost boyish figure, then for the curiosity she aroused, and for her potential value at market. European women brought a high price in Barbary.

  For the moment, however, he was not worried about Alysson's safety. These traders feared him and his position too much to attack him, even if he was alone. But his fingers closed over the hilt of his dagger all the same.

  "Don't say a word," Jafar murmured to Alysson. "Keep your eyes downcast as befits a woman."

  She bristled at his arrogant command, but she did as she was told, watching only surreptitiously—and a bit fearfully—as Jafar directed his fierce stare at the group of Arabs. She was amazed to see them, one by one, avert their gazes.

  Jafar halted the horses in the cool shade of a towering date palm and lowered Alysson to the ground. "Sit down and be quiet." He hoped she would keep her rebellious behavior under control for the moment and afford him proper respect. If she challenged his authority before these Arabs, he would have to bend her to his will. These slavers understood one law: strength. Allowing a woman to defy his wishes would be seen as a weakness . . . a fatal weakness.

  He hadn't underestimated Alysson's defiant nature, for even as he dismounted, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  Jafar caught her arm and forced her to her knees. None too soon, either, for just then a short, full-bearded Arab broke away from the caravan and strode toward Jafar. With effusive greetings of welcome, the Arab made a deep salaam, bowing so low that his nose nearly pressed the ground, before touching his forehead to the hem of Jafar's black burnous.

  Alysson stared. Jafar replied in Arabic, but she could make out only a word or two.

  Their exchange was brief, musically fluid and low. Finally rising, the Arab clapped his hands and immediately three young boys came running at his command, one bearing a bowl of camel's milk, another a golden-ripe cluster of dates resting on a palm leaf, the third a woven rush mat on which to sit. Laying down their offerings before Jafar, the youths prostrated themselves at this feet.

  Such obsequious subservience made Alysson give Jafar a sharp glance. He was obviously someone of importance in the Arab world.

  "Are you some kind of sheik?" she asked him when the Arabs had withdrawn.

  "Shaykh is an Arab word," Jafar said, settling himself on the mat, cross-legged, and gesturing for her to join him.

  "Well, Berber, then."

  "I am a chieftain, yes."

  "And just how did you explain my presence to those men?"

  An amused smile curved his mouth as he looked over the food. "A Berber warlord is not required to explain his actions except to his sultan."

  Warlord? His confirmation of her suspicions gave Alysson pause.

  He took the opportunity to press a handful of dates into her hand. "Now you may feed me," Jafar said, watching her carefully.

  Alysson's gray eyes widened as she stared at him. "Feed you? Why in heaven's name should I?"

  "Because I wish it, and because it is expected by our Arab friends."

  She cast a glance beyond his shoulder; they were indeed being watched by the Arabs. "Their expectations aren't of the least concern to me.''

  "They should be. Those men are slavers. They would as soon sell you into bondage as look at you."

  "Slavers! Then that makes your suggestion all the more absurd. I will not debase myself simply to indulge the whims of a group of savages who deal in the sale of human flesh."

  "Your compliance will not be considered debasement. Here in Barbary dominance of the strongest is a simple fact of nature. You are my captive. I am your master. You will obey me in all things."

  "You can go to the devil!" Alysson declared, rising to her knees.r />
  "Sit down!"

  "I won't!"

  His gaze captured hers. "It seems you have forgotten your lesson in obedience," he said softly.

  Her cheeks flushed with indignation. Provoked beyond endurance by his arrogant superiority, Alysson raised a hand to strike him. He caught it easily and pressed it flat against his chest. "That was not wise, chérie," he said in a tone that made her shiver.

  He did not remove his hand, nor did he release her from the power of his eyes. She was mesmerized by the intense heat of his unfathomable gaze, by the glittering gold flecks that floated in the brightness of his honey-colored irises.

  His voice dropped even lower, but was no less threatening because of its soft intensity. "Take care, captive, before I decide to sell you to them as a slave."

  Alysson regarded him with loathing. He was cold and unfeeling, and no doubt capable of unspeakable acts of brutality. Still, she would prefer to take her chances with the devil she knew. But she would not give him the satisfaction of a complete surrender. She raised her chin with a touch of bravado. "I am no man's slave."

  "No," he said after a moment. "I think not. But you will do as I say. I am the only thing standing in the way of your being imprisoned for life in an Eastern harem."

  A long, quiet silence ensued before Alysson finally nodded.

  When Jafar released her hand, she tore a date from the cluster and held it up for him to eat. He waited, however, until she carried it all the way to his lips.

  The distinction was not lost on her. It made her grit her teeth.

  He ate the fruit then, gracefully spitting out the pit into his palm and tossing it away.

  Alysson fed him another, yet she couldn't help but give a fearful glance at the slavers. "You wouldn't sell me to them, would you?"

  His answer, so long in coming, was not particularly reassuring. "No, I have need of you myself."

  She shoved another date in his mouth before he had finished swallowing the last. She hoped he choked on it.

  Jafar responded with merely a casual shrug. "Pity. You would bring a good price, since you are still a virgin."

  His frankness elicited a small gasp from Alysson. "How did you—?" She broke off abruptly, having no earthly intention of discussing the status of her innocence with him.

  "How did I know?" A smile that could almost be called satisfied played at the corners of his mouth. "A logical assumption, given the expectations of your race regarding unmarried females. Your response just now merely confirmed it."

  While she silently fumed, his eyes dropped lower to scrutinize her breasts and hips. He was still speculating on her value as a slave—merely to provoke her, Alysson was sure.

  "With rich food to fill out your curves, you might command a high price indeed. That is, if you could ever learn to be docile."

  Her fulminating glare was hot enough to boil the camel's milk he was drinking. "You are insane if you think I could ever be as subservient as your Eastern women."

  "I expect service as a slave would curb your rebellious nature soon enough. A day's work in a harem would render you more submissive, and would show you what real life is about.''

  The measured tones of his voice frightened her. "Is that what you intend to do with me? Am I to be imprisoned in your harem?"

  "Hareern is also an Arab word."

  "Don't debate semantics with me!" she cried, trying to quell her rising panic. "Am I or am I not to become your . . . your concubine?''

  "Would you like to become my concubine?"

  Alysson stared at him, anguish and confusion warring for expression on her face.

  "If I took you into my harem, I would use you for my own pleasure, and show you pleasure in return."

  "W-what . . . what do you mean?"

  "Surely you have some idea of what goes on between a man and a woman?"

  Alysson nervously wet her lips.

  "Perhaps you would like me to teach you." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "You challenged me to instruct you in the art of kissing, did you not?"

  His fingers gripped her chin lightly. He was staring intently at her mouth now. Alysson felt the savagery of his kiss, though he had not yet claimed it.

  It was all she could do to force a reply past the tightness in her throat. "Do you always terrify your prisoners this way? Does it give you some perverse satisfaction to mistreat me so?"

  She saw his topaz eyes narrow in warning. "I have not mistreated you, nor will I, if you obey my commands. "

  Mustering all the courage she possessed, Alysson returned his fierce gaze. "I may be your captive," she said steadily, "but I am not your slave. And I will never be your concubine."

  The pressure of his fingers on her chin increased the slightest degree. "Even so, you will call me master."

  His voice was so soft that it was scarcely a whisper, yet the lack of volume made it no less dangerous. Alysson felt herself trembling.

  His hard expression softened then, and he released her chin. "I have had my fill of the food. Now you may eat."

  Alysson bit back the fierce retort that sprang to her lips. At the moment she didn't have the nerve to defy him further, even though his condescension, his air of superiority, his incredible arrogance, made her want to scream. He was acting like he was some kind of grand seigneur, some high and mighty king—

  Of course he probably was a king in his culture, or close enough. He was a warlord, a chieftain who held the power of life and death over his followers . . . and his captives.

  Alysson suffered his scrutiny in simmering silence as she tried to eat. The dates and camel's milk were a welcome change from barley bread and goat's cheese, but she could hardly force them past her dry throat. Her situation was even more dire than she had thought. He didn't want money, if he could be believed, yet he hadn't answered her question about what he intended to do with her. She wanted desperately to know, but after all his talk of concubines and harems, she was afraid of the answer.

  Beneath veiling lashes, she eyed Jafar with fresh trepidation. He was a cool, self-possessed man, handsome in a raw, ruthless way. Despite his occasional kindness toward her, his hard mouth held a hint of what might be cruelty, while his hawk-eyes held shrewd intelligence and determination. He was the kind of man who would always manage to get his way, whatever the circumstances. And she very much feared that in this instance, too, he would prove victorious.

  "Come, it is time to go."

  Jafar's quiet command startled Alysson from her morose thoughts. Seeing that he had risen and was holding out a hand to her, she allowed him to help her to her feet.

  "Is it far, to your camp?" she made herself ask.

  "A few hours more, only."

  Slowly, reluctantly, she followed him over to the horses. She dreaded the upcoming ride, dreaded even more the end of their journey.

  Her sickening sense of inevitability only increased the further they traveled, reaching burgeoning proportions when an hour later Alysson found herself truly on the outskirts of the Sahara. All around her stretched a desolate yellow-and- gray expanse, baking beneath a hot azure sky. Summer was long over, and yet the cruel heat was almost unbearable.

  Her spirits wilting, Alysson hung her head.

  "Not much further," she heard Jafar say. His tone was gently bracing, and for an instant she even thought she saw sympathy in his eyes.

  Abruptly she squared her shoulders, determined not to accept any pity from him.

  After another hour of riding, though, the hopelessness of her situation began to press down on her like a crushing weight. To the far right she glimpsed the beginning of another high mountain range. To the far left was the same shimmering mirage that looked so much like a lake.

  The mirage was bounded to the south by ranges of golden sand hills. Beyond, in the distance, the desert passed into a limitless gloomy waste, broken only now and then by a scraggly clump of broom or thorn.

  Some half hour later, they reached what Alysson realized was their destination. When she
shielded her eyes from the glare, she could make out scores of black tents pitched beneath banners that fluttered proudly in the wind.

  A camp of war, Alysson thought with dismay. It appeared that her fierce Berber warlord had gathered a small army here at the edge of the world. Wretched, despondent, she glanced at Jafar. He was watching her intently from hooded eyes.

  The next moment the air was filled with shouts and cries as a throng of robed horsemen galloped out to greet their leader. Alysson couldn't summon the energy to be alarmed, even when the horde of fierce Berbers surged around them, wildly circling and firing muskets into the air, stirring up clouds of desert sand.