Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  She did feel a welcoming spark of renewed anger, however, when she recognized the red-bearded Berber who had acted as spokesman for the group which had ambushed her uncle's party, making it possible for their chieftain to take her captive.

  Had it only been two days ago? It seemed like an eternity.

  The bearded Berber did not appear interested in her, though. After only a brief glance at Alysson, he launched into a lengthy conversation with Jafar—probably bringing him up to date on what had occurred during his absence, Alysson surmised.

  Jafar listened attentively, only occasionally asking a question or making a comment as he accompanied his lieutenant into the encampment. Not once did he look at Alysson, even though he was still leading her mare.

  She wondered hopefully if he had forgotten her presence, but she soon realized the futility of such wishful thinking. The moment he brought the horses to a halt before a large, caparisoned tent, his attention shifted back to her.

  "Welcome to my camp, Miss Vickery," he said dispassionately.

  When she didn't reply, he dropped gracefully off his stallion's back and strode around to her side, reaching up to help her dismount.

  For a moment, Alysson's courage failed her entirely. She stayed where was, staring down into Jafar's golden eyes.

  When his fingers tightened about her waist, though, she gave herself a fierce mental shake. Taking a deep breath, she swung her leg over the pommel and let herself slide into his waiting arms. He had promised not to hurt her, hadn't he?

  But still she couldn't shake the horrible, sinking feeling that her trials were just beginning.

  Chapter 5

  Hesitating at the doorway of the tent, Alysson glanced cautiously within, noting double walls of black goatskin and a high roof supported by slender wooden poles. The dwelling was large and spacious as befitted a lord, but sparsely furnished, in the manner of a soldier. The thick carpets that covered the sand floor were scattered with cushions and several small, low tables—the effect practical rather than luxurious.

  The slight pressure of Jafar's hand at the small of her back made Alysson step inside. As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she could make out the unlit olive oil lamps hanging from the ridgepole overhead. The tall support poles also boasted numerous hooks, upon which hung saddlery and other accoutrements of war.

  Spying movement, Alysson came to an abrupt halt. A tall, turbaned Berber had turned to face them, his arms full of swords and daggers, pistols and rifles. The young man managed a graceful salaam to Jafar, despite the armload of weapons he was holding, and when Jafar issued a command in a low voice, he obediently withdrew. Yet Alysson saw a brief flash of curiosity in his blue eyes as he passed.

  She was curious about him as well. Watching him carry the weapons from the tent, she guessed that hed been ordered to prepare the place for her residency. The thought made her shiver. Was this to be her prison?

  She turned to eye Jafar with a quizzical look, but his hard face gave no clue as to his thoughts, or his intentions.

  Not meeting her gaze, he strode across the chamber and drew aside a woolen curtain, revealing an inner room. "If you will excuse me, mademoiselle, there are affairs I must attend to," he told her evenly. "You may rest here."

  Alysson followed him with great reluctance. Was this Jafar's bedchamber? Here, items of clothing hung on the pole hooks while a striped woolen blanket lay neatly folded upon the woven-straw pallet.

  "I will send a servant to see to your needs," he said, turning away.

  Torn between pique at being dismissed so summarily, and the shameful desire to plead with him not to leave her here alone in these unfamiliar surroundings, Alysson couldn't manage to reply before Jafar strode from the tent.

  Alone, she glanced around the bedchamber uncertainly. In one corner sat an unlit charcoal brazier. In another, on a small table, was a pitcher and washbowl. Beneath the table, to her surprise, rested a glazed, lidded receptacle that was apparently a chamber pot. Was that for her use? Did Jafar intend to keep her here for the duration of her captivity?

  Her gaze stole again to the pallet. She was too keyed up to rest as he had suggested, but even if she hadn't been, she couldn't stay here. Not in his bed.

  Abruptly Alysson retreated to the large front chamber which no doubt served as a reception room and living quarters. Hearing a horse's whinny, she went to the doorway of the tent. There were several horses tethered directly outside, including her gray mare and Jafar's black Barb. But her hope of claiming one and making an escape was dashed at once. The blue-eyed Berber stood guarding both the doorway and the horses.

  When he spied Alysson he came immediately to attention and with his musket blocked her way. "Eskana," he said, motioning for her to turn back.

  With a sinking heart, she did so. She needed no interpreter to understand that it was forbidden for her to leave the tent.

  She spent the next few minutes wandering around the large room, exploring her surroundings, looking for a weapon the Berber guard might have missed. There was none, though in the far corner she discovered Jafar's library. The knee-high table was strewn with maps and a few leather- bound volumes written in Arabic, and, to her surprise, several French journals.

  Wondering what use he had for them, wondering also what he intended to do with her, Alysson sank down upon one of the cushions to await Jafar's return. With effort she even managed to rally her flagging spirits. She should have expected Jafar to see that she was well guarded, of course, but she needn't despair just yet. If she used her wits, she might still contrive an escape. And there was also the chance that she could bribe someone to carry a message to Gervase in Algiers. By now, with luck, her Uncle Honors would have returned safely to Algiers, and Gervase would be searching for her. He would find her before too long. She had to believe that.

  Her worried musings were interrupted just then when a boy of perhaps ten limped into the tent, bearing a tray. Alysson gave a start when she looked at him directly. Not only was the child lame, but one side of his face was horribly scarred beneath his turban, the flesh red and puckered.

  The boy was glaring at her fiercely, as if daring her to pity him. Realizing her staring had given offense, Alysson schooled her features into a semblance of equanimity, but he continued to glower as he bent and placed the copper tray on the table nearest her.

  "My lord bade me serve you," the boy said with undisguised hatred.

  His words took her aback, not because of his hostility, but rather because of the language he had used; he had spoken in clear, fluent French.

  "The master orders you to eat," the boy added, before he turned awkwardly and busied himself lighting the lamps.

  Alysson barely glanced at the contents of the tray, for her thoughts were whirling. If this boy could converse with her, then perhaps she could befriend him and eventually persuade him to carry a message to Gervase.

  Wondering how to begin, Alysson watched the young servant. He certainly showed no inclination to talk. When he had completed his task without saying another word, he turned to leave.

  "Wait!" Alysson called after him. "How is it that you speak French?"

  "In Algiers I was forced into the employ of the enemy." The boy nearly spat the words. "Brother of vermin," he muttered under his breath in Arabic, a term Alysson recognized as a curse in any language. She had no doubt he was speaking of the French. "They did this to me." He pointed to his face and his crippled right foot.

  The compassion she felt must have shown on her face, for he squared his slender shoulders and straightened to his full, unintimidating height. She wished there were something she could say to console the child.

  "What is your name?" she asked, her tone gentle.

  He eyed her warily. "I am called Mahmoud."

  "I am Alysson Vickery. I am an Englishwoman."

  Mahmoud looked rather surprised that she had offered her name, yet still unforgiving. "Even so, it is not befitting for a Muslim to serve infidels."

  "I
am sorry that you are required to serve me. Perhaps it might help if you remember that I did not ask to be brought here."

  He seemed to consider that a moment, but then his scowl returned. "The lord wishes you to eat." Turning abruptly, he left the tent with surprising dignity, dragging his right food behind him.

  Alysson suppressed a sigh. Directing her attention to the tray, she saw that Mahmoud had brought her an earthen pitcher of water, a goblet of fruit juice, and a wooden bowl of figs, oranges, and dates.

  She carried the pitcher to the inner room, where she quickly made use of the water to wash away the dust. It surprised her that one person had been allowed so much water, but perhaps there was a well nearby.

  Returning to the main quarters, she drank the pomegranate juice and ate an orange, finding both refreshing. Still

  Jafar did not come, even though it was growing dark outside. Wearily she curled up on one of the cushions and closed her eyes for a moment.

  That was how Jafar found her a half hour later, her head partly sliding off the pillow, one slender hand tucked beneath her cheek.

  He stood looking down at her for a time, marveling at how sweetly innocent she looked in sleep, with the soft golden lamplight spilling over her. Nothing like the spitting tigress who had challenged him every step of the way here.

  An unwanted emotion stirred in his chest. It was guilt, he realized. Guilt for using her in his battle against his mortal enemy. But it was too late now to be harboring doubts about the wisdom of his plan. Events had progressed too far.

  Carefully Jafar knelt to wake her. Brushing a wisp of hair back from her face, he resisted the urge to press his lips against the vee where her throat pulsed in tiny waves, and gently squeezed her arm, instead.

  Alysson came awake with a start. Seeing Jafar so close, she tried to scurry to her feet, but she made the mistake of gripping the table edge for support. That was how she discovered that the table was merely an unattached platform supported by wooden blocks, so it could easily be assembled for transporting when the Berbers broke camp. The empty goblet went flying, while pieces of fruit rolled across the carpets.

  A wry smile curved Jafar's mouth as he watched a date take refuge among his maps. "Leave it," he said when Alysson tried to rectify the damage she had done. "Mahmoud will see to it when he serves supper."

  Alysson disobeyed, partly because she disliked putting the young servant to further trouble, partly to give herself something to do, and partly in order to defy her captor.

  Shaking his head at her stubbornness, Jafar retreated into the bedchamber in order to wash. He returned to the main room a few minutes later, dressed in a short, white, sleeveless tunic, loose white trousers, and boots of soft crimson leather.

  Shortly, Mahmoud limped in, bearing the first courses of the evening meal. With only a sullen glance at Alysson, the boy spread a tablecloth on the carpet at their feet and placed the dishes before them. In the presence of his master, Mahmoud was courteous and deferential toward Alysson, calling her saiyida—madam—in Arabic. Jafar he called lord.

  Watching them together, Alysson realized then that her plan to befriend Mahmoud was probably doomed to failure; the boy obviously worshiped the man.

  Supper was a more substantial meal than any she'd previously had with Jafar. First they were served small glasses of mint tea, sweet and sticky and hot. Then came bread and cheese and olives, accompanied by beans boiled in oil and vinegar. Alysson observed Jafar eat the beans as the native Arabs did, gracefully, with the fingers of his right hand, but she chose to use the wooden spoon that had been provided her.

  She was halfway through the course when it occurred to her that she should not be eating with him. In Eastern cultures women dined separately from the men, afterward. The bite she was swallowing suddenly stuck in Alysson's throat. Why was Jafar was making an exception for her? Did he have some ulterior motive that she had yet to fathom?

  "I confess," she said nervously when Mahmoud had withdrawn, "I am surprised to be dining with you. I didn't think the opposite genders ate together in Barbary."

  Jafar gave her a considering look that divulged nothing of his thoughts. "I told you once, I am prepared to make allowances for your European upbringing. As long as your behavior remains obedient and circumspect, I will permit you more freedom than I would allow a woman of my own country."

  The arrogance of his reply grated on her nerves. "I suppose you think I should be Honoréd by your condescension."

  "Indeed you should," he returned with a slight smile.

  The boy reappeared just then, bringing with him bowls of rich lentil soup, and dessert, bread with honey. Alysson broke off her interrogation and maintained a frustrated silence for the duration of the meal, waiting for a moment of privacy to ask Jafar what he intended to do with her. Whenever he happened to glance at her, she regarded him with a touch of disdain, matching coolness with coolness, arrogance with arrogance.

  The moment finally came. When Mahmoud had served them each a small cup of thick, black coffee and proffered a bowl of water for them to wash their hands, Jafar dismissed the servant with an imperious wave of his fingers.

  Alysson suddenly wished she could call the boy back. Now that she was alone with Jafar, her anxiety returned in foil measure. She didn't like what the soft glow of the olive oil lamps did for his features. His hair gleamed like dark burnished gold, while the light reflected the amber of his eyes. His attire, too, was unsettling. His lean, muscular grace was much more obvious without his robes, making her aware of him as a man, and not just as her villainous captor.

  Abruptly she decided that going on the offensive was the best course.

  "I did not think you would be so willing to waste water on cleanliness here in the desert," she said tersely, thinking of his cruel insistence on making her ask him for a drink. "Yesterday you made me beg for every drop."

  Cradling his coffee cup in one hand, Jafar leaned back on a cushion, supporting his weight on one elbow. "Cleanliness is a virtue in my religion. It is our custom to bathe frequently whenever we can spare the water. In this case it is possible, since my camp is supplied by an artesian well." After a short pause, he supplemented with a mocking smile, "Dug by your own Legionnaires, I might add."

  The irony was not lost on Alysson. Naturally he would find it amusing that the French military should aid him in his malevolent purposes, however indirectly. The knowledge of a well gave her no comfort, either. He would need a ready source of water if he planned to remain here for any length of time.

  "When do you mean to tell me what you intend to do with me?" Alysson demanded.

  He hesitated a moment, his gaze contemplating her. "You may consider yourself my guest."

  "Your guest?" Alysson gave him an incredulous look. "And for how long am I to remain your guest?"

  "Until I no longer have need of you."

  “And just how long is that?''

  Jafar shrugged, keeping his expression deliberately impassive. Alysson pressed her lips together to refrain from shouting at him in frustration. "You won't even tell me what it is you want with me?"

  "Simply your presence."

  Unnerved by his quiet tone, she stared at him. She wanted to demand precisely why he required her presence, but it was obvious he didn't intend to give her any complete answers. "Then would you mind telling me just what I am to do here in the meantime?"

  "You may enjoy the freedom of my tent." He gestured with his cup, indicating their surroundings. "I apologize for my humble dwelling, and for the meager fare. It is not what a pampered heiress like you is accustomed to, perhaps. But you will not be uncomfortable here. You will have ample servants to see to your needs."

  Alysson stiffened. She admitted to being spoiled and pampered, but she was not about to listen to him telling her so. "Your generosity overwhelms me. However, I find the accommodations hardly up to my usual exacting standards. I'm afraid I must respectfully decline your hospitality."

  "I'm afraid," he said softly
, "it is not your choice, my proud ingrate."

  "Ingrate!" Alysson raised her chin, her cheeks tingeing with the rosy blush of anger. "You think I should be grateful that you attacked my uncle's party, forcibly abducted me, dragged me to this godforsaken place, and mean to keep me prisoner from some unspecified time for some unspecified purpose? What kind of man are you? Only a coward and a thief would treat a woman in such a despicable fashion!"

  For a moment Alysson thought she might have gone too far, calling him a coward. Jafar made no reply, and no movement—indeed, he remained quite still—but there was an animal alertness behind the indolent pose, and he was watching her with a hooded look that warned her she was treading dangerous ground.