Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  "You would do well to remember one thing, mademoiselle," he said evenly. "Here, I am master, and you will do my bidding."

  Her palm itched to strike his hard, handsome face, but she didn't quite have the courage. Instead, Alysson sent him a scathing look. "I don't recognize your authority." Her antagonism was not wise, she knew, but it was better than meek subservience. "I won't feed you again, and I won't see to your wound! You can perish from your injury, for all I care."

  “Wounds seldom putrefy in the desert, so I am unlikely to perish."

  "How lamentable!"

  His eyes narrowed, but there was a sudden glitter in the golden depths that looked suspiciously like amusement. "You should count yourself fortunate that I do not require you to wash my feet as Bedouin women do for their men."

  "If you think for one minute—" Leaping up, Alysson stood, hands on hips, glaring down at him. Wash his feet, indeed!

  Jafar, watching, thought she looked magnificent in her scorn. A half-smile curved his mouth. "Most men of my race prefer sweetness and docility in a female, but I enjoy a woman with spirit."

  When she realized he was deliberately provoking her, Alysson nearly sputtered in her outrage. Oh, how she wished she had a weapon to use on this barbarian!

  With royal disregard for her fury, Jafar drained the remaining coffee in his cup. Rising then, he went to stand at the doorway to the tent, his back to her as he looked out over his camp. A lord surveying his realm, Alysson thought with derision, silently cursing the arrogance that categorized everything the man did.

  Jafar's thoughts were running along similar lines, though his curses concerned Alysson's passionate spirit. He almost would have preferred the weeping and tears or the cries for pity that was expected of a woman. How much easier he would find it then to resist her appeal. As it was, he was entirely too aware of the angry young beauty behind him. He actually felt himself wanting to soothe and comfort her, to yield to her demands that he release her.

  Silently he shook his head, knowing himself for a fool. All he needed was to remember four nights ago when he'd stood outside the reception, watching Alysson Vickery surrounded by her personal entourage of admirers. Every male there, young or old, had been drawn to her like a fly to honey. Her uncle particularly doted on her, while Bourmont . . . that devil-spawned gallant had become so enamored of his lovely fiancée that hed allowed her to oppose his direct wishes, against every instinct that warned of danger.

  A muscle in Jafar's jaw tightened. He would not allow himself to follow the same path as those other witless fools. He would not become a fawning slave to the young lady's whims.

  "It is time to retire," he said in a low voice, determined to ignore her anger. "I suggest you prepare yourself for bed." Behind him, he felt Alysson tense.

  "You can't possibly mean . . ."

  Glancing over his shoulder, Jafar met her gaze. She was staring at him, her gray eyes smoldering. He could read every emotion on her expressive face as she came to the realization that he meant for her to share his bed: fury, frustration, defiancé, distress.

  Jafar raised an eyebrow and waited. They had been through this before, and the outcome would again be the same.

  To his surprise, she capitulated without a word. Her fingers curling into fists, she turned abruptly and stalked into the other room.

  Jafar sighed. If there had been another alternative, he would have taken it. If Alysson were a more biddable female, he could have put her with the few unmarried serving women in his camp. But he couldn't trust her not to try and escape. She would have to be guarded day and night, and keeping a close eye on her himself was the most practical solution.

  Bending, Jafar secured the front flap of the tent for the night. He was not looking forward to the next few weeks. He'd never had a reluctant woman in his bed before, and Miss Vickery, at the moment, was highly reluctant. Sleeping with her was certain to prove an extraordinary exercise in restraint.

  He heard no sounds of movement in his sleeping quarters, so he entered. She was standing stock-still, completely dressed, staring at the brazier. During the meal, Mahmoud had prepared the room for the night, lighting the oil lamp and kindling a few coals in the brazier to ward off the chill of the desert night. For Jafar the fire was not necessary, since he had spent a good deal of his life in this harsh climate, but hed thought his lovely guest would prefer the warmth of the brazier to the warmth of his arms. He had done his best to provide the amenities to which she was accustomed, though she would probably never appreciate the fact.

  Alysson stiffened when he entered, turning to look up at him, her eyes shadowed and opaque, like smoke from a wildfire.

  "My little tigress," Jafar said gently, "your time here will go easier if you accept your fate."

  Alysson felt the familiar panic curling within her. What would be her fate? Was this the moment he would ravish her?

  He meant for her to remove her clothing, she knew. His eyes were holding hers, issuing a silent command. Silently she screamed in mortification and fury, but she obeyed, slowly removing her jacket, boots, stockings, and breeches.

  "Get into bed," he said then.

  With great reluctance, she lay down on the pallet and pulled the blanket up to her chin, watching him apprehensively over the edge, vowing he would not make her beg or cry.

  To her relief he snuffed the lantern before he undressed. The coals glowing in the brazier, however, betrayed the oudine of his masculine form, red-gold light glinting off his bare back and shoulders, highlighting the solid play of muscle.

  When he was naked but for his trousers, he came toward her, his body lithe, sleek and menacing in the darkness. Alysson went rigid, watching him with trembling anticipation. She would fight him to the death if he dared touch her . . .

  He sat beside her then, reaching down to bare her ankle beneath the blanket. With a gasp, Alysson sat up abruptly.

  But he was merely securing her leg to his, as hed done all the other nights of her captivity, she realized as relief flooded through her. This time the bond was not wool but silk. She could feel the rough-sleek texture of it against her skin.

  When he was done, Jafar glanced up at her. His golden eyes captured the firelight, glinting in the darkness. Alysson held her breath, her heart pounding. His hands, which she imagined were so accustomed to violence, were oddly gentle as they gripped her shoulders and pushed her back down onto the pillows.

  Oh, God, what did he mean to do? She bit her lip hard, to keep from crying out. She would not plead for her virtue, or for her life.

  But he merely stretched his long form beside her on the pallet. Lying on his back, his head pillowed by one arm, he pried the edge of the blanket from her death grip and covered himself. "Sleep well, captive."

  Shocked by this unexpected deliverance, Alysson turned to stare at Jafar in the darkness. Within her, relief vied with confusion.

  Why in the world had he brought her here to his desert, camp? If not because he wanted her as his concubine, then why ever had he taken her captive?

  Chapter 6

  Much to Alysson's relief, Jafar was gone by the time she woke the next morning. Mahmoud brought her water to wash with, then food to break her fast, which Alysson ate with relish.

  As she'd expected, breakfast was couscous—the traditional dish of Barbary—made from wheat kernels steamed like rice and kneaded into tiny balls. For the morning meal, the couscous was sweetened with milk and honey, accompanied by dates and almonds, and served with hot, sweet tea infused with mint.

  Refreshed both by the food and a decent night's sleep, Alysson felt almost recovered from the grueling journey of the previous few days. She drank her third cup of tea slowly, watching as a sullen Mahmoud performed various chores around the tent—sweeping the carpets, airing the blankets and pallet, refilling lamps with olive oil, and seeing to his master's clothing.

  Outside she could hear sounds of camp activity, and through the open doorway, amid the sea of black tents, she glimpsed dozen
s of Berber warriors attending to their daily tasks. Beyond the camp lay the vast desert, already shimmering as the sun burned away the last vestiges of morning chill.

  Directly outside her tent, Alysson spied the tall, blue- eyed Berber she'd seen the previous day. He was still guarding her, it seemed, even while he occupied himself with caring for the horses. Here, as in the more civilized cultures she was familiar with, the horses must be fed and watered and groomed, their bridles and saddles polished.

  The man was some kind of equerry, Alysson decided, while Mahmoud was the equivalent of a body servant or valet. She tried engaging Mahmoud in conversation, to discover any information about where she was and why Jafar had brought her to his camp, but all she managed to drag from the boy was that Jafar el-Saleh was a mighty lord who served the Sultan Abdel Kader, Defender of the Faithful.

  Mahmoud had just stomped awkwardly from the room when Alysson became aware that she was being watched. Looking up with a start, she saw some half dozen young women loitering outside the doorway to the tent, eyeing her curiously, as if she were some unusual exhibit at a fair. Lifting her chin, Alysson returned their regard with a frank inquisitiveness of her own.

  None of the women were veiled, so she could see their noble, proud features. They all possessed fine-shaped eyes, narrow aquiline noses, and light complexions, while two had delicate tattoos marking their foreheads. They were Berbers, Alysson was certain, for Berber women never veiled their faces as the Bedouin Arabs did. All of them wore colorful tunics girdled at the waist, flowing head- cloths, and dozens of silver chains and bangles.

  One of the tattooed women, apparently the oldest of the group, stepped forward shyly and bowed to Alysson, then pointed to herself. "Tahar."

  Realizing that must be the woman's name, Alysson gave a tentative smile in response. "I am called Alysson. Al-ys- son."

  "Ail-son," the Berber woman repeated with a beaming smile, nodding her head.

  When the others began to laugh and giggle, Tahar clapped her hands. At once the Berber women swarmed into the tent, bearing armfuls of clothing and accessories. Alysson found herself surrounded and being urged into the bedchamber.

  "Khemee ekkas," Tahar commanded when the curtain had fallen shut behind them all.

  Alysson looked at her blankly.

  "You will please to?" the woman asked in haltering French.

  She seemed very proud of her ability with the strange language, and the others appeared highly admiring, too, for they nodded in excitement. Alysson was impressed, since she could speak absolutely no Berber, but she still couldn't comprehend the woman's French.

  She shook her head, gesturing vaguely with her hands. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand. Please to what?"

  "Esdig," Tahar explained as she began pulling at the foreigner's jacket and breeches.

  It was then that Alysson realized they wanted her to undress. Immediately she backed away, eyeing them warily and shaking her head in refusal. "I am not taking off my clothes."

  "Esdig, esdig, " the Berber woman repeated insistently.

  But it was only when Tahar grasped a fold of her own robe and made rubbing motions with the fabric that Alysson understood they meant to wash her clothing for her.

  With a pleased smile, she nodded. "Thank you! I would be eternally grateful if you would see to my laundry."

  And so for the following hour, Alysson gave herself into the care of the Berber women, to be dressed and perfumed and adorned according to their customs.

  First came a long chemise of sheer white linen worn next to the skin, and over this, a long length of blue-and-red striped cloth fashioned into a tunic. The tunic skirt was belted by a waist sash, while the bodice was folded double over the bosom, and secured by shoulder bands. For her feet she was presented with both soft leather sandals as well as a pair of yellow babouches—slippers with upturned toes.

  When she was given combs for her hair, Alysson remembered Jafar promising to provide them for her, and grudgingly acknowledged his kindness. Apparently his royal munificence had interrupted his busy schedule long enough to see that she was decently attired and groomed.

  After her hair had been braided and twisted up on her head, she was given a twig to chew, which Tahar called souak. To sweeten the breath, Alysson realized after some gesturing by the Berber woman. Next came a fragrant herbal cream, to rub into her sunburned skin. Then she was offered small pots and jars, which contained kohl to darken the eyes and eyebrows, and henna, the dark red-brown stain used to make the patterned tattooes on the Berber women's hands and feet and foreheads.

  Alysson put her foot down, however, when they tried to beautify her with cosmetics. She would not paint her face or decorate her body with the heathen markings, or rouge her nipples, which to her extreme embarrassment, they seemed to want her to do. But she suffered the Berber women to arrange a colorful blue headdress over her hair— a square of cloth resembling a large handkerchief worn like a mantle.

  There were many more garments, some that Alysson wasn't certain how to wear. It was difficult getting instructions, but between Tahar's negligible French, Alysson's inadequate Arabic, and the sign language that they both adopted, Alysson managed generally to comprehend. For courtesy's sake, she tried to learn the Berber word for each item, which caused much good-natured laughter among the Berber women. To her surprise, Alysson actually found herself enjoying the friendly exchange, even going so far as to forget that she was a captive of their fierce lord. When the pleasant interlude ended, she was disappointed to see the women go. She thanked them profusely for their gifts, responding to Tahar's "Adieu" with an invitation to visit her whenever they could spare the time.

  When they were gone, Alysson began searching through the garments they had left for her. Earlier she had noticed an outfit that seemed more sedate and appropriate for her situation—a pair of loose brocade pantaloons, to be worn with a blouse and a short-waisted, long-sleeved bolero. She would feel more comfortable in those, Alysson decided, since they were quite like her breeches and jacket.

  Pulling off the tunic and chemise she was wearing, she donned the baggy pantaloons and smiled at the way they swallowed her slender hips and legs. She was trying to figure out how to belt them with a sash when suddenly Alysson sensed she wasn't alone.

  Looking up, she was startled to find Jafar standing there in the doorway, holding the curtain to one side as he made to enter. He was staring at her bare breasts as a hawk stares, his golden eyes glittering and intent.

  With a gasp she dropped the sash and covered her naked bosom with her arms.

  "Beautiful," he said slowly, and not in French.

  Alysson was so shocked to realize he had spoken in English that she momentarily forgot her outrage at his spying and gaped at him. "You speak English!" she exclaimed, staring, at him in return.

  Although Jafar feigned unconcern, he silently cursed himself for his slip. The last thing he wanted was for his lovely captive to recognize him. He would have to be far more careful. She was too clever to be misled for long, certainly if he continued to make mistakes like this one.

  Lifting his gaze to meet her bewildered eyes, he shrugged. "I know a few words of your language," he replied in French.

  At the sound of his arrogant tone, Alysson abruptly came to her senses. "How dare you!" she sputtered. "Get out of here this minute!"

  "But this is my tent, ma belle." He moved silently toward her then, his body lithe as a cat's, the flowing skirt of his soft gray robe swirling around his long legs. Alysson retreated in panic, taking three frantic steps backward before she came up against the wall of the tent. Trapped, she stared at him, her cheeks flaming, her heart pounding. If he came a step closer, she would fight him . . .

  But Jafar would not be denied. Reaching for her, he easily subdued her struggles and foiled her attempts to twist from his grasp. His hands took possession of hers, gently drawing her arms away from her body, till the dainty fullness of her breasts was bared to him.

  Alysson s
tood there frozen, too stunned by his action, too mesmerized by his gaze, too afraid of the hungry, blatant desire she saw there, to move. She felt herself trembling as he studied her with purely masculine appreciation, his eyes narrowed, glittering, spellbound. Abashed, yet strangely thrilled by the heated intensity of his admiration, Alysson shut her eyes so she wouldn't have to see it. She endured his appraisal, tremulous but proud, vulnerable but defiant.

  Jafar observed her blush, her innocent confusion, with fascination and a fierce desire. Slowly his gaze traveled down her body, taking in the young glowing skin of palest honey rose, the small but ripe fullness of her breasts, the slender hips and thighs hidden by the brocade pantaloons. She was not built to pleasure a man the way the women of his own country were, yet she possessed enough curves to fill a man's hungry hands. Oddly, though, seeing her wearing the native apparel of his country was nearly as arousing as the sight of silken bare flesh. It diminished her English- ness, making her seem more a part of his life, his traditions. It allowed him to imagine that she belonged here, to him.