Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  "You delight my eyes," he murmured in French, his voice suddenly becoming soft and whispery.

  Slowly, against her will, Alysson opened her eyes to meet Jafar's. She was shaken by the look of raw desire on his face, the almost physical possession of his gaze. She wanted to object to his scandalous behavior, to shout at him to get out, to plead with him to leave her alone, but she couldn't force the words past her dry throat. It was only when his fingers glided gently over her bare shoulder that she found the voice to protest.

  "Don't . . ."she whispered. "I don't want you to . . ."

  "Is that so, ma belle?" His soft smile said clearly that he didn't believe her. "I think you do. Already your body betrays you. Your nipples are eager to feel my touch . . ."

  It was as if his velvet voice had reached out to stroke them. Alysson felt a startling, unfamiliar surge of desire coil deep inside her.

  Still holding one of her wrists, he raised a hand to the pert curve of her left breast, grazing the tip of it with his forefinger. "See how it springs to attention?"

  She gasped, jolted by the throbbing fire even this lightest pressure made her feel, by the warmth and dampness that suddenly pulsed between her thighs.

  "I think it time that we continue with your instruction in the art of kissing."

  At his soft declaration, her lips parted to argue, but to her dismay, she couldn't form the words. She was powerless to speak, to move. Jafar spread his fingers against her delicate cheekbones, framing her face in the gentle vise of his palms, his eyes moving over her like flickering torches.

  She couldn't look away.

  Her gaze focused on his sensual, hard mouth as slowly, slowly, he bent his head. She could feel his breath, warm and provocative, caress her lips. And then his mouth closed over hers, capturing, claiming.

  With a sharp inhalation, she tried once more to pull away, but Jafar ruthlessly took advantage of her parted lips; his tongue swept inside her mouth in an intimate invasion, sweetly probing, stroking the soft openness.

  The taste of him washed over her like an erotic drug. It was a kiss that stamped his possession, that tantalized and promised, that demanded a response. Never in her life had she felt anything like it. Never, not even with Gervase. Indeed, this was the kiss, Alysson realized in some dim recess of her mind, that she had yearned for Gervase to give her, one that excited and aroused her body while calling to the wild, nameless longings in her heart. Overwhelmed by the power of it, Alysson gave a small, involuntary whimper.

  The soft utterance was all the invitation Jafar needed. With extreme and deliberate seductiveness, he forced his tongue deeper, tasting, licking, twining in a gentle ravishment that compelled her surrender.

  Alysson reeled from the shattering assault. A thousand sensations ravaged her. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to feel loathing for his intimate mastery, for the ruthless way he was taking advantage of her vulnerable position. But what she felt instead was the boldness of his body, hard and warm and aggressive, imprinting its maleness onto her. What she felt was his provocative heat, bathing her senses and arousing an urgent hunger in her that cried out for fulfillment. Helplessly she swayed against him, straining closer.

  His kiss went on and On, giving her no quarter. She couldn't escape . . . didn't want to escape.

  A wild trembling invaded her limbs. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Alysson lifted her hands to grasp his upper arms, clinging to him for support. And when, a dozen heartbeats later, his sensitive fingers discovered the silken warmth of her breast, she hardly knew that the faint moan that came from her throat was hers.

  Jafar recognized the trembling pleasure-sound and felt his own body aching with an answering passion. Slowly he broke off his kiss and lifted his head to gaze down at her. Her eyes were half-closed, soft and hazy and bewildered, the eyes of a woman experiencing the slow unfolding of desire.

  She was on the edge of surrender, he knew, and yet she was still afraid of him. He could feel the way her heart fluttered like an imprisoned bird at his touch.

  Before she could recover her dazed senses, Jafar bent to press a barrage of feather-light kisses at the vulnerable hollow of her throat, then followed the slender column with his lips, to the line of her collarbone, and lower, to the rising swell of her breast.

  While his palm cupped the delicate heaviness, his tongue found the erect peak and flicked out to tenderly stroke.

  His erotic attentions forced another whimper from her.

  "You bewitch me," he murmured before his lips closed gently over the taut bud.

  Alysson thought she would die from the incredible sensation. She found herself straining weakly toward his seeking mouth as Jafar sipped at her nipple.

  Devastated by the fierce pleasure streaking through her, she responsively dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his

  arms. Her breath had entirely deserted her, along with the significant portion of her will. She knew she ought to make him stop, but incredibly, a traitorous part of her wanted very much for hirn to continue this exquisite torment.

  "You are . . . despicable . . ." she at last managed to gasp, ". . . forcing me this way."

  He paused, his movement arrested. "Forcing?" The word was a skeptical rasp.

  Even so, her allegation had struck an unwelcome chord within him. Jafar took a shuddering breath. His body was throbbing, yet his desire suddenly was not quite so fierce as it had been a moment before.

  Willing the savage heat of his blood to cool, he slowly drew his mouth away from her sweet breast. Just as slowly he straighted to stare down at her. "I have never had to force a woman, chérie. And I am not forcing you now.''

  It was true, Alysson thought with shameful comprehension. She had responded to him with a wantonness that was mortifying. "No . . ." she whispered.

  His faint smile was humorless. "How ignorant you English ladies are kept. You don't even recognize desire when you feel it."

  With a sound that was almost a sob, she pulled out of his arms. Had she been less upset, she might have felt surprise that Jafar let her go so easily, but all she could think of was what she had done, what she had allowed him to do.

  How could she have forgotten Gervase? How could she have betrayed him so? She was considering marriage to him, for heaven's sake. Gervase had given her his love, his trust, and here she was welcoming another man's caresses! A savage stranger, no less!

  Wanting to flee, to hide, Alysson began desperately searching through the pile of clothing for a robe to cover her nakedness. She found an embroidered caftan and dragged it on, overlapping the front edges and holding it protectively about her. When finally she turned to face Jafar, her bearing was tense, her expression wary.

  His features were impassive but for the wry curve of his mouth, the only indication of the frustrated desire he was feeling. "There is no need for you to defend your virtue so ferociously, mademoiselle."

  "No? Am I supposed to simply stand here then and calmly accept my ruination?"

  He shrugged, an unconcerned gesture. "If you will only think on it, you will realize you have already been ruined in the eyes of your society, simply because you've been abducted by a 'savage Arab.' Your mere presence here in my camp, alone in my tent with me, will condemn you."

  "That isn't so," Alysson replied doggedly, her voice shaking.

  "Is it not? Do you think me unaware of your people's standards?" His low-pitched voice dropped a register. "Do you truly believe your Frenchman would want you now, after you have known my kisses? That he would still be willing to marry you?"

  "It will not matter to Gervase that you have kissed me!" she cried, though she wasn't as certain as her adamant denial implied.

  Jafar's look, as well as his tone, became cool. "If I were to take you for my own . . . if I were to lay you down, there on my bed, and settle myself between your sweet thighs . . . he would mind. Very much, I think. No civilized European, including the colonel, would marry you after that."

  Alysson stared at Jafar i
n shock. It was a moment before she recovered enough from his implied threat of rape to force a response past her dry throat. "No . . . you're wrong . . . Gervase would not desert me."

  "Oh, Bourmont will come for you, certainly. His honor demands it. But if he manages to avenge your capture and attain your freedom, he will toss you away as something soiled."

  "You are q-quite mistaken. Gervase loves me. He wouldn't care if you did . . . ruin me."

  When Jafar raised an eyebrow in disbelief, Alysson lifted her trembling chin and stared back at him defiantly.

  He felt a spark of reluctant admiration for her as she stood there, proud and quivering. She was absurdly brave, Jafar thought, to deny him what he wanted. And he did want her . . . wanted her with a fierceness that surprised him. Yet he was civilized enough to want her willing.

  With a cynical twist of his lips, Jafar shook his head. If he were one of his ancestors, he would not have stopped simply because she protested. He would have made her his personal slave, forced her to serve his physical needs, used her beautiful body for his pleasure . . . and hers. He would not have equivocated at rape.

  And by his tribal laws, he would have been entirely justified, seeking revenge in that manner on his enemy, the colonel. But raping an innocent hadn't been his intent when he had taken her captive. His vengeance did not extend to debauching quivering virgins. She was a maid, untouched, and no matter how fiercely he wanted revenge on her fiancée, no matter how much he wanted to succumb to the fire in his Berber blood, he wouldn't take her innocence without her consent.

  Yet it didn't mean he wouldn't do everything in his power to gain that consent.

  "I think," Jafar said mildly, "that you overestimate the colonel's tolerance. If you were my intended bride, I would kill any man who touched you."

  "Your bride?" Alysson replied scathingly. "Thank God that isn't even a remote possibility."

  His smile this time held genuine amusement. "It is obvious no man has awakened your woman's body, ma belle. You know nothing of the delights of the flesh, or you would not willingly forgo my caresses."

  His audacity astonished her. "You arrogant savage! The only way I would endure the caresses of a barbarian like you would be if you forced me."

  "Oh, I will have you, my sweet, but it won't be by force." His tone was casual, speculative even, but Alysson had the terrible conviction he was making her a promise. "You will submit to me of your own free will."

  Her fingers curling into fists, she faced him rigidly, nearly shaking with fury. "You are obviously quite mad! I will never submit to you!"

  "Indeed you will, chérie. You will call me master . . . and lover. You will not return to Bourmont a maiden."

  The soft intensity of the statement silenced her.

  "And you will know pleasure at my touch," he added softly into the hush.

  His gaze held hers with a force that was unbreakable as he slowly closed the brief distance between them. "I intend to tame you with gentleness, my fierce tigress, and you will respond to me with passion, the way I know you are capable of responding." Deliberately he lifted one hand to her breast.

  "Don't!" She drew back with a jerk, as if his fingers had burned. "I don't care how gende you are! You could never make me respond willingly to you."

  "You think not?" His eyes swept down her body, coming to rest with arrogant possession on the soft swells of her breasts, now hidden from his gaze by the rich fabric of her robe. "I hold that you are mistaken. The day will come when you beg for my caresses . . ." With bold determination, he reached out again to stroke her nipple beneath the cloth.

  Fiercely Alysson clenched her teeth to stifle the gasp he dredged from her, but still she couldn't prevent her flesh from responding to his expert touch, or deny the quiver that shook her body.

  He laughed, softly, at her reaction, the husky sound sending a quicksilver flame of excitement rippling up her spine. "Oh, yes, my little tigress, whether or not you believe it now, we shall be lovers."

  He spared a final raking glance for her slender form, before he abruptly turned on his heel and quit the room. Alysson stared after him, regretting fervently that she had missed shooting him through the heart when she'd fired her pistol at him that day.

  She stood there for a long moment after he had gone, shivering with fear and an icy fire. We shall be lovers . . . You will not return to Bourmont a maiden. The threatening words reverberated in her mind, conjuring up vivid, erotic images that she found impossible to banish.

  Images of her lying naked in Jafar's arms, their limbs entwined, while he taught her the kind of passion she had never even dreamed of.

  Defiantly she closed her eyes to shut out the terrible visions, but she couldn't shut out the musky scent of him that clung to her skin, or the evocative taste of him that lingered on her lips.

  With a muttered oath, she hugged her arms to her body,furious with him, disgusted with herself, yet touched by a shameful excitement she had never before known.

  Chapter 7

  We shall be lovers.

  The bold prediction haunted Alysson, no matter how forcefully she tried to dismiss it. Much to her dismay, the incident with Jafar in his bedchamber had left her badly shaken. No man had ever kissed her like that. No man had ever taken her in his arms and forced a passionate response from her. No man had ever threatened to compel her surrender, or vowed to make her submit freely to his lovemak- ing, to find pleasure in his touch.

  The day will come when you beg for my caresses.

  The sheer arrogance of such a statement made Alysson's blood boil, and yet she felt a vague terror as well. It had taken only one kiss for her to discover that Jafar had the power to fulfill his prophecy. He had proven beyond doubt that he could arouse her desire, that he could make her momentarily forget Gervase and what she owed him. And she was very much afraid that given the opportunity, her savage Berber captor would make her willingly respond to him with passion, just as he had promised.

  Her only hope, Alysson concluded, was to deny him the opportunity. She had to keep away from him entirely. That, however, presented a problem, given the limitations of the tent's confines and Jafar's insistence that she sleep beside him.

  Nevertheless she tried ignoring his presence. During the following week Alysson refused to speak to him or even acknowledge his existence when she was in his company. She even suffered his occasional provocative remarks in silence, determined not to rise to the bait. When he complimented her on her appearance, saying that she wore the robes of his country well, Alysson pointedly turned her back on him, regretting that she had allowed Tahar and the other Berber women to take away her English clothes.

  She also did her best to restrain her natural disposition. Her heartless captor had said he enjoyed "a woman with spirit," that she needed "taming," of all the nonsensical things. Contrarily, Alysson decided to become the opposite of a spirited woman. No longer would she defy or confront Jafar. She would try docility for a change, all the while keeping a sharp eye out for her chance to escape.

  Escape would be difficult, though, she realized. She was never allowed to leave Jafar's tent, and so was unable to search for weapons or learn the layout of the camp. And although Jafar's horses were tethered outside his tent, they were well-guarded by the blue-eyed equerry whose name, she discovered, was Saful.

  Yet somehow Alysson managed to retain her optimism. Her abduction would not go unchallenged. Doubtless Gervase and Uncle Honoré were searching for her at this very moment. They would post a reward for her safe return, and someone in this vast wilderness—perhaps those slavers she had encountered at the oasis—would be greedy enough to betray one of their countrymen. Sooner or later Gervase would learn where she was being held and would give this arrogant Berber baron his due.

  She had no hope that Jafar would release her before then. He would show no mercy, she was certain. Everything about the man was hard and unyielding, tempered like the keen edge of the dagger he wore thrust in his sash. More than once Alys
son found herself wondering how she could steal that wicked-looking dagger so she could carve out his black heart, but she didn't dare attempt it. If she failed, he was too likely to turn the deadly blade on her.

  As the first week of her captivity passed, her days began to assume a pattern. The Berbers were early risers, and went to bed when it grew dark. In between, they worked hard, only pausing to rest at mealtimes: breakfast at nine after the morning chores were completed, the main meal of the day during the heat of mid-afternoon, when work temporarily ceased in the camp, and a light supper in the eve-

  ning. Jafar sometimes dined with her for the midday meal, and he frequently held council meetings in their tent, but otherwise, she was alone for much of each day.