Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  Except for the solitary confinement, though, Alysson was well-treated—clothed and fed and waited upon like a princess. Mahmoud served her grudgingly, his actions polite, though his underlying hatred of Europeans was always apparent. The afternoon heat and lack of company were the worst of her grievances. But if she thought of complaint, pride alone kept her silent.

  Boredom, loneliness, and frustration became her chief companions. And, whether Alysson was willing to admit it or not, fear.

  Fear that Jafar might actually make good his threat to become her lover, to make her beg for his caresses.

  She was no longer quite so worried that Jafar might rape her. He had said that he'd never had to force a woman, and Alysson could well believe it. He had a savage handsomeness and cool magnetism that she knew most women would find compellingly attractive. And despite her best intentions, she herself was drawn to him.

  But even though he wouldn't force her, she was very much afraid of his threat. She could sense his determination in his merest look. And she had little trouble interpreting his vow, though it remained unspoken between them.

  He meant to seduce her.

  The possibility terrified her, yet kept her in a state of strange physical excitement. She took to pacing the tent floor, driven by an intolerable tension.

  The suspense was nerve-racking. In Jafar's company, she constantly had to remain on her guard, and when he was away, she had to be prepared for his return. The animal silence of his footsteps, however, never gave her any warning. She jumped whenever Jafar entered the tent. His presence filled the room, while his hawk-keen eyes searched her out, conveying the silent message, We shall he lovers.

  His unrelenting intensity gave her no peace. And regardless of her determination to ignore him, Alysson found it nearly impossible.

  His gentleness, however, alarmed Alysson most. For when he behaved toward her with kindness and courtesy, his manners were as impeccably civilized as any European gentleman's. At those times he made her forget that he was an unscrupulous savage, and she found herself unwittingly relaxing her guard.

  Until nightfall. When night came, she always remembered with a vengeance just who Jafar was, and how vulnerable her position was, for it was then that he made her undress.

  That first night after his devastating kiss and outrageous prediction, Alysson had felt herself quaking. They'd retired to the bedchamber to sleep, and Jafar had stretched out on the pallet, reclining on the pillows as regally as some Eastern potentate as he observed her every movement.

  "Do you need help removing your clothes?" he asked when she hesitated. His tone was light and teasing, but the flames warming the depths of his eyes told her he would relish the opportunity to undress her.

  Unfortunately, his taunt provoked Alysson into breaking her vow to ignore him.

  "I wish you had sold me to those Arabs slavers," she retorted through gritted teeth. "Then at least I wouldn't have to endure you watching me."

  He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed her. "This is precisely how it would be if you were sold as a slave- except that all your clothing would be forcibly removed, and your naked body would be subjected to many more pairs of eyes. Here you have only to endure mine."

  Alysson clenched her teeth, willing herself not to respond, not to curse him or scream at him like she yearned to do.

  When she remained silent, Jafar softened his voice to a murmur. "I would never allow any other man to view you. Your charms are meant for my eyes only."

  She managed to keep her oath from his hearing, but it gave her no comfort that only he had the privilege to inspect her.

  It gave her no comfort, either, when early the following morning, she awoke. To her acute dismay, she found herself curled against Jafar's warm, lean body, one hand resting on his hard chest, her relaxed fingers tangled in his chest hair. To her further dismay, he stirred in his sleep. Rolling toward her, he draped his arm possessively across her rib cage, pressing against the undercurves of her breasts. At the same time he drew his leg up to cover hers, till his knee rode intimately between her thighs. The masculine hardness was a sensual shock against her softness.

  Deathly afraid to disturb him, Alysson lay there unmoving. Embarrassed heat flooded through her, along with another, more scandalous sensation. Desire. Against every inclination of common sense or reason, her body felt a shameful longing. For Jafar.

  Desire.

  She recognized the feeling, for he had aroused it in her the previous day when hed kissed and caressed her and shown her body how to respond. The result was the same now. Her nipples were taut and aching, her skin sensitive and shivery, her breath shallow and much too fast. And the hidden recesses between her thighs throbbed with a need she couldn't explain.

  Lying here remembering the feel of his hot mouth on her breasts only made the throbbing worse. She wanted him to touch her there, now, and ease the urgent ache.

  Unable to banish the fierce sensations, Alysson groaned silently. For the first time in her life, she was confronted with the depth of her own sexuality, and she deplored the wicked, helpless way her body was reacting. These wanton, abandoned feelings were startling to her, and quite, quite, humiliating. How could she feel this way toward such a man? How could she so easily dismiss her obligation toward Gervase, her longtime friend and suitor? She owed Gervase her loyalty, at the very least. The treacherous response of her body was a betrayal of him, as well as of herself.

  With an effort, Alysson pretended sleep until Jafar stirred awake. It was all she could do not to flinch when he pressed a light kiss on her temple before he rose for the day.

  Two mornings afterward, she woke a bit later. When her eyes fluttered open, she was totally unprepared for the shock she received. Jafar stood there naked, with his back toward her.

  He seemed unaware of her as he finished his morning ablutions. He had a beautiful body, she thought, dazed, seeing the golden skin marred only by the scars of battle and the healing flesh wound on his arm made by her bullet. His powerful shoulders tapered to lean hips, with tight hard buttocks and a horseman's strong muscular thighs. His long legs were made of well-honed muscle, dusted with gilded hair. Then he turned.

  Even as her gaze swept slowly downward, it faltered. Startled, Alysson stared at the shadowy triangle between his naked thighs. His manhood was fully aroused, jutting out proud and hard, startling in its size and power.

  As if he sensed her scrutiny, he glanced down at her. Meeting her shocked eyes, he smiled.

  "Sleeping with you has its unwanted effects," he said, his tone laced with wry humor.

  Alysson wanted to hide her burning face in the pillows, but for the life of her, she couldn't look away. His compelling gaze demanded her attention.

  Casually then, without haste, he reached for his tunic and pulled it on. But he was still watching her. Alysson could see the dark light of desire in the sensual, predatory eyes. And though he didn't touch her, she could feel the promise of his touch down the entire length of her body.

  Finally managing to pry her gaze away, she gave him her back. She would not surrender to such a man, she vowed again silently. And yet seeing his nakedness made her even more disturbingly aware of the strange, incomprehensible stirrings of her own desire.

  The constant state of tension she felt reached a breaking point later that morning. She was trying for the dozenth time to read one of the French journals that had been placed at her disposal, but images of Jafar's nakedness kept returning to haunt her, totally destroying any attempt at concentration. Finally despairing, Alysson lunged to her feet with a soft curse and threw the hapless newspaper across the tent—at the very same moment that Mahmoud came limping through the doorway.

  With a frightened whimper, the young boy dropped the water jug he was holding and cringed, his arm raised as if to ward off a blow.

  The paper had missed him by a good five feet, but immediately Alysson was all contrition. "Oh, Mahmoud, forgive me! I didn't realize you were there. I'm sorry—"<
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  She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched in apology, but the servant fell to the floor, prostrating his small form on the carpet, his hands covering his turbaned head. Alysson halted in her tracks; his skinny body was actually quaking.

  Horrified, she knelt on the carpet beside him and hesitantly touched his shoulder. "Mahmoud, I'm sorry. Do get up, please. I'm sorry I frightened you. I never intended to throw that journal at you, please believe me."

  It was a long moment before the boy cautiously lifted his head to look up at her. His complexion was pale in contrast to the savage red scar covering the right side of his face, and Alysson could see fear in his dark eyes, along with wary regard.

  "You . . . do not mean to beat me?"

  "No, of course not. Why would you think so?"

  "But I dropped the jug . . ."

  "Only because I startled you." She bent to pick up the clay vessel and held it up for inspection. "See, no damage was done. And even if there had been, the fault would have been entirely mine. I had no right to take my ill humor out on you, even unwittingly. If I do so again, I hope you will take me to task."

  Mahmoud's wary look turned to mild shock as slowly he raised himself to his knees. "Never would I dare such a thing, lady. The lord would be severely displeased should I presume to say a word against you."

  Alysson gave a smile that held more than a touch of wry- ness. "You should meet my servant Chand, then. He speaks against me regularly. If he isn't contradicting me, then he's scolding me like a mother hen."

  "And you do not beat him?"

  "Good heavens, no. Why ever should I?"

  "Because it is your right. A master may strike a servant whenever it pleases him, or even kill him if he wishes."

  "That may be the custom in your country, but I assure you it isn't in mine. I wouldn't dream of striking Chand."

  Mahmoud looked puzzled. "But my French mistress beat me many times."

  That sobered Alysson at once. "Not all Europeans are alike, I'm relieved to say. I would not beat you, Mahmoud. Ever. Not if you broke a hundred water jugs. There is no reason for you to be afraid of me."

  "I am not afraid!" At this siur on his honor, the boy bravely puffed out his meager chest and scowled up at her.

  "No . . . of course not," she said soothingly, realizing her error.

  His scowl easing, Mahmoud climbed to his feet and abruptly lost his balance, nearly falling. When Alysson grasped his bony arm to steady him, he shot her a self- conscious glance, then ducked his head. He was embarrassed by his handicap, she realized, feeling a wave of compassion surge through her.

  Pretending unconcern about the incident, Alysson handed him the jug. Mahmoud averted his face as he accepted it with a mumbled word of thanks, then turned and limped toward the rear room.

  Following him with her gaze, Alysson rose slowly to her feet. She had never noticed it until now, but whenever he could, Mahmoud kept the scarred side of his face turned away from her. But then how could she have noticed? Ever since her arrival in the Berber camp four days ago, her concern had only been for herself, her every thought focused on either escape or the threat that Jafar presented her.

  Wishing she could make amends for her insensitivity, she followed Mahmoud into the bedchamber and found him filling the pitcher with wash water.

  "What of your master?" she asked more casually than her interest warranted. "Does Jafar ever beat you?"

  Mahmoud gave her a look of disdain before he shook his head vigorously. "No, never has the lord raised his hand to me. Indeed, he saved me from the French when they would have tortured me again.''

  "Oh, Mahmoud . . ." Alysson felt a tight ache in her throat at the thought of how much this child had suffered in his short life. She wanted very much to console him, to wrap her arms around his skinny body and promise that he would never have to endure such pain again. But even if he would have accepted such a show of concern from a foreign infidel—which was highly doubtful—any promises she made him would be empty. Mahmoud's fate, like her own at present, was entirely beyond her power to control.

  "What of your family?" she asked quietly. "Have you no parents?"

  The expression on his scarred young face turned a bit wistful. "I have no father. My mother . . . she was taken away by the French. I do not know what became of her."

  "So there was no one else to help you."

  "I do not need the help of any but my lord Jafar."

  The boy's tone was hostile again, and so Alysson gave up the effort to make him talk or accept a concern that was obviously unwanted. Leaving Mahmoud alone to his tasks, she went to the front doorway of the tent and settled herself there on the carpet.

  In the distance, beyond the camp, the immense and uncultivated desert stretched in undulating sweeps—an empty sea of inhospitable yellow sand that appeared harsh and unforgiving to the civilized eye. Not a breath of wind stirred to cool her face, and already a shimmering haze rose from the hot, dry ground. Overhead a burning sun hung in the cloudless sky.

  But oddly, the barren land no longer seemed quite as cruel to Alysson as it had just a few moments ago. After hearing of Mahmoud's suffering, she believed the burden of her captivity would not be quite so hard to bear.

  An ache welled up in her throat as she remembered the way the child had cowered before her in fear. Nothing she had ever witnessed had made her feel quite so inadequate, quite so full of shame. And his touching dignity when he declared himself not afraid, even as he tried to hide his crippled leg and horrible scar . . .

  Closing her eyes against the memory, Alysson silently made herself another vow. While she was here in this camp, she would do her utmost to make Mahmoud lose his fear of her. Even if she could never hope to win his friendship, she might possibly gain his trust and perhaps alleviate some of his hatred, as well. She could show him that not all Europeans were alike. And if she was persistent enough, eventually she might make Mahmoud lose his hostility toward her. It should not be an impossible task. She had never yet met a male whom she couldn't charm if she tried . . . except his master, that is. But she refused to think about Jafar.

  Still, she would have liked to hear the story of how Jafar had saved Mahmoud from the French. Perhaps, like the desert, her Berber captor wasn't quite as cruel as he seemed upon first acquaintance. He evidently cared enough about the boy to see to his welfare. Yet Jafar had hundreds of dependents to care for. How much attention could he give a child who was merely a servant?

  How lonely that orphaned child must be, with no family to call his own. What Mahmoud needed was someone like her Uncle Honoré, someone who would give him love and affection simply for himself.

  Absently, Alysson found her thoughts drifting to her uncle. She had given him a great deal of trouble over the years, but nothing like this latest debacle of her abduction. He would be frantic with worry for her by now. She would have given anything if she could have spared him that. Anything, even including marrying Gervase and settling down to a staid home life. If she'd done that as her uncle wished, she would not be in this fix now.

  Her lips curved in a sad smile as she realized where her thoughts had led her. How delighted her uncle would be to hear of her change of heart. Honors had long wanted her to marry. Indeed, she could almost hear his gruff voice complaining about her refusal to give serious consideration to any of her suitors, and her propensity to drive them away with her unconventionality.

  "Bon Dieu! Why can you not act as the other young girls act—simpering and flirting? How shall I ever marry you off if you never make the effort to curb your wildness?"

  And yet for all his bluster, she knew quite well that Honoré only wanted her happiness. He had not pressed her to encourage someone she could not love, not after her first disastrous experience with a suitor. The incident might have left her heart cynically scarred for life, if not for Honoré's wise counsel.

  She'd been pursued by the brother of a schoolmate, a belted earl, the month she turned sixteen. She'd been so gratef
ul to be noticed by the handsome young lord, so desperate to conform to his aristocratic world after being shunned by it for so long, that she'd believed his protestations of love . . . until she chanced to overhear his comment to his sister. "Once I have control of her fortune, I will no longer have to dance attendance on the common little upstart."

  Common little upstart. The memory still carried a vicious sting.

  She'd had Honors to run to, at least. Like a father, he had consoled her and mended her wounded heart and sent her back into the world a little wiser and a great deal more careful. "Someday you will find a man you can love," hed told her then.

  He had wanted Gervase to be that man, but had almost despaired that it would ever happen—

  Alysson's wistful thoughts were interrupted just then by Mahmoud as he limped past her.

  "Mahmoud," she called to him gently.

  The boy half-turned, keeping his right cheek averted as he waited.

  "Thank you for taking such good care of me."

  His dark eyes narrowed in mistrust, but he gave her bow of grudging obeisance. "It is my duty."