Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  "All the same, I thank you. You've made my imprisonment here easier to bear."

  The odd look of confusion on the child's face before he turned away almost made Alysson smile.

  Her imprisonment did seem easier to bear during the next few days. She still refused to speak to Jafar or acknowledge his existence, and the tension she always felt in his presence didn't diminish in the slightest, but remembering what Mahmoud had said about Jafar saving him from torture made Alysson a bit less apprehensive about her own fate. Perhaps Jafar was not the murderous barbarian she had first feared, after all.

  Still, there was a purposefulness about him, an unwavering determination that almost frightened her. That, and a savage quality that seemed an inherent Berber trait.

  Pride was also a Berber trait, Alysson decided by the end of her first week in the camp. All the warriors she'd observed possessed it in full measure, but even the few women she'd seen bore themselves with a quiet dignity that she could only admire. Yet Jafar had a regal confidence that belonged only to powerful warlords. That he held complete control over his fellow Berbers was most apparent when he administered to his tribe. From the rear chamber, Alysson could view the proceedings through a part in the curtain as Mar held audience in his reception room. He sat cross- legged in his desert robes, listening intently without reaction, then speaking in sibilant Arabic or the less guttural Berber. He never raised his voice, never lost control of his emotions, yet his authority was unequivocal, his decisions unquestioned. Alysson had no doubt that his every command was obeyed implicitly.

  By observing Jafar during these audiences, or noting when he rode away on some business or other, Alysson was able to piece together the daily fabric of his life.

  During the day, the demands on his time were endless. If he wasn't holding audience, he was in council with his lieutenants—preparing for some act of defiancé against the French, Alysson suspected. She paid particular attention during these sessions, though she understood only one word in twenty.

  He also spent a large portion of his time riding, whether for work or pleasure she wasn't certain. Sometimes when she sat at the outer door of the tent, observing the camp, she could glimpse Jafar galloping one of his mounts; for some inexplicable reason she had no trouble distinguishing him from all the other tall, fierce, black-robed Berbers. He was always occupied with training his horses, or participating in wild Berber games that were conducted on horseback, or hunting with falcons, if she could judge by the number of small game birds that she sometimes spied tied to his saddle when he returned.

  In the evenings, he read, or studied his maps, or readied his weapons. This last activity did nothing to relieve her concern that he was planning some act of war. And always it brought home the fact that he was a savage warlord, with some sinister purpose in mind.

  His ruthless determination was ever-present. The only time he shed it, it seemed to Alysson, was at prayer. He was not an overtly religious man—most Berbers weren't nearly as devout as the Bedouins, in any case, Alysson remembered hearing. But Jafar performed his devotions with

  a simple sincerity that made her wonder how he could ever wish her harm.

  Did he wish her harm? He had not hurt her physically yet, despite his threat to become her lover. But if he didn't plan to ransom her, what then did he intend to do with her?

  She was contemplating that question for the hundredth time late one afternoon as she watched Jafar and his Berber warriors exercising their mounts at the outskirts of the camp. From the shelter of Jafar's tent, shielded from the worst of the sun's glare by the tent wall and a haik covering her head, Alysson could see some two score horsemen showing off their skill. Her guard, Saful, was positioned a discreet distance from her, oiling a rifle, but he seemed to be paying her little attention.

  In the distance, the mounted warriors tilted at one another with swords, wheeling and evading, exhibiting their mastery. Others rode at a full gallop and scooped up sashes from the ground. The most picturesque feat, however, was when a horse leapt into the air while its rider tossed his musket high overhead and then caught it again.

  Witnessing their marvels of horsemanship, Alysson couldn't fail to be impressed by either the warriors or the splendid horses they rode. Superbly trained, the animals would stop short at a full gallop, or stand quiet when the rider simply dropped the reins.

  She knew it had taken years of careful training to manage such responsiveness. During the past week, she'd seen for herself the infinite patience and care the Berbers showed their mounts; apparently the Berbers, like the Bedouin Arabs, loved their horses like children.

  But it was Jafar who caught her eye time and time again. A magnificent horseman, he seemed to have been born to the saddle. Not only was he a graceful rider, but his superiority was apparent, even to her untrained eye.

  She watched with bated breath the astonishing feats he performed. He would place one hand on the stallion's back and vault over to the other side. Or, putting the animal at full speed, he would disengage his feet from the stirrups, stand up in the saddle, and fire at a mark with the utmost precision.

  It was at one of these moments that Alysson felt a quiet presence beside her. Mahmoud, to her surprise, had paused in his work and come out to observe the warriors with her. He, too, was watching Jafar's performance with rapt attention.

  "I wish I could ride like that," Alysson murmured a short while later, not aware that she'd spoken until she heard Mahmoud's soft scoffing sound.

  "Females do not ride war-horses," he pronounced with a masculine certainty that was almost smug.

  Alysson couldn't help the wry retort that sprang to her lips. "Females generally don't shoot firearms or engage in swordplay, either, but I am skilled at both."

  The boy flashed her a highly skeptical glance, but she merely returned a disarming smile before focusing her gaze on the horses again. What would it be like to race, wild and free, across the desert plains on one of those magnificent Barbary steeds? With the wind in her hair—

  "You can fight with swords?" Mahmoud asked in the same tone of wonder he'd shown when she'd claimed she never beat her servants.

  "I know how to wield a rapier and can hold my own in a match with many of my male acquaintances, yes. Does that shock you?"

  "Yes. You are a very strange lady," Mahmoud said slowly in bemusement.

  That brought a ripple of laughter to her lips. "So I've been told."

  "Have you killed many men?"

  Alysson drew a sharp breath, taken aback by the eagerness of the child's question. "Not a one, I'm afraid. Have you?"

  "No," Mahmoud said sadly.

  He fell silent then, while Alysson wondered what she might say to draw the boy out. "Can you ride a war-horse?" she asked finally.

  That seemed to strike the right note, for Mahmoud's face brightened. "I can ride all the horses of our tribe," he answered with pride. "Even the lord's, though he does not permit me to ride the black. I can do many, many tricks. My leg loses the weakness—" Abruptly the child stopped, as if realizing he'd said too much. "I know how to ride," he continued, his tone suddenly sullen again.

  "I would like to see you someday," she said, keeping her tone casual, knowing better than to press.

  Mahmoud shrugged his bony shoulders, saying as he turned away, "If the lord permits."

  Disatisfied with her slow progress, Alysson regretfully watched him go, while his last comment echoed in her ears. If the lord permits. It always came back to that, she thought with a sigh. But the lord evidently did not intend to permit her to do much of anything.

  She sat there for a long while, watching the horsemen until they finally disbanded and the usual stillness of the desert was restored. All around her, the camp still bustled with activity as the Berbers prepared for evening, but Alysson ignored it, instead focusing her gaze on the distant horizon.

  The red glory of the setting sun was magnificent, awe- inspiring. Seeing the rippling dunes and ridges of golden sand like this, in
the fading rosy light, Alysson remembered what had fascinated her so about this region and made her long to explore it. This was a lonely land . . . vicious, cruel . . . yet it possessed a mysterious sensuality that seemed to beckon to everything that was wild and free-spirited in her. She could fall in love with this country so easily . . .

  The wistful thought was shattered by the soft plod of a horse's hooves nearby. Glancing up, Alysson saw that Jafar had returned to the tent with his black stallion.

  When he was but a yard away, he drew the horse to a halt, yet he sat there unmoving, staring down at her. Alysson froze. His amber eyes were warm and dark as they silently appraised her. She was wearing one of the rich tunics she'd been given, a robe of deep blue-and-red striped linen, with a soft haik of matching blue covering her hair.

  His gaze roamed over her headdress, her face, her shoulders . . . then dropped lower. Alysson felt herself trembling. He was staring directly at her breasts, his eyes so intense, so warm, she felt the invading heat through the fabric of her robe to the bare flesh beneath. He was remembering that moment a week ago, she knew. The moment when he'd caressed her breasts with his hot mouth. His eyes were touching her now just as his lips had done then. Her breasts swelled painfully at the memory, the hardening nipples pressing against the soft linen.

  Her heart thundering, Alysson helplessly endured his silent scrutiny, unable to turn away. Finally, Jafar's gaze lifted to capture hers. The shock of meeting his hungry, sensual look almost stole her breath away.

  It took all the willpower she possessed to force herself to break contact with his heated gaze. Defensively she uncurled her legs and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself, yet she still quivered with the tension that had coiled in her body at his sensual appraisal.

  It was then that Alysson remembered they weren't alone. Saful had risen to his feet and was respectfully awaiting his lord's command.

  With a creak of saddle leather, Jafar dismounted and turned the reins over to the equerry, while Alysson watched warily. Unbuckling the silver scabbard that sheathed the long sword at his waist, he handed the weapon to Saful, then turned to enter the tent.

  Without a word, Alysson pulled back to allow him to pass, keeping her gaze averted. She sensed, rather than saw, Jafar's frown of displeasure, and was relieved when he didn't stop but continued past her, into the tent.

  Shaken from the disturbing encounter, she turned her attention back to the distant horizon, staring at the darkening landscape, feeling again the grim loneliness of the desert.

  How could she? Alysson berated herself. How could she allow a mere look from Jafar to affect her so? How could her treacherous body react to his merest glance, against her will? How was it possible to be physically attracted to a man who was nothing more than a desert heathen?

  She had no right to feel such wanton sensations for such a man. He was her captor, merely that. To even think of Jafar in any other terms was a betrayal of Gervase. Gervase, whose friendship and respect meant so very much to her.

  Alysson closed her eyes at the feelings of guilt welling up in her. The elaborately decorated sword Jafar had worn just now had done nothing to quiet her inner turmoil, for seeing it had only roused a memory of Gervase, on one of the many occasions she'd seen him wearing a sword.

  It was the first time Gervase had kissed her. The first time he'd looked at her as a woman, instead of a provoking child—just after her disastrous experience with the fortune hunter when she was sixteen, after she'd fled school in humiliation and taken refuge with Honoré in France.

  Gervase had been in Paris on furlough and had called at their hotel within hours of their arrival. Alysson had come upon him unawares as he awaited her uncle in their private parlor.

  She thought Gervase looked dashing in his dress uniform, a feathered shako on his dark head, a glittering saber at his side, but she couldn't resist the chance to provoke him. While his back was toward her, she tiptoed up behind him and drew his saber from its sheath.

  Gervase whirled, his hand clasping the empty scabbard. When he saw Alysson grinning up at him, his startled expression turned into a smile twisted by annoyance. "Alysson, you little wretch! Is this how you greet me after three months?"

  Giving him a saucy curtsy, she flourished his saber in the air. "How do you do, Gervase. Thank you for the loan of your sword. I shall return it shortly—I merely want to borrow it for a while.''

  "Good heavens, why?"

  "There is someone I intend to run through."

  He laughed. "Is that so, my bloodthirsty minx? And just who is this unfortunate devil who has so earned your displeasure?"

  "Merely a scoundrel who coveted my money more than my person," she replied, hiding the raw hurt and bitterness she felt.

  "I cannot imagine any gentleman failing to succumb to your feminine charms," Gervase replied with no little irony.

  At her sudden scowl, he abandoned his sarcasm and swept her a gallant bow. "Tell me the name of the dastard who has offended you and I will accomplish the task for you."

  "I can do it myself, thank you very much!"

  "I don't doubt it. Your Uncle Oliver has turned you into a formidable gladiator."

  "Uncle Oliver has had little to do with it. I paid for fencing and shooting lessons myself. As my trustee, he only had to approve."

  "Regardless, with your skill at arms, I would do well to hire you to defend my regiment."

  She managed to laugh at his left-handed compliment, and when he held out his hand commandingly, surrendered the saber to him. "Ah, well, I suppose I can always shoot the villain instead."

  Sheathing the weapon, Gervase ruffled her curls good- naturedly, as he'd done a hundred times before. She made a face at him and was about to pull away when his hand suddenly stilled on her hair.

  His smile faded as he stood looking down her with a strange expression, almost as if he had never seen her before. Slowly then, as if against his will, he bent toward her and pressed a light kiss on her lips, the merest brush of pressure.

  Shocked, Alysson brought her fingers to her mouth and stared up at him.

  "You've grown up, coquine," Gervase whispered . . .

  The tender memory of that long-ago kiss haunted Alysson now as she stared out at the shadowy desert. That first kiss of Gervase's had startled her, flattered her, but it hadn't shaken her. Not the way the unwanted caresses from her Berber captor had done.

  What vital element was missing in Gervase's kiss that was not missing in Jafar's? Why had a ruthless stranger been able to arouse her passion so easily, in a way Gervase never had? How could she feel such inappropriate desire for one man and absolutely none for the other?

  She sighed, wishing she could banish her disturbing thoughts.

  Behind her, within the tent, Jafar heard her sigh but attempted to ignore it. At the moment he was wrestling with his own haunting thoughts.

  He understood quite well his own feelings of desire, and the cause: his bewitching captive. The pleasure of seeing her graceful figure draped in the robes of his country . . . the gratification of finding her sitting at the entrance to his tent, as if waiting for his return . . . the pain of sleeping next to her night after night without being able to touch her . . . the memory of having her melting in his arms for one brief moment.

  He couldn't cease remembering the exquisite triumph of his momentary possession, or the delight he'd felt when she had responded to him with passion, or how captivating she'd looked. Her body pale as ice and beautifully mysterious, her nipples rising like jeweled ornaments to his touch . . .

  He wanted to taste again the delectable warmth of her breasts on his tongue, to experience the riveting sweetness of her kisses, to absorb the inner fire and spirit of the woman herself.

  And his desire was affecting his judgment, Jafar knew. Again and again he found himself wanting to neglect his many duties. From the moment he first woke each morning, he found himself reluctant to leave her side. Watching Alysson sleep, seeing her tum
bling chestnut hair flowing across his pillow had a strange, unsolicited effect on him, arousing a protectiveness, a tenderness in him, in addition to the hunger. If not for his responsibilities, he could have spent hours lying there with her, simply to be near.

  And when he was away, he looked forward to the end to the day when they could be alone together. Which was rather absurd, Jafar thought dryly, considering the extreme hostility of their relationship. In his company, his lovely young captive either ignored him entirely or treated him to a bout of simmering, mutinous silence.

  This was new to him, this overpowering need to be with a woman. Certainly one who did not want him in return, one who belonged to another man.

  He had never denied himself for any other woman, either. The mornings were worst. It would be so easy to take her while she slept, to roll over and glide into her slowly, to lose himself in her sweet heaven.