Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  But he wanted her willing. He wanted to effect her surrender without conquering her pride. He wanted to teach her the meaning of pleasure. Most of all, he wanted to make her forget that she had ever been betrothed to Gervase de Bourmont, his hated enemy.

  And that last, more than anything else, was very likely an unattainable possibility.

  Chapter 8

  Humility did not come easily to Alysson, but for the sake of her own sanity, she decided that night to swallow her pride and ask Jafar if she could occasionally be allowed to ride. She chose a moment when they were alone, when she thought he would most likely be amenable to her request. The supper dishes had been been cleared away and Mahmoud had withdrawn for the evening.

  Surreptitiously, Alysson sipped her coffee and watched Jafar. He was reading, stretched out lean and catlike on the pillows, his newspaper angled to catch the light from the lamp. He subscribed regularly to the French journals, it seemed; she had read every issue in the tent twice during the past week, simply to keep herself occupied, even though some were outdated by nearly a month.

  It surprised her that a Berber warlord was interested in the news from France. But then he was a surprising man, Alysson admitted. She never knew quite what to expect from him—whether she would encounter the savage desert chieftain or the suave, educated gentleman. At the moment he looked almost civilized. He had removed his turban, and a few strands of his hair fell loosely about his face, sun- streaked honey and amber in the lamplight. Except for his sun-darkened complexion, he might pass for European, she decided. Perhaps that was the basis for his seeming oddly familiar to her.

  The glow of the lamp softened the lean hardness of his features, creating an effect that was both disturbing and deceptive; it made him look younger, and far more gentle than she knew he was. And yet he could be gentle, Alysson reflected, recalling the tenderness of his kisses and the shameful way she had nearly surrendered to him. Abruptly Alysson shook herself. Thinking of that only pummeled her already raw nerves.

  "Why do you read those journals?" she asked suddenly, as much to take her mind off the disquieting man before her as to initiate a conversation.

  Jafar looked up, one eyebrow lifted, as if surprised that she had addressed him. It was the first time in days that Alysson had spoken voluntarily to him.

  "I like to keep abreast of what is happening in France," he replied after a moment.

  "Why?"

  "So that I know what the French intend for my country, now that they have become our conquerors."

  "Is that how you learned to speak French so fluently? By reading the journals?"

  He shrugged. "That and other means. A wise man learns the language of his enemy."

  Alysson almost pursued this line of conversation, but decided she didn't want to become involved in his concerns. All she wanted was to be set free . . . and to see him pay for abducting her.

  "I have a request," she declared, changing the subject rather abruptly. “I should like to be allowed to ride for an hour or two each day."

  He regarded her at length, taking a long while before he answered, "Why?"

  "Because I need the distraction. I'm going mad here with nothing to do. I am not accustomed to being idle all day long, nor am I accustomed to having to beg for the least courtesy."

  "Has not Mahmoud seen to your needs?"

  "Yes, of course, but you haven't permitted me even the slightest freedom! I am never allowed out, never allowed any company but yours—and that hardly constitutes scintillating companionship."

  "I will send some of the women in the camp to visit you, perhaps Tahar—"

  "Thank you," Alysson muttered grudgingly, "but I need exercise. " When he didn't answer, she lost the careful control she'd been keeping on her tongue. "Have you any notion of how excruciating it is to be imprisoned here day after day? To have nothing to do all day long except pace the floor and worry about when you will ever again see your family, your loved ones, your country?"

  A muscle flexed in his jaw, but he remained calm in the face of her anger. "I will consider your request," Jafar said finally.

  "Why can you not give me an answer now? Are you afraid I will try to escape if you let me ride?''

  His smile was brief. "The thought had occurred to me."

  The thought had occurred to her, too, but Alysson was not about to admit it. She managed to shake her head scoffingly. "It would be suicide for me to attempt an escape in the middle of the desert. Where could I possibly go?"

  "At the moment, you may go to bed. It is time to retire."

  She stared at him, her eyes suddenly bright, glistening with frustration. "Damn you . . ."

  Forcibly, Alysson bit her lip, clamping back the curses she wanted to throw at him. She would not, would not, allow him to infuriate her to the point that she said or did something rash. Nor would she plead with him. She would not humiliate herself by begging, as apparently he meant for her to do.

  To her amazement, though, Jafar granted at least part of her request.

  The following morning her blue-eyed guard Saful appeared, carrying his long-barreled rifle, and with gestures and some words of Arabic that she knew, he made her understand that she was to accompany him. For several hours then, Saful escorted her all around the city of black tents— the douar, as she learned the Berber encampment was called. Savoring her first taste of freedom in over a week, Alysson found it all fascinating, but still she was careful to view her surroundings with an eye for escape.

  The tents were generally arranged in a large circle, while the horses and pack animals were kept within the protected boundary. Outside the circle, Alysson saw the artesian well that supplied the camp with fresh water, and the sandy depression that served as a latrine. She had expected as much, for none of the Arab tents shed ever been in had possessed sanitary facilities. Except Jafar's, Alysson reflected. The presence of the chamber pot in his only confirmed her belief

  that he'd carefully planned her abduction. He hadn't wanted her to have any reason to leave his tent.

  He hadn't wanted her to dress in breeches either, Alysson surmised, for her European clothing had never been returned to her. But despite the fact that she was dressed much like the other women, in a long belted tunic and haik, she drew curious looks from everyone in the camp—looks that she returned.

  The Berbers were a handsome people, she decided. Most of the men she saw possessed the same fine aquiline features as Jafar, though many of them wore beards.

  Some of the Berber men had wives to see to their needs, she concluded, but there was a cooking tent where the meals for the soldiers and servants were prepared by the women of the camp. When Saful allowed her to pause at the cooking tent, Alysson saw Tahar at work with some dozen other woman.

  "Ehla," Tahar said with a shy smile. "Welcome."

  Alysson returned her smile with genuine pleasure and watched as the women prepared the main meal. They were cooking over fires fueled by dried camel's dung, delicately roasting desert partridges which Tahar called ketaa, and making the customary couscous, the national dish of Barbary. This was not sweet like the couscous at breakfast, however. The steamed wheat semolina was served with pieces of lamb and vegetables.

  Alysson was reluctant to leave the women, but later that day, after she had returned to her tent, she was able to ask Mahmoud about his people. Grudgingly he told her something of Jafar's tribe.

  There were Arabised Berbers, she learned, who normally lived in the mountains. All of the men and many of the women spoke fluent Arabic. When in the desert they adopted the ways of the Bedouins, but Mahmoud clearly considered himself and his people better than the Bedouins,

  "Berbers are men," he said proudly, puffing out his skinny chest so far that Alysson was hard-pressed not to laugh.

  Yet she had heard the same thing said admiringly by a French Legionnaire who despised most Arabs. And Gervase had said the Berbers were a proud and fiercely independent people, who enjoyed fighting and who in battle showed magnif
icent bravery and spirit.

  When she pressed Mahmoud to tell her about the women in the camp, she learned that Tahar was second wife to one of the warriors, but served Jafar as chief cook since he had no wives of his own.

  "He has no wives?" Alysson repeated curiously, though why that fact should interest her, she would not allow herself to reflect on. She also discovered something else that surprised her.

  "The lord has no slaves in his household," the boy told her.

  "None? But I thought the chieftains in Barbary usually kept slaves."

  "He does not permit it."

  "Why not?"

  Mahmoud shrugged but could not explain.

  But even without slaves, Alysson learned, Jafar had ample followers to serve him. Here, like in other Berber tribes, the members were divided into vassals who did all the manual work, and nobles who were required to do none.

  Jafar was very definitely a noble, and yet he was not averse to physical labor, Alysson had to conclude. That very evening, after he had sent his equerry on some errand, he saw to the feeding of his horses himself. She could see him through the open door of the tent, his body a dark, lean silhouette against the lavender sky.

  Despite her best intentions, Alysson was drawn to the doorway. Settling herself on the carpet, she wrapped her arms around her knees and pretended interest in the desert.

  Eventually darkness fell and a crescent moon came out. The scene was beautiful, she thought, gazing out beyond the douar at the silvered landscape. Moonlight rippled over the pale desert sands, pooling in hollows and making the black shadows of ridges stand out in stark relief.

  Yet her gaze kept straying from the distant sands to the man who had brought her here against her will, who had turned her life upside-down and stirred her feelings into a turmoil of nervousness and confusion. The night surrounded him, but lamplight from within the tent cast a faint glow over him as he tended to the horses.

  Not for the first time since being taken captive, Alysson found herself wondering what kind of man Jafar truly was.

  He was a leader, that much she knew. A hard man, certainly. But whether he was cruel and vindictive, she wasn't yet sure. Although he was often surrounded by others, he seemed to hold himself apart. She had never seen him laugh with any of his men. In fact the closest thing to friendship she'd seen him exhibit had been with his horses. He seemed, if not lonely, then alone. But he was a warlord. Perhaps he couldn't allow any of his men to become too close for fear of losing their respect—although that explanation didn't seem to fit. She believed Jafar el-Saleh would command respect, no matter how intimate or distant he became.

  At the moment he seemed more approachable than usual, for he was treating his big black stallion like a pet hound. He'd removed the nose bag of barley, and was hand-feeding the noble beast dried dates, one at a time. The stallion apparently was accustomed to this ritual, for it chewed each one before skillfully spitting out the pit.

  Alysson watched for a moment, then surprised herself by speaking. "Thank you . . . for allowing me to walk around the camp this morning."

  Jafar looked over his shoulder, holding her glance. "I gave you my trust because you had earned it."

  His reply stirred both anger and guilt in her. Anger because he'd apparently been giving her another of his "lessons in obedience." Guilt because she hadn't earned his trust. She'd spent much of the time searching, memorizing, plotting her escape.

  Lowering her gaze, Alysson restlessly plucked at the skirt of her russet-colored robe. After a while, though, she found herself watching Jafar and the stallion again.

  The noble animal obviously had a great fondness for Jafar, playfully nuzzling its intelligent head against him and nibbling at his fingers. The sight was almost amusing, Alysson thought, for the black beast most certainly had been trained as a war-horse. Its lean and vigorous lines were pure Barb, a breed noted throughout the world for speed and endurance.

  This animal was rawboned and powerful, with a flowing tail and long thick mane that fell to the right side because

  Arabs mounted on the right. The Barb stallion was not, Alysson decided, as handsome as her Arab mare, which possessed a refined head and silky mane. Bet in this savage land, beaaty was relative, Here a man's liis often depended on the ability of his mount. The swiftness to pursue or elude an enemy, the stamina to gallop across miles of desert or mountain range, die courage to charge as enemy in battle, all would be considered far more important than mere beauty, and valued far more highly.

  She watched in spite of herself as Jafer began grooming the stallion, rubbing its sleek black coat with a woolen cloth.

  "Your horse," she said after a while. ''What is he called?"

  "Sherrar. It means 'warrior' ia ary language."

  Alysson nearly smiled. "Warrior" didn't fit a creature with such a gentle disposition, "just now he doesn't seem to be living up to his name."

  "He is a fine warrior," Jafar said softly, with pride. "I bred him myself."

  Jafar's youthful reply made Alysson wonder curiously just how old he was. He seemed fairly young, in his late twenties perhaps, but there was no hint of boyishness about him.

  "I've heard thai your desert horses are the swiftest in the world."

  He sodded, "'Here in Barbary tfes horse is called chareb- er-rehh—'drinker of the wind.' "

  "How beautiful."

  "Yes." He murmured something to the stallion, who flicked its ears attentively. "The best horses are found in the mountains of the Sahara, not the plains," Jafer added after a moment.

  His voice was low, muted, and sleekly velvet as the night. Alysson felt it reaching out to stroke her. She stirred uncomfortably. "You treat Sherrar so much like a son, I wonder you didn't name him after you, or someone in your family."

  "Muslim horses are -lever named after people. If would be a sacrilege to give a possession a name used by one of our saints."

  "A possession? Does that include slaves, too?"

  He slanted a glance at her. "Yes, slaves, too."

  "So Arabs give the same names to their slaves as their horses." Her tone was dry.

  "In part. Only the best horses are given names, whereas every slave has one."

  "What an honor."

  Jafar flashed her a smile of amusement. Touched by its warmth, Alysson was never more aware of the contradictory feelings he produced in her. When he looked at her so intently, so intimately, she wanted to flee. For it was when her captor was treating her with gentleness and admiration that he was the most dangerous.

  You will call me lover. You will respond to me with passion.

  Disconcerted by the intrusive memory, Alysson forced herself to maintain her wry tone. "I suppose infidels are not allowed names of people, either.''

  "Naturally not."

  "So to you I am an nonentity. I always knew it."

  "You are hardly that." He looked up from his grooming to consider her. "I think if I were to name you, I would call you Temellal. It means 'beauty.' "

  "But I am not beautiful."

  He gave her an odd look.

  "I'm not!"

  Seeing her startled gray eyes, Jafar realized she actually believed his words were empty flattery. But he'd spoken only the truth. Perhaps she didn't possess the classic beauty that sculptors raved about, or the insipid looks that the English gentry considered fashionable. But there was a fire and intensity about her, a vibrant, restless energy that was indeed beautiful. Such spirit was to be prized in a woman— although some of his countrymen might not agree, Jafar was aware.

  Alysson was only aware of the discomfiting way Jafar was regarding her. It brought a flush of warmth to her cheeks. "But you always call me 'Ehuresh,' " she said in distraction. "Is that a Berber word?"

  "Yes." Jafar's mouth curved in a brief smile. "It loses something in the translation, but essentially it means 'one who defies.' That, too, fits you well."

  This discussion was becoming far too intimate for Alysson's peace of mind. "Why don't you ow
n any slaves?" she asked quickly to change the subject.

  "What makes you think I don't?"

  "Mahmoud told me."

  "Mahmoud has a loose tongue."

  "Is it supposed to be a secret?"

  "No."

  It was only when he remained silent for a long while that Alysson realized he didn't intend to reply to her question. Yet he seemed to be in a relaxed mood. Perhaps she might persuade him to answer some other questions she had, such as why had he abducted her, and what were his plans for her.

  "If you won't talk about that," she ventured to ask, "could you possibly tell me how much longer you intend to keep me here?"