Determined to ignore such weakness in himself, Jafar crossed his arms over his chest. He could not allow his
resolve to be softened by her despair. There was far too much at stake.
"Allah is merciful," he said tauntingly. "He has seen fit to bless me with a model captive."
Her only response was a narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder.
"A silent woman is unique in my experience."
There was mockery in his tone and in his eyes. Alysson stiffened in fury. The scathing look she sent him could have torched wet kindling.
In response, Jafar slowly strode across the tent to her side. When he raised his hand to gently brush her cheek, though, Alysson recoiled from his caress.
"If you touch me, I swear I'll kill you!"
His golden gaze hardened. "You dare defy me?" he asked in a voice that was lethally quiet.
"Yes, I dare defy you, you . . . barbarian."
Deliberately, with careftil precision, he reached up and grasped her chin. Alysson cringed.
His eyes surveyed her flushed face, her frightened expression. "That would not be wise, chérie. For then I would have to punish your defiancé."
Holding her breath, Alysson quivered with outrage and fear and something else that she didn't want to name.
"Perhaps," Jafar added softly, his gaze dropping to her trembling lips, "I should punish you with kisses, since you profess to dislike them so much."
The desire that she had refused to acknowledge made her heart race and her skin turn hot. "N-no . . ." she whispered, but he didn't seem to hear. His fingers shifting, he stroked his thumb slowly over her lower lip, barely grazing the warm moist interior.
"Temellal," he murmured. "My beauty."
I shall be your lover. He hadn't spoken the words, and yet she heard the silent whisper. And, incredibly, she wanted to believe.
Her emotions in turmoil, Alysson stared at Jafar, trying to fathom the bewildering way he made her feel. How could she be so affected by a man she hated? How could she feel this unnerved, this feminine, this shivery? What gave him the power to make her knees so weak, to make her heart hammer so? What gave him the ability to shatter her firmest resolve with merely a look from his hot, amber eyes?
Try as she might, she couldn't prevent what his nearness did to her, or ignore the stunning awareness she felt for this man. All she could do was remember how he had once kissed her—the heat of his mouth, the masculine taste of him, the tender skill of his hands. Jafar overwhelmed her with sensations, made her forget who she was, who he was. He made her own body betray her. She wanted him to kiss her again, to touch her, to take her in his arms . . .
"No," she whispered again, desperation giving her the strength to protest.
His expression was gentle, his stroking touch erotic, his tone low and husky as he murmured, "You should thank me, Temellal, for taking you away from Bourmont. He is no match for your intelligence or spirit. Nor is he man enough to make a woman of you."
The remembrance of Gervase, of the peril he was in, sent a wave of guilt flooding through Alysson. Guilt for desiring Jafar. Guilt for even momentarily forgetting her responsibility to Gervase, to her uncle, to her country, even. It made her humiliatingly aware of how dangerously close she had been to succumbing to Jafar's sensual caress. With near- panic, she pulled away from his hold. "Don't talk to me of Gervase!" she nearly shouted at him. "You aren't fit to polish his boots!"
A muscle flexed in Jafar's jaw. He stared at her for a long moment before letting his hand fall, and turning, finally, left the tent.
Watching with fervent relief, Alysson set her teeth. She couldn't allow him to bait her like this. She couldn't allow him to use her this way, as his pawn, his instrument of revenge. She couldn't allow his vital male presence to overwhelm her senses.
She had to pull herself together. She had to think, to plan. She had to eat in order to keep up her strength. She had to sleep so she would have the energy to escape this fiend who had abducted her and who threatened the lives of those she loved. She had to discover any information she could about her captors which might give her even the slightest advantage.
With that objective in mind, she questioned Mahmoud later that afternoon about Jafar and his conflict with the French.
The conversation did not go smoothly. The moment she mentioned the French, Mahmoud cursed. "Zfft! May those sons of jackals live in misery and contempt!"
But she did manage to draw from the boy more details about his master. From what she could glean, Jafar was a powerful amghar—administrator of a large Berber tribe. He also held the additional title of caid, which meant he had been appointed by the Sultan of the Arabs, Abdel Kader, to act as the local official of the loosely organized Arab government.
Mahmoud's prideful disclosures only confirmed what Alysson already suspected. Jafar el-Saleh was a monolith of authority and fearlessness, a Berber chieftain who had taken the field for the freedom and independence of Algeria.
In all honesty, she couldn't blame Jafar for defying his enemy, the French. That she could understand. She even could almost admire his fortitude in the face of such vast odds. He was fighting for what he believed in, against oppression, against his country's conquerors.
It was his unwavering determination to exact revenge that tormented her. She couldn't bear to think that she might be the instrument of Gervase's death, or that of her beloved uncle.
She had to stop Jafar somehow.
But how? His tribe's loyalty to their lord was unquestionable. It would be nearly impossible to bribe any of them, or persuade them to aid her.
After her disheartening discussion with Mahmoud, Alysson began to think she might never succeed in preventing Jafar from carrying out his vile plan. Quite against her normal optimistic nature, she found herself fighting an overwhelming sense of despair.
That, however, was before she stole the dagger.
It was the following afternoon, during her daily walk around the camp. She had spent the morning asking Mahmoud about the Berber language, and convincing him to teach her a few words. If she could learn enough to understand, Alysson hoped, she might be able to overhear some scrap of information that would be of use to her.
An apt pupil, she caught on quickly. By the time her blue- eyed Berber guard came to collect her for her walk, Alysson was able to surprise him by greeting him in his own language. And when during her tour she visited the camp's cooking tent where Tahar was busy with the other woman, she used the opportunity to practice her new skills. Tahar had called on her twice in the past few days, apparently on Jafar's orders, but with his threat against Gervase preying on her mind, Alysson had been too distracted to enjoy her budding friendship with the Berber woman.
Accepting the handful of parched chickpeas Tahar offered her to eat, Alysson asked questions as the women worked, determined to learn the Berber names for various objects. Her efforts at pronunciation earned both good-natured laughter and respect from the ladies, but after a time she could see Saful growing impatient as he waited by the entrance to the tent.
She was just about to leave when she spied the dagger— a small curved blade that had been used to carve the meat- lying on a platter. Her heartbeat burst into a savage rhythm. Was this the chance she had been waiting for?
Pretending to admire a dish, Alysson surreptitiously scooped up the knife and concealed it in a fold of her robe. Her heart still pounding, she shot a glance at her blue-eyed guard. He hadn't seen her.
Masking both her triumph and trepidation, she said farewell to Tahar, then continued her tour of the camp. By the time she returned to Jafar's tent, she was having difficulty controlling her nervousness, an agitation that only increased when Jafar didn't join her for the midday meal. She had managed to arm herself, but had yet to decide how to exploit her advantage.
The dagger could mean her freedom. She could use it to overpower her guard and steal a horse—but her escape no doubt would be immediately detected. No, she would be better off w
aiting till the camp was asleep for the night. Jafar would be the only one guarding her then.
And then what?
As she sat staring out at the Berber encampment, considering the answer to that question, a dark shadow suddenly spread over the camp. Glancing up uneasily, Alysson realized the sun had disappeared behind a stormcloud.
A few moments later she received her first taste of rain in the desert, a fierce deluge that threatened to wash away the camp. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the downpour abated and the sun came out again, drawing the dampness in heavy steam-clouds from the reeking sand. In half an hour the streams and rivulets created by the storm had vanished, and the coating of desert mud was dry. After the earlier heat, though, the afternoon now seemed winter-cold.
Shivering, Alysson absently fingered the sharp blade hidden in her robes.
The real question was, could she bring herself to use it on another human being?
Could she kill Jafar?
Her opportunity came that evening, when Jafar returned. By that time, Alysson's nerves were worn to a fine edge, yet she still had not come to a decision.
She watched Jafar surreptitiously as he read one of his French journals before supper, her mouth tightening with annoyance and dismay at the picture he made. He looked even more attractive than usual tonight. Wearing a sky-blue djellaba—a long robe of fine wool—Jafar reclined on the cushions with assured masculine grace, his eyes firelighted with amber, his tawny hair gleaming in the lamplight.
Alysson studied him without wanting to, noting his lean features . . . the high cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw and mouth. They seemed faintly arrogant and savagely noble, and filled with determination. Jafar was quite capable of carrying out his diabolical plan for revenge, unless she could prevent him.
Her hand trembled as she touched the knife hidden in her robe, but she left her fingers lying against the blade, needing the reassurance the cold steel gave her. Could she do it? Could she use the knife to stop him? Could she kill Jafar?
She was grateful when Mahmoud appeared to serve the evening meal, but the cold knot of tension in her stomach destroyed her appetite entirely. She merely toyed with her supper, all the while conscious of Jafar's intent gaze on her.
"It disturbs me that you are not eating, ma belle," he said finally. "You cannot afford to lose much weight."
Alysson was in no mood to suffer his amused taunting. "Why don't you go to the devil and leave me alone?"
He eyed her with calm self-control. "Finish your food. It might improve your disposition."
The food didn't help, however. She managed to choke down a few bites, but they only churned in her stomach.
When she pushed away her plate, Jafar gestured to the servant to clear away the dishes. Mahmoud, salaaming deeply, obeyed and then left for the evening.
"I understand Mahmoud neglected his duties this morning in order to entertain you," Jafar said, sipping his coffee.
The probing note of query in his tone made Alysson eye him warily. Was that an accusation? Was Jafar fishing for details? Or had he already learned from his servant about her vocabulary lesson that morning, the way he seemed to learn of everything else that occurred in his camp?
"It was nothing so enjoyable as entertainment," she replied cautiously. "Mahmoud was only teaching me your language."
"I didn't think you would put yourself to so much trouble."
Alysson shrugged, trying to hide the tension rioting within her. "I was bored."
"Or intent on gaining an advantage over us ignorant savages?"
"Can you blame me if I was? You said a wise man learns the language of his enemy."
"Indeed." Hard golden eyes challenged gray. "It is a wise strategy. But your knowledge of our language will make no difference to the outcome of your captivity. You will not escape me. And you would do better not to try."
His soft warning echoed in the close confines of the tent. Alysson stared at him, her heart pounding. Did he know about the knife?
The uneasy silence stretched between them until Alysson thought her nerves would shatter.
To her bewilderment, then, Jafar shifted his position and returned to reading his journal. He had presented his back to her, leaving himself wholly, carelessly, vulnerable to attack.
She watched him for a long while, indecision warring within her.
Her mouth dry, Alysson reached inside the folds of her robe to grasp the handle of the dagger. If she could get near enough to him, if she could move closer on the pretext of searching for a book, perhaps, it would be relatively simple to drive the blade into his back, deep, between the shoulder blades.
The hand holding the dagger suddenly grew slick with sweat. The thought of how easily that sharp point would slide into his flesh made her sick.
Shutting her eyes, Alysson mentally railed at herself. How could she be such a coward? She had killed wild game before. She had shot tigers in India, wild boars in Russia. Once she had even brought down a rabid wolf.
And this desert chieftain was no better than that wolf. Any capacity for compassion or forgiveness he might once have possessed had been eaten up, destroyed, by his need for revenge.
But even the knowledge of his ruthlessness wasn't enough. With a feeling akin to despair, she realized she couldn't bring herself to do it. She couldn't kill a man this way. Not him. Not in cold blood.
Releasing a ragged breath, she eased her hand away from the dagger. She would have to think of another way. She would have to wait until Jafar was sleeping and then use the dagger to free herself from her bonds. If she were lucky, she could manage to steal from the tent, take one of the horses, and be miles away before Jafar awoke. If she were not . . .
No, she wouldn't consider the consequences of failure.
Slowly, Alysson wiped her palm on the skirt of her robe, ridding it of dampness. She had made her decision—a decision that strangely relieved her.
Now she could only pray.
She lay in the darkness, listening to the soft even sound of Jafar's breathing, and watching the faint red-gold light from the brazier's coals dancing upon the tent walls.
Two hours ago, when Jafar as usual had given her time alone to prepare for bed, she had hidden the dagger beneath the edge of the pallet. It had been all she could do to pretend disinterest as Jafar tied the silken cord around her ankle. It had been even harder to pretend sleep, to lie there beside him as if every nerve in her body was not taut with apprehension. Yet she had to wait until she was certain her movements would not awaken him.
She let another hour pass, each minute seeming like an eternity. Then, finally, she slid her hand stealthily beneath the pallet to retrieve the dagger.
The smooth wooden handle felt cool against her clammy palm as she drew it out. Jafar didn't stir.
She waited another long moment, her heart thrumming an erratic rhythm. Taking a deep breath, then, Alysson slowly eased herself into a sitting position. Furtively, she stole a glance at Jafar. He hadn't stirred. His naked chest rose and fell in a relaxed rhythm.
Not daring to breathe, she leaned forward to cut her bonds, pushing aside the blanket and slipping the blade in the space between their ankles. With infinitely careful strokes, she managed to slice the cord that bound her to Jafar.
Some instinct warned her the instant before he moved; the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. Panicking, she tried to bolt, yet her desperate lunge wasn't enough to save her. In a startling swift motion, Jafar snaked an arm around her waist and jerked her backward, into his arms.
The next moment he shifted his weight and rolled over her. Before she could even cry out, Alysson found herself pinned beneath his lean body, his fingers clamped around the hand that held the dagger.
Too shocked to utter a sound, she stared into the feral gold eyes glittering down at her. In the faint light, she could make out the hard, chiseled face, the strong flared nostrils, the glint of white teeth.
And what she read in his savage expressi
on terrified her. So did his gently whispered, "A grave mistake, chérie."
His hand slid to her throat, resting lightly on the vulnerable exposed curve, his fingers capable of tightening to a stranglehold. His other hand pried loose the dagger and tossed it the width of the chamber, out of reach. "You should never have hesitated when you had the chance to kill me."
His tone, so harsh and cold, made her want to tremble. "I w-wasn't. . . going to use the knife on you," she murmured, ashamed of the way her voice quavered.
Jafar's gaze narrowed ominously. "No? Why not, I wonder? I gave you ample opportunity, all evening long. I expected you to strike any time these past few hours."
A breath caught in Alysson's throat. He had known. Somehow he had known about the dagger she had stolen. And he had been waiting for her to make her move.
Forcing back her trepidation, she raised her trembling chin. Never would she admit to him that she hadn't had the courage to kill him. "I am not a murderer, like you are!"
It was the wrong thing to say. His grip loosening, Jafar's hand skimmed downward over the sheer white linen of her chemise, coming to rest threateningly on the swell of her breast. "How foolish of you to disregard my warnings." His touch remained gentle, almost a caress, but it raised gooseflesh on her skin; she could feel his simmering anger. "By now you should know better than to challenge your master."
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