"No," she whispered then, an echo of the hundred denials she had given him the night before.
"Yes," Jafar contradicted pleasantly. "I want to kiss you here . . . and here . . . I want to ravish you with pleasure . . ."
Shifting his weight, he rolled toward her, pinning her beneath him, gently pressing her down. Alysson felt his masculine hardness, rigid and needing, felt the warm, rough man-thigh that separated hers.
"No!" she protested again, more frantically, more forcefully this time.
"No? Is that all you can say, obstinate one?"
"Damn you . . ."
He chuckled softly. "At least that is an improvement." Despite her protests, though, his mouth lowered to nuzzle her right nipple.
Alysson quivered. How could she fight him when he overwhelmed her this way? He emanated a raw sensuality that was impossible to fight or resist. She felt like a fool for lying here desiring him, and yet she was powerless to do more than demand weakly, "Let me up!"
"Not yet," Jafar murmured as he feasted on her sweet flesh. "Not until you give me what I want."
Frantically Alysson squeezed her hands between their bodies and gripped Jafar's shoulders, pushing with all her strength. To her surprise, she succeeded in making him lift his head. "What more could you possibly want from me?" she cried, panting from the exertion. "You took everything last night."
"Not everything." His mouth curved in an amused smile as he reached up to spread her gleaming chestnut hair over the pillows. "Not nearly everything."
Her gaze dropping, Alysson stared at his hard, beautiful mouth. Did he expect her to kiss him? Was that what he wanted?
"I will allow you up," Jafar said lazily, "but first I expect a polite greeting."
"Go to the devil!"
He raised his hand to catch her chin with his fingers. "That will not suffice, my sweet tigress. A courteous good morning is what I wish from you."
Alysson fumed. This was another of his lessons in obedience, she was certain. "Or what? If I refuse, what will you do?"
"Then I will keep you here in my bed. I can think of a dozen satisfying ways to pass the time.''
All of which left her at a vast disadvantage, Alysson thought with barely repressed rancor. "Good morning, then," she said through gritted teeth.
"Politely, ma belle. Not as if you would like to carve out my heart with the dagger you stole."
He waited, his mouth poised above hers, while she debated defying him. But she knew she would lose this battle, too. Alysson sighed in disgust. "Good morning," she murmured, succeeding in keeping the fury out of her voice.
With an approving smile, Jafar bent to kiss her. Alysson tried to avert her face, but his mouth covered hers, warm and coaxing. When still she resisted, he nipped her bottom lip.
"Don't!"
A laugh, soft, indulgent, was his reply. But he rolled away, allowing her to scramble to her feet. Frantically,
Alysson reached for her clothes. She was pulling on her chemise when Jafar spoke again.
"Last night you were surprised and frightened by the pleasures that a woman can feel, but you will grow accustomed to them—and to me."
"I will not!" Alysson retorted stiffly.
"You will. And you will lose your anger at yourself, as well."
"I am not angry at myself! It's you—"
"You are, chérie. You are angry because you submitted to me so easily. Your entire posture speaks most eloquently of injured pride."
It was all Alysson could do to repress a retort. She gritted her teeth as she dragged a tunic of white cotton on over her head, entertaining satisfying thoughts about what it would be like to bring this insufferable Berber baron to his knees. He was so arrogant, so secure in his practiced power with women—
Jafar interrupted her thoughts as he chuckled to himself in satisfaction. "Last night, the spitting tigress became a cooing dove."
Driven beyond endurance, Alysson turned to glare at him—a mistake, she realized at once. Reclining on the pillows with his arms behind his head, Jafar looked like some royal Eastern potentate in all his naked splendor. The light of day highlighted the magnificence of his lean, virile body, making her breath catch in her throat.
Alysson knew she should look away, but before she could avert her gaze, Jafar spoke. "You won't find me such a hard master," he said softly, his eyes touching her more intimately than even his hands had done.
Discomfited by his tender look, Alysson turned to fumble with her sash. "I won't find you any kind of master," she said tightly. “Your wits have gone begging if you think for one minute I'll allow you to add me to your harem. I refuse to become one of your concubines."
"I have no concubines, chérie," Jafar remarked blandly.
She didn't believe him, not in the slightest. No Eastern lord of his power and wealth would be without dozens of female odalisques to satisfy his needs.
But the thought fled her mind when she heard Jafar rise from the bed and approach her. Tensing in alarm, she moved away. But he kept coming with the deceptively lazy grace of a stalking cat. Soon there was nowhere to run.
Fighting a burning awareness of his sheer physical nearness, Alysson flinched when Jafar reached out to catch her wrist. Glancing down, she could see the honey-gold hairs gleaming on his arm as he turned her to face him.
"Don't run from me, lover."
Startled by what he had called her, she looked up to find amusement glittering in his eyes. "I am not your lover!"
"Yes, you are, O, donkey ears," he replied, teasing her for her stubbornness. As if to prove his point, he reached up to cup her breast. It was a gesture of possession, gentle but determined.
Alysson's spine went rigid, even as blood rushed to every place in her body that he had taught to feel pleasure. "Don't!" she exclaimed, her voice shaking with intensity, the erratic beat of her heart making a mockery of her thought to escape.
He paid no attention. The fingers of his other hand threading in her hair, Jafar cradled the back of her head with commanding tenderness.
"Don't . . . please," Alysson pleaded, reduced to begging.
He laughed throatily. Pulling her close, he lowered his head.
His kiss was long and deep and hot, arousing her just as he had done last night—effortlessly. Trembling, powerless, Alysson submitted to her new devil master.
A score of pounding heartbeats later, Jafar's mouth slowly pulled away, leaving hers wet and wanting, her body throbbing with unfulfilled longing.
"You must learn how a woman kisses a man," he whispered. "It is an art that will bring us both pleasure."
Alysson swallowed hard as she gazed helplessly at him, her eyes shimmering with the moistness of pride. His arrogant presumption that in time she would beg him to take her seemed all too inevitable. Already he could control her body with his skilled caresses. Already she was beginning to yearn for the spiraling tendrils of desire that assailed her whenever he touched her.
Struggling against the overpowering emotions of shame and despair, she raised her chin and forced a note of loathing into her voice. "Can you even imagine how much I hate you?"
"Yes, my dove, you hate me. So much that your sweet body quivers with desire when I touch you . . ."
Briefly he bent again to brush her lips, his breath warm and moist and scented with the taste of her mouth. Then, reluctantly, he released her.
Alysson fled to the other room, not waiting to comb her tangled hair or even put on sandals.
She did hate him, she thought furiously, wiping her lips to erase the taste and feel of him. She hated him desperately, even while acknowledging his mastery of the art of seduction. And even though she had managed to escape Jafar's presence for the moment, she couldn't escape her chaotic thoughts, or the contemplation of what had happened to her last night.
She was far less sheltered than other young women her age. She hadn't yet grown into womanhood before she'd learned what occurred during the physical mating between a man and a woman. Her ayah�
��her Indian nurse—had spoken quite freely about the human body and the duties of a woman toward her husband. Hindu texts, the words of gods and sages, taught the science of pleasure and love, and elevated the act of sexual intercourse to a religious ritual. Moreover, India abounded with statues and relics that depicted sexual acts. Alysson would have had to be blind not to notice, and dull-witted not to be curious.
What had happened to her last night had not been the complete act, she knew. Last night she had learned what it meant to be a woman, what it meant to be the object of a man's passion, but Jafar had not gone so far as to claim her virginity. He had held back for some reason. His restraint puzzled her. Especially since he had made it clear he intended to become her lover—
Lover.
Shame flooded her cheeks with hot color as she recalled how easily he had made his promise come true.
Alysson shook her head, her shoulders slumping wearily. There was no denying it; she had surrendered herself to her ruthless captor, to a. savage barbarian who intended to reorder ths man to whom she was practically betrothed. Against her will, her body had betrayed her. Aad in turn she had betrayed Gervase. She was a traitor both to hira and to her own principles. It was unbelievable, unforgivable.
But she wouldn't allow it to continue. She wouldn't permit. Jafar to use her as a pawn in his deadly game.
She had to sight him more ardently. She had to strive harder to escape. Gervase's life was at stake, as was her beloved uncle's.
Bringing herself up short, Alysson moved to the door of the tent. Shielding her eyes from the brilliance of the sun, she stared at the sprinkling of color that met her delighted gaze.. Flowers, she thought with surprise. As a result of the rain yesterday, the sparse desert vista around the camp had suddenly burst into bloom.
There was no sign of her blue-eyed guard, Saful, she realized, glancing around her. But a saddled chestnut horse stood unattended beside the adjacent tent. Alysson was about to turn away when her attention was caught by an object leaning against the tent wall. The long-barreled musket flashed in the sunlight, beckoning to her.
Her gaze arrested, Alysson stared at the weapon. Her eyes shifted once more to the horse.
Did she dare?
She couldn't take the time to consider further; her hesitation last night had ended in disaster. It was a slim chance now that she would both be able to ride the chestnut out of the camp and elude pursuit, but she had to take it.
Girding her courage, she left the shelter of Jafar's tent and ran barefoot across the sandy distance. Scooping up the rifle, she turned to the chestnut.
Arab horses were taught never to run when their reins trailed the ground; they would stand obediently for hours, even days. This animal was no exception. It didn't move as she gathered the reins, although it began to dance skittishly when she tried to mount from the left.
"By the sword of the Prophet!''
Jafar's soft curse made Alysson jump. Reflexively she turned to look over her shoulder, and her heart sank, Jafar stood some three yards away, the expression on his face fierce and dangerous.
"What in the name of Allah do you think you are doing?"
Forcing back her fear, Alysson abruptly swung the musket around, pointing it at Jafar. He might have prevented her from taking the horse as she'd hoped, but he wouldn't disarm her this time the way he had last night with the dagger. She would shoot him first.
"Keep away from me!" she warned, aiming the muzzle at his heart.
Jafar glanced at the weapon, his face becoming cold and impassive. Yet he didn't laugh as he had the last time she'd trained a gun on him.
"You dare much, woman," he said instead—softly, his tone far more threatening than if he had shouted. He took a step toward her.
"Don't move! Or I swear I'll kill you."
"Then do it."
Alysson stared at hard-faced man before her. It seemed to her that his eyes had turned to golden stones. "I will, I swear it! I won't let you use me as bait for your treacherous trap."
"You can't prevent it." Jafar took another step. "Go ahead, chérie. Kill me. My men will simply carry on the fight without me."
It was true, she reflected with dismay. Things had gone too far to be turned back, even with his death.
Slowly, with her finger still on the trigger, Alysson rotated the rifle in her hand, till the muzzle pressed against her breast. "You can't use me if I kill myself."
Jafar halted abruptly, his skin growing sharply taut over his high cheekbones. She thought his complexion looked a shade more pale, too, but she couldn't be certain.
He held her gaze as he shook his head slowly. "Your death, too, would be in vain. It will make no difference to my plan. The colonel won't know you are dead. He and the French army will still come."
He was no doubt right about that, too, Alysson thought, nearly despairing.
"Give up the weapon," Jafar said sharply, his tone harsh and uncompromising.
She stared at him, loath to admit defeat, unwilling to concede yet another victory to him.
Before she could decide whether to flout his direct order, however, the choice was taken from her. Jafar snapped his fingers, a sudden hard imperious sound, and Alysson felt the musket being stripped from her grasp. Stunned, she looked around to find Saful scowling down at her, his expression one of fierce disappointment and disapproval.
Another black-robed Berber, apparently the owner of the rifle and the horse, ran up to Jafar and fell prostrate before him.
Interrupting the man's abject apologies, Jafar issued an order that Alysson interpreted to mean "Keep your weapons away from the woman!"
"You have spoken, saiyid," the cowering man replied, before he half-crawled away, looking relieved that he was to go unscathed for his negligence.
Alysson did not think she would get off so lightly. The look in Jafar's eyes as he strode toward her with suppressed savagery struck cold terror in her heart. She had finally goaded him past the point of acquired civilities, she knew.
He caught her by the wrist and pulled her after him, exercising a violence that was even more menacing for being so carefully controlled. Alysson tried unsuccessfully to keep up with his swift strides as he forcibly escorted her back to his tent, stumbling more than once. One glance at his furious expression, however, and she bit back the oath she wanted to fling at this son of darkness. His eyes seemed savage and brilliant, and all too frightening.
She pulled back then, trying to slow the pace and delay whatever punishment he had planned for her. But her efforts failed utterly. When they reached the interior of his tent, Jafar dragged her through the main chamber to the sleeping quarters. Then he released her so suddenly, she nearly fell.
'When I look at you," he said through gritted teeth, "I swear I see intelligence in your eyes, but I am wrong. That was a stupid thing do!"
With a flimsy courage at best, Alysson raised her chin as she rubbed her aching wrist. "It wasn't stupid to try and escape!"
"I don't mean your attempt at escape! I was speaking of your threat to kill yourself."
"If I thought it would do the least good, I wouldn't hesitate," Alysson vowed. "I won't be used to lure the men I love to their deaths! I would rather die myself!"
A flare of some brilliant harsh light shone in Jafar's eyes. Slowly he clenched his hands into fists, then just as slowly released them. “You should know by now that I won't allow you to act against my wishes."
When Alysson didn't reply, he waved his hand in a gesture of frustration. "Why do you persist in underestimating me? You constantly try to fight me, ignoring my orders even though you know I will make you obey them . . ." He paused, then took a calming breath. "I want your word that you won't try to appropriate any more horses or weapons."
Her chin trembling, Alysson returned a scathing look. "Or else what?"
"Or else I will be obliged to curb your freedom."
"Then do it!" she cried, echoing his own words of a moment ago. "I'm sick of your threats and your in
human schemes of vengeance. I won't give my word to a savage fiend who has no honor! I won't stay here willingly, to be used as your pawn. And I won't ever stop trying to escape!"
Abruptly, without further argument, Jafar turned to retrieve one of the silken cords he used to bind her to him each night. His hard face intent, unsmiling, he caught her arm and drew his defiant captive toward the pallet.
Fearing a repeat of last night, Alysson resisted with all her strength, but as usual she was no match for Jafar's determination. With ease, he pushed her down on the pallet and proceeded to tie both her hands and feet.
Alysson nearly wept in frustration, yet she held back her tears. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
His fingers were impersonal but gentle as he completed the task. When he brushed the bare skin of her ankle, Alysson tried not to remember the last time he had touched her that way. Yet without warning, the memory of his hands and his mouth and his muscular body assaulted her, flooding her senses with warmth.
Lord of Desire Page 21