Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  She tried helplessly to rise, but he forced her to lie back. Rolling her over, Jafar ripped the material of her pantaloons to expose a red mark on her inner thigh that already was beginning to spread. His heart stopped beating. She would die unless he acted quickly.

  Drawing his curved dagger from his waist-sash, Jafar ignored her gasp of alarm and issued a brusque order to her to be still. "This will cause you more pain, but I must suck out the venom."

  "A . . . tourniquet first," she said through dry lips. "Uncle Cedric . . . a doctor. He would . . . prescribe a tourniquet . . . tie . . . above the wound."

  Praying it would help, Jafar pulled the sash from around her waist and tied it tightly around her thigh. Without giving her further time to protest, he made a shallow incision in her flesh, then another, forming an X over the wound. Alysson clenched her teeth to hold back a cry. The pain obscured the indelicacy of being tossed on her back, her leg bared to this man. She tried weakly to direct her thoughts elsewhere as Jafar bent and closed his mouth over the wound, but the effort was too much.

  For a long moment, he drew on the poison, then spat it out, repeating the process again and again. He tried to shut out her sobs of pain and the desperate way her fingers clutched his shoulders. He would have given his eyes if he could have spared her this, but it was the only way to save her life.

  Finally there was nothing more he could do. He drew

  away, gazing helplessly down at her. She lay unmoving, her eyes closed, her face pale.

  Haltingly he slipped his arm beneath her shoulders and gathered her against him. Her lack of resistance attested to her fading strength of will.

  "Alysson," he said in a voice that was low and fierce and yet trembled, "we have to return to my camp. We have to find you medicine to counteract the poison."

  To his surprise and relief, she didn't protest. At her weak nod, he lifted her in his arms carefully, holding her as if she were a precious piece of porcelain.

  "Jafar . . ." She grasped weakly at a fold of his burnous, but he had to bend his head to hear her. "I had . . . to try . . . to escape."

  "Yes. I know. Now sleep, Temellal. Save your strength."

  He wasn't sure she heard, for she had fainted in his arms.

  He never knew how he made it back to camp that day. Afterward, he could only remember snatches of time, the agonizing miles, the pounding hoofbeats, the blood thrumming in his ears, the chill, mind-numbing fear that it would be too late to save her.

  Yet the cold determination that had ruled his life for the past seventeen years would not let him give up. He drove the stallion relentlessly, calling on the courageous animal to give its last ounce of strength. The shiny black coat was sweat-streaked and flecked with foam, the powerful, churning legs beginning to labor, by the time they reached his camp. And Alysson was burning up with fever. Barking orders right and left to his men, Jafar carried her unconscious form into his tent, laying her gently down on his bed. Then needlessly he repeated his sharp command to summon an old Berber woman with her healing herbs.

  The woman, whose name was Gastar, came, but Jafar never left Alysson's side.

  "Dhereth," Gastar proclaimed when she examined her patient, her wizened face drawing into a scowl. Very bad.

  "Save her," Jafar said simply, his hoarse voice almost a plea.

  "If Allah wills."

  Gastar packed the wound with powder of alhenrta, and forced a tincture of opium down Alysson's throat, but Jafar could not put his trust only in the desert remedies that had been used by his tribe for centuries, or even his fervent prayers. Late that evening, he also resorted to a European cure to bring down the fever, a phial of sulfuric ether that he had saved from one of his trips to Algiers. With trembling hands, he forced Alysson to drink a spoonful.

  He nursed Alysson himself, even though Gastar was more than willing. He poured liquids between her lips and made her swallow by stroking her throat. He bathed her nude body with cool water over and over again. When she shook with chills, he gathered her tightly against his nakedness, trying by sheer nearness to infuse her with his own strength. When she writhed in pain, Jafar soothed her, murmuring gentle words of encouragement in English as well as French and Arabic and Berber.

  His heart contracted in pain every time he looked down at her pale face, her bloodless lips as she barely breathed. She was so ill, her skin so scalding hot to the touch. The thoula—the fever—was burning her alive. He was responsible for this. If he had never taken her captive to use for his own single-minded purposes, she would not be lying here now, in this critical condition, fighting for her life.

  By the third day the ether was gone, but her life still hung in the balance. Jafar was conducting his vigil by her bedside when his forgotten guest, the Khalifa Ben Hamadi, asked permission to enter.

  Jafar raised his head sharply, his thoughts abruptly interrupted. Carefully, he drew the blankets up to Alysson's chin, covering her slender body that was so wasted by the fever. Then he bid the khalif enter.

  Ben Hamadi glanced briefly at the sick woman, then averted his gazed politely as he tendered the appropriate flowery greetings to Jafar in Arabic. In turn, Jafar offered him the hospitality of his humble abode and wishes for peace and the blessings of Allah, for once experiencing impatience with the customs of his people. Although Alysson's fever had lessened, her life was still in jeopardy, and until the danger had passed, he had no time to waste engaging in meaningless chatter.

  The keen-witted Arab general must have sensed the tension in him, however, for he settled himself cross-legged on the carpeted floor, his gaze resting intently on Jafar.

  "I would not dared have been so rude as to intrude into your privacy, my brother, but we must discuss our affairs. The prisoner has been occupying your time of late, and, I suspect, your thoughts."

  It was a subtle rebuke, Jafar was aware. For the past four days he had totally neglected his duties, yet he couldn't bring himself to care overmuch. And at the term "prisoner," a surge of anger joined his impatience. The word was so cold, so indifferent, and came nowhere close to describing the relationship he had with his defiant young captive—or what he felt for her.

  Aware of the need to curb both anger and impatience, Jafar forced his reply to remain even. "I could not leave the Englishwoman's side while she is barely alive, Excellency. I do not want her death on my conscience. It would be a stain to my honor, and that of my tribe, if I did not see to the safety of a captive. Moreover, she is an innocent in this affair. If I can help her survive, I will."

  "Her death—or life—is in the hands of Allah."

  "Sometimes it is wise," Jafar said with deliberate enunciation, "for men on earth to aid Allah, in order that His will be carried out.''

  The khalif's dark eyes narrowed, but Jafar returned his gaze steadily. What he'd just said was close to blasphemy in their religion, but he meant every word. He blamed himself for allowing harm to come to his captive. Because of his iaxness in letting her escape, Alysson had nearly died— and still might. He could not let it happen.

  Ben Hamadi must have realized his determination, for he shrugged gracefully and changed the subject. "Your plan is working, sidi. The rumors you planted in the ears of the French have been fruitful. Colonel Bourmont has left Algiers for the desert with a large force."

  Jafar simply stared, aware of a feeling of vague surprise. His longtime enemy the colonel had not even crossed his mind during Alysson's illness—which was unique. Until now, not a day had passed since the murder of his family that he had not cursed the name of Bourmont.

  "The French troops will reach us within the week," the Arab noted, "perhaps less."

  A week. Perhaps less. In only that short while he would have the revenge he had sought for seventeen years. Why then could he not summon the anticipation, the sweet satisfaction, that should have accompanied such a revelation? Jafar glanced down at Alysson, at her ravaged form so still and unmoving . . . and he knew the answer.

  "I will take the young
woman with me," Ben Hamadi added, "if she lives."

  If she lives. Jafar clenched his teeth, refusing to consider the possibility that she might not. But like it or not, he was obliged to discuss his English captive's fate with his guest, a discussion they had already begun the evening of Alys- son's escape.

  Ben Hamadi had never intended to remain in Jafar's camp. Shortly before the French army arrived, they would separate their forces and wait for the right moment to strike. For that battle, Jafar would lead the attack, while the Arab general's troops circled around to assault the French flanks and prevent escape.

  As for Alysson, Ben Hamadi had proposed they transfer the English prisoner to his own large encampment, where she would be kept with his women until she could be escorted back to Algiers. Despite his instinctive objections, Jafar had not dismissed the suggestion out of hand. Alys- son's safety might be better assured were she well away from the battleground. But the most pressing reason, the overwhelming one, was his growing awareness that he was losing objectivity where Alysson was concerned. More than once he had let his fierce desire for her affect his judgment, had let his heart rule his head. He would do better to sever this dangerous attraction at once, before he found himself making decisions based not on what was best for his people or his country, but on what a fiery English captive asked of him.

  Now, however, with Alysson so near death's door, he scotched the khalif's plan entirely. Ben Hamadi would protest, but Jafar would not turn her over to be cared for by anyone but himself. Not now, when he owed her his most valiant efforts.

  "She cannot be moved, Excellency. Even if . . . she survives, she will be too weak to travel in the near future. I will see to her welfare here."

  "You need have no fear, my brother. While in my charge, she will receive the best of care."

  "I will not give her up."

  There was a long silence, while the general scrutinized Jafar with his keen black eyes. "It will not do to become overly fond of the foreign woman," Ben Hamadi said finally, a gentle warning.

  Jafar glanced down at the young woman they spoke of. Foreign? But she was not foreign to him. The same English blood that ran through her veins ran through his, though he often tried to forget that truth. And they had been lovers. After the intimacies he had shared with her during that long passion-filled night, intimacies known only between a man and a woman, she was as familiar to him as the desert, as the mountains that he called home. Alysson, with her defiant, smoke-hued eyes. Alysson, with her passion and vitality and indomitable spirit, a spirit that called to him and touched something wild within him. Somehow, in the past few weeks, she had managed to make all the other elements of his life pale to insignificance. And for the mind-numbing eternity of the past days, all his hopes and wishes for the future had converged, centering on the single fervent desire that she would survive her battle with death.

  Just then Alysson stirred, muttering some unintelligible phrase. Bending over her, Jafar smoothed a tousled tress back from her hot forehead. "Be still, little tigress," he murmured in English.

  The endearment drew a sharp look from the khalif; Jafar could feel Ben Hamadi watching him speculatively.

  "Perhaps it is not wise to speak to her in her own tongue,'' the Arab suggested uneasily.

  Within Jafar the slow heat of anger uncurled itself. Not hesitating, he raised his golden gaze in challenge. "It calms her to hear her own language."

  Ben Hamadi was the first to break contact with that fierce gaze. After a long moment, the Arab let his hawklike features relax beneath his beard. But when he rose to withdraw, he added one last caution. "Take care, my friend, that you do not put her welfare above the lives of your own people."

  It was perhaps two hours later that Alysson slowly opened her eyes to find Jafar sitting beside her, his chin resting on his fist.

  How strange, was her first foggy thought. She had been dreaming of that long-ago day in England, of her arrival at the elegant estate of an English date. She had climbed an oak tree and thrown acorns at a fair-haired stranger. But then she had cried and he had comforted her.

  Alysson blinked and squinted her eyes at the black-robed man beside her. This was Jafar, a fierce Berber warlord, not the fair-haired English stranger of her dreams.

  But something was wrong about him. His head bowed, he appeared deep in contemplation, while his shoulders slumped as if under the burden of some great weight.

  Slowly, weakly, she reached out to touch him on the knee. Jafar reacted the instant she moved. Startled, he caught her hand and pressed it between his own as he stared at her.

  "Thank you, Allah," he said a long moment later, his voice a hoarse rasp.

  Alysson watched him in puzzlement. He looked terrible. Deep lines of weariness etched his face which was covered by several days' growth of beard. She had never seen him so unkempt.

  Something else was different about trim as well. His expression of gratitude to Allah had been in English. Why would he speak to his God in her language? But the elusive thought faded under the effort of having to think.

  "I . . . didn't die . . ." she whispered, her own voice sounding like the croak of a frog.

  A slow smile, beautiful in its sheer happiness, curved his mouth. "No, you didn't." Still holding her hand in his, he reached out to touch her damp forehead. "The fever has finally broken. How do you feel?"

  "Thirsty . . ."

  Immediately he reached for a cup of opium-laced water. Slipping his arm beneath her shoulders, he held the cup to her lips. "Here, drink this."

  Strange, Alysson thought again. Was their conversation really in English? She sipped weakly from the cup, watching Jafar, staring into his golden eyes, "Did I. . . hit you?"

  His brows drew together in a frown at the odd qusstiom, Alysson wanted to ask if she had thrown acorns at him, but she couldn't find the energy to form the words.

  "No, you didn't hit me, Ehuresh, Now, drink again."

  Obediently, Alysson complied. His order had been in French, of that she was certeis. But a fragment of a thought, interposed with the fading memory of her dream, swirled in her hazy mind. Jafar looked so much like the fair-haired English stranger in her dream. And she had heard him use English before. At least once, when he'd unexpectedly came upon her half-naked, he had called her beautiful. And again when he had made love to her that shameful night, some of his passionate words had been in perfect English.

  Jafar had said he knew some words of her language, but it seemed he was more familiar with English than he had admitted. Of course, it was not beyond possibility that he should have learned English as well as French, the language of his enemies . . .

  The unfocused thought brought back all the painful memories of the past few weeks in a fierce rush. His plan to lure Gervase into the desert, her attempted escape . . .

  Nothing had changed. He still intended to kill Gervase, still planned to endanger her beloved uncle with his schemes for revenge. And it was her fault. If she had managed to escape . . .

  Alysson closed her eyes, feeling tears forming beneath her lids. She was too weak to face the horrible future, the guilt of failure.

  "Sleep, little tigress."

  Jafar again, his voice low and gentle She felt his soothing hand stroke her forehead and didn't fight it. Praying for the oblivion of sleep, she let herself be drawn down into the swirling blackness. But one last puzzling thought prodded her before she drifted into unconsciousness. Had Jafar spoken to her in English?

  Chapter 13

  She had failed. That was the bleak, never-changing truth that haunted Alysson during the slow days of her convalescence.

  The knowledge of her failure, even more than the fever, left her shaken and withdrawn. Tears came easily now, and she was thirsty all the time. Her body ached, but her spirit ached more. The guilt was crushing, and so was the fear. Gervase would die because of her. Her Uncle Honord would come in search of her and would be shot by a Berber bullet or mown down by an Arab scimitar.

  She
couldn't face it, and so she retreated into numbness. Day turned into night, then back into day, but Alysson could find no reason to fight the awful flood of emptiness and defeat that oppressed her spirit. The entire interlude of her attempted escape and Jafar's rescue seemed dreamlike, unreal, as did the past few days.

  Jafar cared for her, she knew that. When she needed to eat to regain her strength, he fed her the choicest bites from his own plate, and made her drink nourishing fruit juices. When she was hot and fretful and ached for coolness, he bathed her body with cool water. When she was too weak to move her limbs, he dressed her with as much gentleness as if she were an infant.

  Her utter helplessness and dependence only added to her despair. Her life had been saved by a man she professed to despise, and yet she couldn't be glad.

  She couldn't be glad, either, about the various visitors who attended her sickbed. Tahar sat with her for several hours each day, keeping her company, but the gentle Berber woman's attempts at conversation drew little response from Alysson.