Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  The blue-eyed Saful expressed Alysson's own sentiments precisely when he was shown in to see her. She had not hurt him badly when she'd crowned him with the wash pitcher—at least not physically. His pride and honor had both suffered much more from the blow, for Jafar had released him from his guard duties and set three other men in his place. The fact that his lord would not trust him again to act as her guard was a bitter, shameful pill for Saful to swallow.

  "My soul is dark and gloomy," he told her in Berber, his feelings translated by young Mahmoud.

  Wearily Alysson closed her eyes, too wretched to be concerned about anyone's soul, even her own. Especially her own.

  To his credit, Mahmoud tried to cheer her up. For her entertainment the boy brought his pet lizard in to visit her, a black-striped reptile that he called a "fish of the sand."

  "See, lady, I make him dance!"

  The lizard did indeed seem to be dancing for its supper. In other circumstances, Alysson might have asked Mahmoud to set the poor thing free, for it was cruel to keep a wild desert creature in captivity. But Mahmoud obviously had formed a bond with the ugly little reptile, perhaps because it, unlike people, did not notice the boy's scarred face or awkward limp. Even so, she could not even summon the energy to be concerned for the boy's pain. Her own pain was too great, her hopelessness too overwhelming.

  Her listlessness disturbed Jafar most of all. She was recovering her health slowly, but the luster had gone out of her eyes, the fire out of her spirit. The only time he had seen an inkling of the same passionate defiancé Alysson possessed in such great measure before her illness was the first time he bathed her after she regained consciousness. In a pitifully weak gesture, she had tried to cover her nakedness and ordered him from the room, but the rebellion had cost her every ounce of energy she had. He had won the battle, but the victory gave him no satisfaction.

  Still he wouldn't abdicate his responsibilities. He continued to change the dressing on her wound regularly, carefully massaging the muscles of her thigh around the scorpion's bite to keep the flesh supple. He continued to feed her, even though she might have managed it on her own, for she would not have eaten one tenth of the food that he persuaded her to swallow by sheer persistence. And he continued to bathe her.

  Four days after the fever had broken, Alysson lay quiescent and unmoving as Jafar bared her body for his ministrations. For one brief moment, as he peeled away the gauze to expose the wound on her thigh, she tried to close her legs to him, but Jafar scowled down at her, a glimmer of something protective and fiercely intimate in his eyes.

  Subdued, she looked away, her moment of rebellion over.

  "The flesh is no longer so swollen and red," he pronounced as he gently washed the lacerated area.

  Indifferently, her shoulders moved in the barest of shrugs. "You said wounds heal quickly in the desert."

  Physical wounds, yes, Jafar thought, but not the despondency that was consuming her. He wanted to shake her, to breathe life into her, to erase the stamp of defeat in her new manner. He wanted to see a return of the courage and indomitable spirit that had first attracted him to her. He wanted to revive the passion that was so much a part of her, to feel once more the heat and honey between her thighs.

  Deliberately, he moved the damp cloth upward, to the vee between her legs. After a brief, startled look, Alysson closed her eyes, not caring what he did to her.

  Tempering a surge of impatience, Jafar slowly trailed the cloth upward, over the silken skin of her abdomen. When still she didn't respond, he covered a small, lush breast with his hand.

  How fragile her nipple felt against his palm. He was suddenly filled with a tension that had little to do with desire: tenderness, possessiveness, a need to care for and protect that was at sharpest odds with his fighting instincts. What was it about her that aroused such protective feelings in him? He had never been particularly kind to women, yet he found himself wanting—no, needing—to comfort and console her, to lend her his strength.

  Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, no longer willing to press her, hoping that somehow he would soon overcome her indifference.

  * * *

  The following day Jafar had more success. When he parted her robe, leaving her naked and open to his gaze, Alysson roused herself enough to protest again. It did no good. Jafar ignored her muttered imprecation entirely as he proceeded to bathe her.

  Alysson felt her fingers curl into fists. "I can do this myself," she said tightly.

  "No you can't. You are still as weak as a newborn lamb."

  "But it isn't seemly for you to be taking care of me this way!"

  Wry amusement curved his lips. "Allah deliver me from the prudery of women. My eyes have already seen your nakedness, chérie. My lips have tasted every inch of you. You have nothing to hide from me."

  The faint blush that stained her cheeks was the first real sign of life he had seen from her in days. Jafar gazed down at her, a wash of tender emotion, alien and strong, sweeping over him. "I enjoy helping you, Ehuresh."

  "You enjoy provoking me."

  "Yes." The word held a hint of smug laughter. "And you, in turn, take delight in defying me. I swear you are as stubborn as the offspring of a cross-eyed she-goat."

  His gentle teasing had the desired effect; Alysson glared at him with a trace of her former spirit. Now that he had managed to a provoke a response, however, he would not give up his methods. When he had finished with her bath, Jafar casually announced that he would wash her hair.

  Alysson balked, but in the end she was forced to submit to his ministrations. To her dismay, the simple task of washing and combing out her wet tresses seemed even more personal and intimate than bathing her naked body. The light touch of Jafar's fingers in her hair was tranquilizing and incredibly sensual. Alysson closed her eyes, both fatigue and listlessness slowly draining away. She was awed that the cold, ruthless man she knew him to be could show such infinite tenderness.

  Lulled by his quiet efficiency, Alysson allowed him to dress her in a soft robe of white cotton, making no protest until, to her surprise and alarm, Jafar lifted her in his arms.

  "Where are you taking me?" she demanded as he cradled her against his chest.

  "For some fresh air, my dove. You have been confined here for too long."

  Striding with her through the main room, he set her down at the entrance of the tent. The late-afternoon sunlight was bright and glaring after her long convalescence, even though it was the beginning of November, but the rays were welcoming and warm on her face.

  Jafar spread her damp hair with his fingers, arranging it over her shoulders so it would dry. Then, settling himself behind her, he drew Alysson back against his hard chest. She couldn't find the will to resist him; his sheltering arms were warm around her, his presence intimate and soothing. For a moment, his nearness seemed even to banish the chill in her soul. She could almost forget the terrible truth that divided them.

  Allowing herself to grow limp, Alysson stared out past the encampment, at the vast desert. Even after her brush with death, the arid wilderness beckoned to her. That surprised her. After all that had happened to her, she should have been terrified by the danger the desert presented. Yet she felt almost as if she belonged here . . . in this hard land . . . with this savage Berber warlord who had brought her here.

  The thought was absurd, of course. And so was the rich languidness that stole over her, one of peace and contentment. Alysson wouldn't let herself wonder about it, though, or the strange longing that kept her, for just this small length of time, a willing captive in Jafar's arms. She refused to think about it.

  She couldn't dismiss Jafar so easily. His thumb stroked her inner wrist absently, but Alysson was aware of every caress, and of the quivery sensations he sent racing along her skin. As much as she wanted to, she could never be indifferent to his touch. She shivered.

  "Are you cold?" Even the low resonance of his voice was capable of causing her pulse to quicken.

  "No," she r
eplied swiftly, but his arms tightened about her. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek, which did nothing for her equanimity.

  "How is it that you know about tying a tourniquet for a poisoned wound?"

  She sighed in defeat. If Jafar was intent on making her talk to him, as she suspected, she had best answer him. He would prod and pester her until she obeyed from sheer frustration. She had never met a man more determined to have his way. "My Uncle Cedric is a physician in London. I visited him sometimes at his hospital."

  "This uncle . . . he is familiar with the sting of scorpions?"

  "No, but he once had a patient who was was bitten by a venomous snake. Uncle managed to save the man's life, in spite of the vast odds against him. You can't imagine the sordid conditions of the hospitals in London . . . the filth . . . the slovenly, drunken women who nurse the patients."

  "I can't imagine that a wealthy heiress would want to expose herself to such conditions."

  Alysson gave a slight shrug. She had contrived to make herself useful to her uncle, so that he would have a reason to want her. "Uncle Cedric has a theory about cleanliness being the best way to prevent disease. When he could not convince the directors to adopt his methods, I donated the funds to build a hospital of his own."

  "A noble gesture."

  Alysson shook her head. "A selfish gesture, actually. I have more money than I could spend in a lifetime, and he could put it to better use than I. But mainly I wanted to see him succeed with his dream. He has spent the past seven years searching for a cure to cholera. My parents died of cholera, you see . . ."

  Suddenly, she turned to gaze up at Jafar, searching his face. She was struck by the oddest feeling that she had told him this story before. It wasn't possible, and yet . . .

  Had she merely dreamed of meeting him in England? The similarities between her Berber captor and the fair-haired Englishman of her dreams were striking, especially now, when the waning sun highlighted the gold of Jafar's hair and set his sherry-colored eyes aglow with amber fire.

  "Have you ever been to England?" she asked, holding her breath as his gaze locked with hers.

  He didn't answer at once, yet neither did he look away.

  "Yes," he said finally. "Four years ago my sultan sent an embassy to your Queen Victoria to gain support for our cause against the French, and to press for England's acknowledgment of our national independence. I was a member of that delegation."

  Alysson stared at him. "I never heard that my government was considering acknowledging yours."

  It was Jafar's turn to shrug. "Because our efforts were unfruitful. We were never granted an interview. Your queen was more interested in maintaining relations with the French jackals than with championing justice."

  Alysson knew better than to pick up that gauntlet, even if she'd had the energy. "Is that," Alysson asked in her native language, "when you learned to speak English?"

  Jafar understood her, she was certain, but still he answered in French. "No, I learned before then."

  "Then why do you pretend not to know it?"

  "I am uncomfortable with your language. Just as you would be uncomfortable speaking Berber or even Arabic."

  Alysson wasn't sure if she could believe him, but she turned back around, again leaning against him and falling silent as she pondered his answer.

  Jafar was relieved that she had dropped the subject. He didn't want to lie to her if it could be helped, yet he couldn't afford to have her divulge his identity later to the French government. I would mean death and persecution for his tribe.

  Gently shifting his weight, he rested his chin on the top of Alysson's head, staring out at the desert, listening to the familiar sounds as the camp made preparations for the evening, savoring the moment. This was the best time of day in the desert, when the scorching heat had ended, when the sun set the horizon aflame with red and gold. His mother had loved this time best, as well.

  The reminiscence brought to mind an errant memory during one of his family's yearly treks to Algiers, a childhood memory of peace and serenity: his noble father sitting before their tent . . . his mother gazing at her lord with love and adoration. Recalling that innocent time could set him dreaming—

  Jafar gave a soft sigh. A rare indulgence, his dreams. They had no place here, when his country was torn by war, when his heart was filled with vengeance.

  Alysson must have been thinking along similar lines, for she broke into his musings with a thoughtful comment. "If your sultan named you to his delegation, then you must be one of his trusted lieutenants."

  "It was my duty to serve him."

  "And to fight for him against the French?"

  Jafar nodded. "To Muslims, war against the Christians is a religious obligation."

  "It seems absurd to me to kill people in the name of religion. It is bad enough to die for it."

  "But Muslims look upon their death, if it occurs, as a new life," he replied softly. "And in Barbary, religion is the only political sentiment which unites the population. Abdel Kader is the incarnation of that sentiment. His campaigns, his mode of administration, principles of government, plans for reform, all have been directed at one simple and majestic idea of Arab nationality, under Allah."

  Alysson shook her head slowly. "Does he truly think that God will help you vanquish the French?"

  "Abdel Kader believes that God is on our side, yes."

  "And you? What do you believe?"

  It was a long moment before Jafar replied. "He is fighting a Holy War. I am fighting a foreign oppressor. The French conquerors are like the simoon—the fierce desert wind that destroys and kills. They must be resisted, even to our last dying breath, our last drop of blood."

  Alysson fell silent, her thoughts occupied. Did Jafar's admission mean his religious beliefs were secondary to his hatred for the French? But yes, he had already said that vengeance was his motive for seeking Gervase's death, she remembered with a return of some of her former frustration. Yet for the first time since she had learned of Jafar's plan, she was filled with a measure of hope. Jafar wasn't as ruthless and as black-hearted as she had once thought him. Not only had he remained by her side when she lay so near death, but she'd seen kindness in his eyes these past few days when he'd cared for her. And now for once, they were discussing the war in a civilized fashion. Perhaps, if she could talk to him about Gervase, if she used logic and reason, she could persuade Jafar to turn away from his compulsive revenge.

  "But Gervase is not the oppressor," Alysson said, her tone low but insistent. "He has done nothing to harm you."

  "I beg to differ, ma belle. The colonel is the archetype of French tyranny. Not only is he a high-ranking military commander, but he is the head of the bureau which, by its very nature, is intent on subjugating my people."

  She bit her lip, wondering how she could convince him. She knew Gervase didn't condone the violence of his predecessors, nor did he support the harsher measures of the French government, such as prescribed confiscation of Arab lands for minor infractions of French rules. In fact, to her, privately, Gervase had decried the official "scorched-earth" policy during the French occupation—the burning of crops and homes to prevent the native population from giving support to Abdel Kader. She could only admire Gervase's commitment to improve the lot of the vanquished Arabs and Berbers.

  "I think you are condemning him unjustly. Since his arrival, Gervase has only used his office to help better the conditions of your people. He has provided a voice of reason within the army, against the settlers who would force all the Muslims off their land."

  At her back, she could feel Jafar's muscles tense in an effort at control. "Even if that were so, it would make no difference. My dispute with the colonel is personal."

  "Your dispute was with his father, who is no longer even alive. Besides, I doubt the late general would have been pleased with his son now. Gervase is nothing like him, in temperament or principles."

  Jafar was silent.

  Alysson turned to
look up at him. "You spoke of your religion. Well, mine teaches that love and forgiveness are to be valued above war, above revenge. What his father did to yours was terrible, I know, but killing Gervase will not bring your parents back to life. Could you not learn to forgive the past?"

  Gravely, Jafar returned her gaze. Her eyes were wide and still and heartrendingly vulnerable. "Do you love him so very much, then?" Jafar asked quietly, the involuntary question dredged out of him.

  Surprise flickered in the gray depths of her eyes, yet he did not withdraw the question. Instead, he waited anxiously, searching her face, not wanting to admit how important her answer was to him.

  "Would it matter?" she replied, her voice almost a whisper.