Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  "As you wish."

  She bit her lip. "You said when this was over, you would allow me to return to Algiers. You said when you accomplished your mission, you would let me go free."

  At her quiet words she saw his entire body tense. "I have not accomplished my mission."

  Alysson's heart suddenly seemed to stop beating. "What . . . did you say?"

  The glance Jafar threw over his shoulder at her was filled with savage fury. "I said, I have failed. I did not kill your precious fiancé."

  Stunned, Alysson stared at him. "Gervase is alive?" she whispered hoarsely.

  Jafar didn't answer; he only stood there, violently clenching his fists.

  Abruptly, Alysson's legs folded beneath her and she sank to her knees. She could hardly credit what he'd said. Dear heaven! Gervase was alive?

  "What. . . happened?" she managed to ask. "Was Gervase injured? Did you take him prisoner?"

  The brilliance of Jafar's gold eyes impaled her. "I did not kill him. You will have to be satisfied with that."

  "Jafar . . . please." Her tear-filled eyes begged him. "I have to know."

  Jafar clenched his teeth at her beseeching look. He could have told her that by now Colonel Bourmont and the other French officers would be safely interned in Ben Hamadi's camp; although he'd spared his enemy's life, he had no intention of allowing Bourmont anywhere near Alysson Vickery. Nor did he intend ever to let her know just how much power she had over him.

  Yet he could not deny her the simple reassurance she was pleading for. "He is my prisoner," Jafar said finally, "but he is unharmed."

  Alysson closed her eyes. Gervase was a prisoner, but he was alive. He was alive!

  A joyous feeling of deliverance welled in her heart, lightening the burden of despair she'd carried with her for so many days. Jafar had spared his blood enemy. He was not the cruel barbarian she'd feared. He was not a coldhearted murderer. He was noble and merciful and wonderful . . .

  She buried her face in her hands, savoring the sensation.

  Jafar cursed.

  Such profound relief for his enemy was something he couldn't bear to see from her. In two strides he was across the room, grasping Alysson's arms and dragging her to her feet. "You will not weep for him!"

  Only then did Alysson become aware of the scalding tears streaming down her face. They were tears of joy, of exultation. She gazed at Jafar mutely, her throat too clogged to speak.

  When she didn't answer, his fingers tightened painfully on her arms, as if he might shake her. "Stop this, do you hear me?"

  She swallowed hard, trying to control her emotions. "And now? What will become of Gervase?"

  Jafar's grip only tightened further. "Enough! I forbid you to speak his name in my hearing, do you understand?"

  Slowly Alysson nodded. Even Jafar's unreasonable demands could not dim the joy she was feeling at this moment. She was free, free of the dark, insidious fear that had haunted her during the past terrible weeks, free of the crushing guilt.

  Through fading tears, she looked up at him without speaking. His eyes blazed with a savage fury that should have frightened her, yet strangely, that burning gaze only reassured her.

  More than that, it brought back memories of a night not so long ago, a night sensual and dark with desire, when Jafar had taught her what it meant to be a woman. She had tried desperately to forget that night, to forget the wicked, erotic things he had done to her and with her, the way he'd dominated her senses and made her body shake with passion. But now her pulse, nerves, skin, heart suddenly remembered everything he'd made her feel then.

  Inexplicably, uncontrollably, she found herself trembling. She wanted to touch him—with such primal urgency that it gave her the courage to raise her hand and twine her fingers around his nape.

  Jafar stiffened abruptly, as if he couldn't bear the contact, but he didn't draw away.

  Alysson stepped closer, pressing her body against his. He wanted her, she knew it. Jafar himself had stripped her of her innocence and taught her to recognize the signs of a man's passion. She could not mistake his tenseness, could not doubt the way his body had heated and hardened against hers, the swelling of his masculinity. He was as aroused as a man could be.

  And she wanted him in return. She wanted to know the exquisite promise of his body; she wanted the hot pressure of his mouth on hers.

  Staring into his burnt-honey eyes, she raised her mouth for his kiss.

  "Alysson, don't!" It was a savage growl, a command, a plea. But she didn't obey.

  Powerless to move away, Jafar closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of her beautiftil face. Yet the first velvet caress of her warm breath on his lips demolished his tenuous control.

  His hard mouth came down hers, hungry and hurtful, a raw act of possession as an instinct stronger than reason drove him. He wanted to mark Alysson as his. He wanted to drive all thought of Gervase de Bourmont from her head, from her heart. He wanted to hear her whisper his name, to plead in incoherent words against his lips, to cry out in joy as she reached incredible heights of pleasure with him.

  The cruel fierceness of his kiss startled Alysson, not because of the unrelenting anger she tasted in his mouth, in his thrusting tongue, but because within that brutal kiss there was pain. His pain. An aching vulnerability that touched her soul in a way nothing else ever had. She made a soft, answering whimper of need deep in her throat and opened to him.

  At her surrender, Jafar sank his fingers roughly into her hair, anger and arousal making his blood surge hot. Anger at himself for betraying his blood oath; anger at Alysson for being the cause. Fury that she should love another man. Rage that she was responding now because she was grateful to him for sparing her fiancé's life.

  It was gratitude, only that.

  The terrible realization was like salt on a raw wound, dragging Jafar suddenly, painfully, back to his senses. He could not, would not, allow her to give herself to him out of gratitude. Nor could he take her with the ghost of Bour- mont in his bed, lying between them. He would never be able to stomach himself afterward.

  Bitterly, with a superhuman effort at control, he tore his mouth from hers, his fingers digging painfully into her arms as he held Alysson away from him.

  Startled, she gazed at him in incomprehension. His face was shadowed, his jaw clenched with determination, though his breath came unnaturally fast.

  "I won't have you this way, Ehuresh."

  His harsh rasp was like a dash of icewater on her burning skin. All she could do was stare at him.

  Even more abruptly, he released her and began to gather up his sword and burnous, his movements rapid yet unsteady.

  "Jafar . . . what . . . ?"

  He made no reply, merely flung his burnous over his shoulders.

  Alysson watched in bewilderment as he turned and strode quickly from the chamber. "You're not leaving!"

  "Yes!"

  She took a faltering step after his retreating form. "But where are you going?''

  "To sleep with my men! I find I have a conscience after all!"

  Chapter 16

  "Guests! That barbarian says we are to consider our- VFselves his guests!" the elderly Frenchman railed at his niece from his sickbed.

  "Uncle, please, lie still. Don't upset yourself so." Anxiously, Alysson put a hand to Honoré's forehead, again checking for fever. But his skin was still cool to the touch. He didn't seem to have suffered unduly from his wounds. In fact, he'd professed to having passed a comfortable sight.

  Unlike her. She'd spent the remainder of the night restlessly tossing and turning, unable to find respite from the storm of reflections and emotions assailing her. So much had happened in the past few hours. Her uncle's captivity. Gervase's deliverance from death, Jafar's clemency. His rejection of her kiss . . .

  Incredibly, Jafar had left his tent solely to her; she'd slept alone for nearly the first time since meeting her demon captor, And to her profound dismay, Alysson had found herself missing his warmth, his vit
al, comforting presence. She felt so alone without him.

  Disturbed by the inexplicable yearnings of her heart and body, Alysson had at last fallen into an exhausted slumber. She'd risen at dawa, in no less turmoil than when lafar had stalked out of his tent a few hours before. Trying to forget her agitation, she'd gone directly to her uncle's tent and found him awake.

  Honoré had been appropriately elated when she shared the joyous news about Gervase, but even that had not mollified his outrage at his own treatment. It seemed that Jafar had already paid her uncle a visit this morning to extend an invitation to accompany him to his mountain home. Honoré's reaction had been one of indignation.

  "But of course I accepted," Honoré blustered now. "I was hardly in a position to refuse, after all. I am not so foolish as to challenge that savage warlord when I am injured this way—" He waved a hand at his bandaged ribs, "—or at any time. It is wiser not to argue with a man like that,"

  "Certainly it is," Alysson said soothingly, but Honoré was too worked up to notice.

  "We are to leave at once, this very morning. He said it is for our own protection, since this area is no longer safe from attack, Pestei That I do not believe."

  Alysson was not so quick to dismiss Jafar's reasoning, though she doubted protecting his captives was his major consideration in moving his camp so quickly. He might have been the victor of the recent battle, but he could hardly keep his tribe in the area to become easy targets if the French forces decided to pursue. "I suppose there is some truth to what he said, Uncle. If there is another battle, we could very well be in danger from artillery fire."

  Honoré harrumphed loudly. "Perhaps, but is the height of hypocrisy for that . . . that devil to call us his guests."

  "I know." She patted his shoulder. "But that is better than being his prisoners. We haven't been treated badly, especially considering that we are his enemy. He could have kept us in chains or even killed us."

  Realizing what she'd just said, Alysson shook her head wryly. How ironic that she should be defending Jafar's actions and even his right to hold them hostage. But she couldn't bring herself to condemn him at the moment; her relief over his magnanimity overwhelmed any outrage she might have felt at his continuing to hold her here. Indeed, rather than protest, she was more inclined to go down on her knees and thank him for sparing Gervase.

  Besides, by now she knew how futile it was to struggle against Jafar. As usual, she had little choice but to obey him. If he had decreed they were to accompany him, then they would accompany him.

  "At any rate," she told her uncle, "you will be more comfortable in the mountains, away from the desert heat."

  "Bah! I would be many times more comfortable if I were safe on the soil of France," Honoré retorted in an aggrieved tone.

  Suddenly he stopped, his heavy silver brows drawing together in a frown. "What am I saying?" Slowly Honoré turned his head on the pillow to look at her. "What right do I have to complain when you have suffered this captivity for weeks?" Awkwardly, he reached for her hand. "I am not so indifferent as it seems, my dear. When you were taken from me that day, I thought . . . For so long there was no word." Honoré faltered, anxiously surveying her face. "You told me the truth? You were not mistreated? He did not harm you in any way?"

  The haunted expression in her uncle's dark eyes told her better than words how deeply he cared for her, how worried he had been for her safety, while the tremble in his voice told her of his need of reassurance. The reassurance that he had not failed her.

  Her throat suddenly tight, Alysson shook her head. "He did not harm me, Uncle."

  "But you are far too pale, to my mind. And there are circles beneath your eyes."

  "I had the misfortune to be stung by a scorpion. I was ill for a time, but I am fine now."

  A clatter from outside the tent made Alysson glance over her shoulder. All the while she'd been talking to her uncle, the sounds of activity had been on the rise.

  Just then Chand appeared at the entrance to the tent. As enterprising as usual, he had been scouting out the camp to discover what he could about their situation.

  The Indian servant salaamed to his mistress, before reporting the information he had gleaned about their impending departure. "Memsahib, the Berber lord bid me tell you that you are to make the necessary preparations for travel. We are to leave within the hour. I was also commanded to say that all arrangements will be made for the Larousse Sahib's comfort."

  Honoré grunted at that, but Alysson nodded in acknowledgment, trusting Jafar to keep his word.

  Drawing the blanket up to cover her uncle's shoulders, she kissed his cheek. "Uncle, I must go, but I'll return as soon as I can. Chand, would you see to him?"

  "As you wish, memsahib."

  She rose to leave, anxious to question Mahmoud and discover what the boy knew about yesterday's battle and Gervase's fate—all the details that Jafar had refused to tell her last night.

  When she stepped outside, the scene was one of bustling activity as the Berbers broke camp. There was no immediate sign of Jafar, but outside his tent, she found Saful readying the horses. Within, Mahmoud was gathering Jafar's personal effects and amassing the furnishings.

  To her surprise and bewilderment, Mahmoud responded to her greeting with a sullen look. Not since before her illness had he shown that hostile face to her.

  "Do you wish me still to serve you, lady?" the boy asked without warning.

  Alysson eyed him blankly. "Yes . . . is there some reason why I should not?"

  "Your servant is with you now."

  "Chand?"

  "I do not know his name."

  Mahmoud turned away, his limp pronounced. Alysson stared after him. Could the child actually be jealous of Chand? "I still need you to look after me, Mahmoud. Chand cannot care for me the way you do, especially now when he will be busy seeing to my uncle."

  Mahmoud shrugged his skinny shoulders, but she thought she might have mollified him.

  Following him into the rear room, she began to collect the native garments shed been given to wear and contemplated how to approach Mahmoud with her questions. Beside her, the boy muttered to himself in Arabic as he went about his duties. ". . . blacksmith's blood . . . the devil Bourmont . . ."

  Understanding those last words, Alysson felt her heart skip a beat. She let another minute go by before remarking casually, "Last night Jafar told me that Colonel Bourmont is his prisoner."

  "Yes, lady."

  When the boy shot her a suspicious glance, Alysson resumed her packing, not wanting to appear too obvious. "I must admit I was shocked to learn that the colonel is still alive. Your master left here with every intention of killing him."

  Mahmoud's scarred face puckered in a frown. "This is true. There was a fight with swords, but the lord did not strike the fatal blow. Saful saw it with his own eyes. It was the cause of much talk among our people." The boy shook his head in puzzlement. "I do not understand my lord's reasoning. They were enemies of blood. But he must have had good cause," Mahmoud declared, staunchly loyal as always. "Surely it is the will of Allah."

  Alysson's fingers tightened involuntarily on the fabric she was folding. "Can you tell me where the colonel is now? Do you know what Jafar means to do with him?"

  "The lord does not share his confidences with me," Mahmoud said guardedly. At Alysson's worried look, however, he offered an explanation. "Sidi Farhat has escorted the French prisoners to the camp of the Khalifa Ben Hamadi. Saful told me the colonel and his officers will be exchanged for other prisoners of war.''

  Alysson nodded and returned to her task, relief flooding through her. A few minutes later she was surprised by Mahmoud's voice.

  “Why do you cry, lady?'' he asked curiously.

  Suddenly aware of the tears on her cheeks, Alysson wiped at them awkwardly and flashed Mahmoud a brilliant smile, the first true smile that had crossed her lips in weeks. "They are happy tears, Mahmoud."

  Happy indeed, Alysson thought. Gervase was safe a
nd soon he would be free.

  When she had finished securing the clothing in bundles, Alysson helped Mahmoud strike the huge tent, willingly doing whatever she was told. By the time that was done, the hot sun had begun a shimmering trek across the sky, beating down on the Berbers who were forming a caravan of horses and goods. Covering her head with a haik for protection, Alysson went to join her uncle.

  She found Honoré somewhere in the middle of the column, with Chand hovering over him. It made her smile to see the luxurious mode of travel her wounded uncle would enjoy. Jafar had shown Honoré every courtesy, even going so far as to have a curtained litter built for his use. Both she and Chand had been provided with horses to ride.