And the letters he'd written to certain highborn English friends of his grandfather should bear fruit any day now. He was almost positive he could make Alysson's return to Algiers less traumatic, that he could manage to protect her name and reputation enough so that she would not suffer too greatly.
Now it was only the matter of his own selfishness, Jafar reflected caustically. Yet how could he bear to send her back?
"Jafar? Do you . . . have you chosen a bride yet?"
Jafar felt an ache center in his chest. Next to the decision about whether to grant Alysson her freedom, the last thing he wanted to think about was his future bride. He wanted to forget entirely the existence of such duty. At the moment he wanted simply to enjoy the pleasure of having Alysson warm and willing in his embrace.
"I do not wish to discuss it, chérie."
"What if I wish to?"
He opened one eye to glare at her in mock menace. "Hush, or I will beat you."
"No, you won't," Alysson retorted at once. He would not hurt her, she was certain. A soft smile curved her mouth as she remembered his tenderness when she had been so ill. No, he would never purposely hurt her.
Jafar saw her smile and raised an eyebrow. "You are taking my displeasure very lightly.''
Alysson lowered her eyes demurely, but it was an expression that was patently false. With casual ease, her fingers lifted to his muscular arm, to trace the scar that her bullet had left when she'd wounded him. "And you are taking mine lightly. Just remember, if I ever have the opportunity to shoot you again, I do not intend to miss."
He laughed softly. "Now that sounds more like my tigress, scratching and spitting . . . whenever she is not purring in my arms." The smug male confidence in his voice was laced with pride, which pricked her own.
"Tigress . . . Ehuresh . . . the names you choose for me are hardly flattering."
Jafar turned slowly in her arms to face her fully. "Is it flattering endearments you want then? How about Rose of Dawn? Or Pearl of Desire?"
His tone was so charming that it could melt stone; Alysson wanted both to laugh and to hit him for dismissing her concern so easily. "I might be impressed if you meant them," she returned wryly.
"Ah, but I do." The look on his face was one of uncompromising masculinity mixed with the ruthless amusement that she was coming to know. "You are a star of paradise, a sultan's treasure—"
"Lover," she inteijected with a stab of honesty.
His expression slowly lost its amused look. "Yes, lover."
Her thoughts sobered as well as she realized how much she wanted to be Jafar's lover. He was magnificently, undeniably male. A beautiful savage man with a core of gentleness. And yet there was still a harsh reality that kept them from being true lovers.
"And captive," she added softly to the names he had given her.
Jafar stared a moment, then shook his head slowly, his seriousness fading. "Not today, Ehuresh. Today I am yours to command."
"Is that so?" she replied skeptically.
"Indeed it is."
The possibilities caught her imagination. She stared at him thoughtfully. "I think I would find it immensely satisfying if you were my captive."
He smiled then, a slow sexual smile that burned right through her. “Very well, I shall be your slave for the afternoon, chérie," he agreed gallantly.
Alysson was not fooled by the peaceful handsome face, or this unusual show of servility. But she was woman enough to be goaded by his offer. She gave him a bold, direct look, her eyes clear, filled with challenge and desire. "You still have on some of your clothes," she observed in a provocative, commanding tone. "Take them off. I want to see you."
He hesitated only a second before obeying. With a graceful shrug, Jafar untangled himself from her arms and the burnous and sat up to remove his boots. Then, rising, he shed his pantaloons.
Alysson couldn't keep from staring at Jafar as he stood over her, feet planted slightiy apart. He was ruthless strength and lithe elegance, and just looking at him made her feel breathless and wild. Ungovernably, the soft heat of her gaze drifted upward over his hard muscular body, traveling along the long elegant stretch of his legs with their golden sun color, to the hard jutting arousal that was the blatant evidence of his desire.
"You see what you do to me, my jewel?" he remarked with hard-edged amusement. "How you make me ache?"
She was startled to see Jafar reach down to hold that swelling sex in his hand, to see his tanned fingers curl around his engorged shaft, around pale skin flushed with red. She was even more startled by his next scandalous comment. "Would you like to ache, too? Do you want to feel this inside you?"
Alysson caught her breath, shocked by the fierce desire that ripped through her at his question. Slowly she lifted her gaze to Jafar's lean, intense face. His features were heavy and drugged with passion.
Their eyes merged, hers hazy, his hot. Alysson shivered at the naked hunger in those heated golden eyes.
Still trapping her gaze, he came to her again, lying beside her and propping himself up on one elbow. Slowly he pushed the burnous aside to bare her naked body.
"I am yours to command, lover," Jafar repeated, his voice a husky rasp. "Tell me what you want."
"Kiss me," Alysson whispered, hardly able to speak.
He sighed as if well-pleased and sank his mouth onto hers. Feverishly her arms closed around him, but soon her hands were roving the heat of his skin, searching, exploring . . . his chest . . . his taut belly . . . his groin. She made him draw a sharp breath as her curious fingers curved over the pulsing crest of his manhood. For a long moment she enjoyed the sensation of touching him wherever she wanted to, until with a soft curse, Jafar grasped her wrists and pinned her arms above her head with one hand.
He held her immobile, making a mockery of his invitation to enslave him, but Alysson was beyond caring who was captive or captor. This dizzying, lazy seduction was all she could focus on.
His lips rubbed hers languorously, delicately sipping. Then plundered in a series of long drugging kisses. Then finally moved down her throat to lavish attention on her breasts.
With a moan, Alysson arched her back in surrender. She felt her nipples swell for his approval, peaking in aching arousal, and at the softest lash of his tongue she shuddered.
Jafar began a tortuous game then, withholding anything but the lightest of caresses, teasing her with his warm breath and delicate nips of his teeth. He seemed determined to make her frantic. Desperately, she kissed the only parts of him she could reach, her own teeth gently biting the flesh of his shoulder, tasting the warm, musky skin. It had no effect on him.
"Jafar . . . please, I can't bear it," she begged finally, pleading for release. When he paid no attention, she pulled her hands free and tangled her fingers in his hair, with a tug making him lift his head. "Jafar, please . . ."
His eyes went dark and passionate as he stared down at her. "You have bewitched me into wanting you," he said softly. "It is only right that I make you want me."
"I do want you!" she insisted breathlessly.
At her answer, he suddenly rolled onto his back and pulled her astride his hips. He watched her face flush with eager pleasure at her dominant position, watched her eyes turn hot and smoky as slowly he guided her down and impaled her on his large arousal, heard her grateful sigh. When he was deep inside her, though, Jafar went totally still. He could feel the shimmering pulses of desire rippling around him, clutching at him. Her captive, he thought as his hard flesh swelled further. He had taken her hostage, but he was the one tied with silken chains of desire.
"Jafar!" she said plaintively at his stillness.
Obediently his hips began a slow, upward, surging thrust. "Do I please you, lover?" he demanded on a husky breath.
"Yes . . . you . . . please me!"
"You have muscles you didn't know you had," he mur
mured hoarsely, reveling in her dazed look of pleasure. "Use them to bold me.'1
She obeyed mindles
sly, tightening her inner muscles around him, which made Jafar stiffen and groan in reaction..
Bat still he did aot hasten bis movements. He retained complete control until the final shattering moment of ecstasy. Until then, he was so exquisitely slow that he almost drove her mad.
For tint remainder of the entire golden afternoon, it seemed as if that were his intention, to drive her insane with need. He made her body quiver with desire while showing her how to please him as he was pleased. Over and over again he had her moving and pulsing with mindless pleasure.
At other times they played at being lovers . . . sexual, foolish, erotic gaaies that made Alysson blush to participate. And all the while Jafar proved again and again that he desired her. He was a sensual animal, his passions never far from the surface and easily aroused. His passion fed her woman's hungering heart. But he had no words of love to give- her, only the demands of his body.
That realization was the only harsh note of reality to mar an otherwise magical day.
Chapter 22
She had to face that realization when she arrived home that evening, for her uncle was waiting anxiously for her. Honoré was lying in his sickbed, fidgeting with the covers, but to judge by the look on his face, he would have been pacing the floor had his injuries allowed it. Worry, disappointment, and sorrow all vied for expression on his ruddy features.
He knew she had been with Jafar, Alysson realized.
She accepted the intelligence with embarrassment and regret. Embarrassment because her body was still warm and glowing with loving, her mind still tilled with the heated memory of Jafar moving in a slow, senses-maddening undulation within her. Regret because she hadn't wished her uncle to learn about her loss of innocence. Honoré had wanted so badly to pretend that she hadn't suffered from her captivity. For the sake of his peace of mind, she hadn't told him the entire story of her time with Jafar. He would have felt obliged to defend her honor and call Jafar out, or some such foolishness, and no doubt get himself killed in the process.
When Honoré fixed her with his concerned gaze now, though, Alysson gave up the pretense of hiding the truth. Sinking to her knees beside his bed, she took his hand. Her intimacy with Jafar had been her choice, her decision, and she had to make her uncle understand that.
"He didn't force me, Uncle," she said quietly. "I went to him of my own free will."
"Sacre Dieu . . ." Honors stared at her. "How could you, Alysson? The man is a savage, a barbarian."
"He is not. He is as civilized as you or I. In fact he is the son—" Alysson broke off abruptly. She wanted to share her knowledge about Jafar's English heritage, but she didn't have the right, not unless Jafar wanted it known. "He was educated in Europe," she finished lamely.
"What does that matter? He is a heathen and a murderer!"
"He is not!"
"He is! He and his savage horde slaughtered scores of French troops! He nearly killed the man you might have taken as a husband! Have you forgotten Gervase?"
"No." She pulled her hand from her uncle's grasp as guilt returned to assail her. "I haven't forgotten."
"Alysson . . ." Honoré waved his hands helplessly. "You know that I love you like my own child. I only want what is best for you. I wish I could dismiss this as simply some wild prank of yours. But this ordeal you have been through has obviously affected your judgment.''
Alysson looked away, her throat tight. "I want him. Is that so wrong of me?''
Honoré raised his fist in the air. "Yes and yes and yes! What future is there in it for you?"
"I . . . don't know."
Her uncle shook his head sorrowfully. "You and he are too different. Your ways are too different. It can never be."
For a long moment Alysson didn't answer.
"What a horror this trip has become," Honoré muttered finally. "How I wish we had never come to this heathen country."
Alysson could not wish the same. If she'd never come to Algeria, she never would have met Jafar, never would have fallen in love, never would have known such fulfillment as a woman.
And yet she couldn't simply blithely dismiss her uncle's concern. Could she have a future with Jafar?
It was a question she didn't want to face, but one that occupied her thoughts almost to the exclusion of all else during the next few days. She loved Jafar, but she wasn't at all certain he could ever return her love.
So much stood between them. Even if she were willing to give up her own life—her family, her religion, her entire culture—in order to live with him, would Jafar want her, an Englishwoman, in his life? And if so, in what capacity? He would not want an English wife, most certainly. Not when he'd disavowed his English heritage and turned his back on his mother's people. Not when he blamed her fellow Europeans for the murder of his parents and the rape of his country.
Besides, it was presumptuous of her even to think Jafar might take her for his wife. He had never spoken of marriage or even love. And his duty required him to marry a noblewoman of his own country.
What had he meant by his cryptic remark? Alysson wondered. If you were truly my woman, you would not want to leave here. Was he saying she had a choice? But no, he would not let her decide whether to stay or go. He was the most possessive man she knew. What belonged to him would never be surrendered easily. He had never once made any mention of her release. That afternoon by the waterfall, Jafar had merely jested about playing her slave for a few hours.
And as satisfying as it had been to have him at her mercy during their erotic lovers' games, she hadn't forgotten that any power she enjoyed over him was totally at his discretion, because he allowed it. Nor could she forget that Jafar had vowed she would call him master someday.
That was not the kind of relationship she wanted with him. She wanted them to be equals, not master and slave. But then, her wishes hardly mattered. In fact, she was slowly, painfully, coming to the realization that her happiness belonged to Jafar, whether she wanted it so or not.
And despite her uncle's warning that she had no future here with Jafar, Alysson feared that it no longer mattered. Lamentably, she had little pride left. She might even have remained with Jafar as his mistress, if only he had asked.
But he didn't ask.
The week following their magical afternoon of lovemaking was a time of torment and confusion for Alysson as she struggled with her feelings for Jafar. Self-respect alone kept her from confessing her love for him. How piteous a figure she would cut if she begged him to allow her to stay and he refused. Or if he grew tired of her and turned to another woman. She couldn't bear his pity or his disinterest. And so she remained silent, as did he.
She would have liked to ride off her frustrations and uncertainties on the back of a swift horse, but the weather turned cold and ugly—the bone-chilling slashing rain of late November. More to the point, Jafar had forbidden her to ride without his accompaniment. It seemed that a lion was stalking the hills, preying on livestock, and Jafar did not want her exposed to such danger. Alysson would have argued, but on the subject of her safety, Jafar was adamant. After her near-death from the scorpion's sting, he was not inclined to risk her life again.
It was nearly the end of November, by her calculations, when she was forcibly reminded that not only her future was at stake, but Jafar's as well. Alysson had gone up to the rooftop to be alone when she spied a large crowd of black-robed men gathering in the village arena. Suddenly uneasy, she hurried downstairs and found Mahmoud.
The boy was nearly the only male present in the house.
The tribal council was meeting to vote on Jafar's impeachment, but Mahmoud was too young to attend.
Alysson turned pale when she heard the news, but she squared her shoulders in determination.
"I mean to attend the council meeting, Mahmoud. Will you accompany me?" Even as she spoke, she turned and strode quickly across the courtyard.
"You? But you are a female, lallah!"
"What does that have to say to anything?" she replied impatiently,
walking so fast that Mahmoud had to scurry to catch up.
"It is not permitted for a woman to attend without invitation."
Hearing his shuffling gait, Alysson paused to wait for him. "I mean to speak in your lord's defense, with or without an invitation. But I need you to act as my translator. Now, will you come with me or not?"
The boy's scarred features showed an agony of indecision—whether to defy the lord but act in his best interests. "Oh, lallah, I dare not," he said finally.
"Then I shall go alone."
That settled it; Mahmoud went.
The warriors guarding Jafar's house allowed her to pass without challenge, but as she approached the crowd, Alysson slowed her pace and drew the hood of her burnous forward to hide her face.
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