Lord of Desire (13 page)

His fierce embrace immediately eased.

Gasping for air, she closed her eyes in defeat. She lay there awkwardly, half-sitting, half-sprawling in her captor's lap, her face and right shoulder pressed against his chest, her heart still pounding. She refused to acknowledge the stinging tears that were running down her cheeks, yet as he urged the stallion into a walk, in pursuit of the mare, Alys- son's thoughts gave her no peace. What good had her attempt at escape done her? Not only hadn't she succeeded, but now she was required to suffer the indignity of sharing a mount with this savage brute. Her discomfort was acute. The Berber saddle was not fashioned to accommodate two riders. The high pommel was digging uncomfortably into her left thigh with each step the stallion took.

Gradually Alysson became aware of another sensation— a masculine warmth that brought heat rising to her face. She shifted abruptly, trying to sit up and thus avoid the hardness of the muscled thighs beneath her. But he prevented her from moving by tightening his arm around her waist and snapping a low command for her to be still.

Only when she quieted did he settle her more comfortably in his embrace—turning her slightly so that she faced more forward, drawing her hips back into the cradle of his thighs, cushioning her head in the curve of his shoulder. Despite his consideration, Alysson remained rigid in his arms, tense with anger and defiancé and a disquieting physical awareness of his body against hers. Quelling the urge to shudder at the shocking contact, she willed her erratic heartbeat to slow. She might be humiliated but not vanquished. He would not succeed in whatever scheme he had planned, she vowed. She would defy her ruthless captor at every turn, and somehow she would manage to escape.

Cherishing her smoldering thoughts, Alysson endured his embrace in silence. When they reached the mare, he bent down and gathered the dangling reins, the secured them to his saddle again. Immediately they resumed the swift pace of before, with the galloping stallion leading the now riderless mare.

They climbed once more, and when they topped a rocky hillock, the landscape abruptly changed again. It was no longer barren here, apparently because rainfall was more abundant. Soon they were riding through a cedar forest, the shadows cool after the heat of the afternoon.

Alysson found herself shivering—but not because of the temperature. Evening was fast approaching, and she found it harder and harder to hold on to her courage with the coming darkness.

She would have given her entire fortune to find herself back in Algiers, in the safe and civilized company of her uncle and her prospective fiancé, surrounded by the powerful French army. But money would not help her now; this savage Berber had already said so.

She should have listened to Chand. Hundreds of times her Indian servant had warned that she would land herself in dire trouble, but she hadn't heeded him.
And Gervase.
Only two nights ago he'd argued and pleaded with her not to undertake this expedition, but she hadn't listened. How she regretted that now!

Biting her trembling lip, Alysson glanced up at the stranger's face, surreptitiously studying him from beneath her lashes. His sun-hardened features gave no clue as to her fate. His expression was impassive and aloof.

As if he sensed her watching him, he looked down. Alysson was hard-pressed to control a shudder as his amber gaze clashed with hers. He seemed so merciless, so savage. What would he do to her, once it grew dark? Tearing her gaze away, she concentrated on keeping her fears at bay.

Jafar, too, looked away. The stains of tears on her pale cheeks had affected him more than he cared to admit. He hadn't wanted to hurt her—and he wouldn't, as long as he could maintain the upper hand without jeopardizing his mission. Steeling his heart against the insidious tenderness, he forced himself as well to ignore the arousing feel of soft woman, the feminine warmth that was proving a supreme test of his willpower.

The sun burned red and gold on the horizon when he finally brought the horses to a halt. “We will stop here for the night," he told her in a quiet voice.

Alysson opened her eyes and looked around her. They were in another valley, this one flat and treeless, and covered with rank shrub and grass. There was no house in sight, nor was there any sign of a tent. He meant to sleep out in the open, under the stars, she concluded. With effort she fought back her rising trepidation.

Even so, she flinched when his encircling arm tightened beneath her breasts.

Abruptly, his movement stilled. "I trust you don't intend to fight me again."

He had only intended to help her dismount, she realized, feeling awkward. Swallowing her apprehension, Alysson shook her head. She was too weary to fight. Her head ached dully and her neck had grown stiff, caught as it had been against the Berber's rock-hard shoulder.

Perhaps he sensed her exhaustion, for his movements were gentle as he eased her down from the stallion. Alysson sank to her knees right there where she landed, yet she kept her attention focused on her captor, watching him with wary unease as he dismounted. But he didn't approach her.

He saw to the horses instead, first hobbling them with woolen cords so they couldn't roam, then removing their bridles, then arranging a feed bag over the mare's nose. The stallion he fed by hand, offering it small portions of barley in the palm of his hand. Surprisingly, the spirited animal ate with dainty bites, displaying exquisite manners that would have been at home at a formal dining table. All the while the Berber spoke to the horse in his strange tongue, in a soft voice that was at odds with his ruthless treatment toward her.

Listening to the soft murmur, Alysson felt herself being lulled against her will. His voice was attractive and low, with a gentleness that was oddly comforting.

He felt a fondness for the noble
beast, that
was obvious. But the people of Barbary prized their
horses,
Alysson remembered hearing, cherishing them above any other possession. And the stallion was a magnificent animal, if a bit savage-looking. Its proudly arching neck, long well-shaped head, and fine tapering muzzle bespoke excellent bloodlines, while the liquid, wide-spaced eyes held both intelligence and courage.

Involuntarily her gaze shifted to the stallion's master. He had strong hands, with long slender fingers that possessed an austere beauty. He moved with an easy carriage, his body fluid and graceful beneath his black robes—

Abruptly Alysson jerked her disturbing thoughts to attention. She had to resist totally the compelling attraction this dangerous man held for her. It would never do to relax her guard even for a moment. She had to remain constantly alert.

Forcing her absurd musings back along safer channels, she watched as her captor removed the horses' saddles and accoutrements. As he began the task of grooming, her gaze fell on the long, silver-embossed rifle that he'd left leaning against the pile of saddlery. Hope suddenly flared within her. If she could only manage to reach the weapon and turn it on him before he could carry out whatever heinous plan he had for her . . . Yet she couldn't afford to give him the slightest hint of what she was considering.

She busied herself with the head scarf he had given her, unwinding it to settle around her shoulders. Then she began the task of repinning her hair that had escaped its knot and was wisping around her face. By the time the Berber was done grooming the horses, Alysson had her expression schooled to impassiveness.

She kept her attention fixed on her ruthless captor, instinctively tensing as he shed his burnous.

He spread it on the ground some ten yards from the horses. "You may sit here."

Alysson regarded him warily. Beneath his desert robe he wore a belted, thigh-length tunic, loose trousers, and soft leather boots. "Why?" Her tone was cautions, shaky.

"So you may eat. I don't intend to starve you. You needn't be afraid of me," he added when she remained silent.

"I am not afraid!" But it was a lie. She did fear him. Determinedly, though, Alysson raised her chin to stare at him, hiding her fright behind a brave front of hauteur.

One corner of his mouth curved wryly, but he didn't contradict her. Instead he sat cross-legged on his burnous and
unwrapped
a packet of food, removing a round, flat cake of what looked like unleavened barley bread and a chunk of what might have been goat's cheese.

"Come here and eat," he said softly.

Alysson felt her mouth watering. Until now she hadn't realized how hungry she was. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Disobeying his command, she remained where she was.

He ate in silence, ignoring her stubbornness. But his intent was clear. If she wanted to eat, she would have to go to him.

After a few moments, Alysson reevaluated her decision. It would be foolish to let fear or pride prevent her from assuaging her hunger, especially since she had to keep up her strength if she were to escape.

Swallowing her trepidation, she rose and went to him. Cautiously she knelt beside his burnous, prepared to flee at his slightest move. But he merely handed her a barley cake and a piece of cheese. A moment later he passed her the goatskin water bag.

Alysson chewed on the tough bread and watched him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes. With the onset of evening, his ruthless arrogance was not so noticeable. The waning golden light caressed his lean face, softening the high, proud cheekbones and the slashing grooves carved on either side of his mouth.

They finished the meager meal in silence. When he was done eating, the Berber turned his attention to the wound on his left arm, examining the crude dressing. Even from several paces away, Alysson could see the black bandage was crusted with dried blood.

Unexpectedly he raised his wounded arm, holding it toward her. "Would you untie the knot?"

Startled, Alysson stared at him. Her first reaction was to tell him to go to the devil. But it was obvious he would have difficulty managing on his own.

With poor grace she brushed the crumbs from her fingers and edged closer on her knees so she could attack the knot. Her movements were awkward and tense as she slowly peeled away the bandage. Through the rent in his tunic sleeve, she could see the groove in the flesh made by her bullet. The wound didn't appear dangerously deep, but she knew it had to be painful. When he rolled up his sleeve, though, to expose die bloody gash, he showed no sign of pain.

"It needs cleansing," he observed, his tone emotionless. He held out the goatskin bag to her. "Pour water on it."

Alysson balked at his obvious assumption that he could order her about. She was not his servant, to do his bidding. She stared at the bag, refusing to take it.

"This is your first lesson in obedience." It was said so calmly, with such deliberate blandness that it took her a moment to absorb his words. Her gaze flew to his. He was perfectly serious, she realized.

A dozen scathing remarks tumbled to be the first from her lips.
"You . . . you arrogant barbarian!
If you think for a moment that I . . . that
you . . ."
Furiously, she curled her fingers into fists.

"You caused the damage. Therefore you will be responsible for repairing it. It is the law of this land—just reparation for injuries done."

"I don't give a tinker's curse about your laws!"

A muscle in his jaw flexed. "No, you superior Europeans choose to ignore those not of your own making. But you will learn differently."