Lord of Desire (27 page)

It was at one of these moments that Alysson felt a quiet presence beside her. Mahmoud, to her surprise, had paused in his work and come out to observe the warriors with her. He, too, was watching Jafar's performance with rapt attention.

"I wish I could ride like that," Alysson murmured a short while later, not aware that she'd spoken until she heard Mahmoud's soft scoffing sound.

"Females do not ride war-horses," he pronounced with a masculine certainty that was almost smug.

Alysson couldn't help the wry retort that sprang to her lips. "Females generally don't shoot firearms or engage in swordplay, either, but I am skilled at both."

The boy flashed
her a
highly skeptical glance, but she merely returned a disarming smile before focusing her gaze on the horses again. What would it be like to race, wild and free, across the desert plains on one of those magnificent Barbary steeds? With the wind in her hair—

"You can fight with swords?" Mahmoud asked in the same tone of wonder he'd shown when she'd claimed she never beat her servants.

"I know how to wield a rapier and can hold my own in a match with many of my male acquaintances, yes. Does that shock you?"

"Yes. You are a very strange lady," Mahmoud said slowly in bemusement.

That brought a ripple of laughter to her lips. "So I've been told."

"Have you killed many men?"

Alysson drew a sharp breath, taken aback by the eagerness of the child's question. "Not a one, I'm afraid. Have you?"

"No," Mahmoud said sadly.

He fell silent then, while Alysson wondered what she might say to draw the boy out. "Can you ride a war-horse?" she asked finally.

That seemed to strike the right note, for Mahmoud's face brightened. "I can ride all the horses of our tribe," he answered with pride.
"Even the lord's, though he does not permit me to ride the black.
I can do many, many tricks. My leg loses the weakness—" Abruptly the child stopped,
as if realizing he'd said too much. "I know how to ride," he continued, his tone suddenly sullen again.

"I would like to see you someday," she said, keeping her tone casual, knowing better than to press.

Mahmoud shrugged his bony shoulders, saying as he turned away, "If the lord permits."

Disatisfied with her slow progress, Alysson regretfully watched him go, while his last comment echoed in her ears.
If the lord permits.
It always came back to that, she thought with a sigh. But the lord evidently did not intend to permit her to do much of anything.

She sat there for a long while, watching the horsemen until they finally disbanded and the usual stillness of the desert
was
restored. All around her, the camp still bustled with activity as the Berbers prepared for evening, but Alysson ignored it, instead focusing her gaze on the distant horizon.

The red glory of the setting sun was magnificent, awe- inspiring. Seeing the rippling dunes and ridges of golden sand like this, in the fading rosy light, Alysson remembered what had fascinated her so about this region and made her long to explore it. This was a lonely land . . . vicious, cruel
. . .
yet it possessed a mysterious sensuality that seemed to beckon to everything that was wild and free-spirited in her. She could fall in love with this country so easily . . .

The wistful thought was shattered by the soft plod of a horse's hooves nearby. Glancing up, Alysson saw that Jafar had returned to the tent with his black stallion.

When he was but a yard away, he drew the horse to a halt, yet he sat there unmoving, staring down at her. Alysson froze. His amber eyes were warm and dark as they silently appraised her. She was wearing one of the rich tunics she'd been given, a robe of deep blue-and-red striped linen, with a soft haik of matching blue covering her hair.

His gaze roamed over her headdress, her face, her shoulders . . . then dropped lower. Alysson felt herself trembling. He was staring directly at her breasts, his eyes so intense, so
warm,
she felt the invading heat through the fabric of her robe to the bare flesh beneath. He was remembering that moment a week ago, she knew. The moment when he'd caressed her breasts with his hot mouth. His eyes
were touching her now just as his lips had done then. Her breasts swelled painfully at the memory, the hardening nipples pressing against the soft linen.

Her heart thundering, Alysson helplessly endured his silent scrutiny, unable to turn away. Finally, Jafar's gaze lifted to capture hers. The shock of meeting his hungry, sensual look almost stole her breath away.

It took all the willpower she possessed to force herself to break contact with his heated gaze. Defensively she uncurled her legs and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself, yet she still quivered with the tension that had coiled in her body at his sensual appraisal.

It was then that Alysson remembered they weren't alone. Saful had risen to his feet and was respectfully awaiting his lord's command.

With a creak of saddle leather, Jafar dismounted and turned the reins over to the equerry, while Alysson watched warily. Unbuckling the silver scabbard that sheathed the long sword at his waist, he handed the weapon to Saful,
then
turned to enter the tent.

Without a word, Alysson pulled back to allow him to pass, keeping her gaze averted. She sensed, rather than saw, Jafar's frown of displeasure, and was relieved when he didn't stop but continued past her, into the tent.

Shaken from the disturbing encounter, she turned her attention back to the distant horizon, staring at the darkening landscape, feeling again the grim loneliness of the desert.

How could she? Alysson berated herself. How could she allow a mere look from Jafar to affect her so? How could her treacherous body react to his merest glance, against her will? How
was it
possible to be physically attracted to a man who was nothing more than a desert heathen?

She had no right to feel such wanton sensations for such a man. He was her captor, merely that. To even think of Jafar in any other terms was a betrayal of Gervase. Gervase, whose friendship and respect meant so very much to her.

Alysson closed her eyes at the feelings of guilt welling up in her. The elaborately decorated sword Jafar had worn just now had done nothing to quiet her inner turmoil, for seeing it had only roused a memory of Gervase, on one of the many occasions she'd seen him wearing a sword.

It was the first time Gervase had kissed her. The first time he'd looked at her as a woman, instead of a provoking child—just after her disastrous experience with the fortune hunter when she was sixteen, after she'd fled school in humiliation and taken refuge with Honoré in France.

Gervase had been in Paris on furlough and had called at their hotel within hours of their arrival. Alysson had come upon him unawares as he awaited her uncle in their private parlor.

She thought Gervase looked dashing in his dress uniform, a feathered shako on his dark head, a glittering saber at his side, but she couldn't resist the chance to provoke him. While his back was toward her, she tiptoed up behind him and drew his saber from its sheath.

Gervase whirled, his hand clasping the empty scabbard. When he saw Alysson grinning up at him, his startled expression turned into a smile twisted by annoyance.
"Alysson, you little wretch!
Is this how you greet me after three months?"

Giving him a saucy curtsy, she flourished his saber in the air.
"How do you do, Gervase.
Thank you for the loan of your sword. I shall return it shortly—I merely want to borrow it for a while.''

"Good heavens, why?"

"There is someone I intend to run through."

He laughed. "Is that so, my bloodthirsty minx? And just who is this unfortunate devil who has so earned your displeasure?"

"Merely a scoundrel who coveted my money more than my person," she replied, hiding the raw hurt and bitterness she felt.

"I cannot imagine any gentleman failing to succumb to your feminine charms," Gervase replied with no little irony.

At her sudden scowl, he abandoned his sarcasm and swept her a gallant bow. "Tell me the name of the dastard who has offended you and I will accomplish the task for you."

"I can do it myself, thank you very much!"

"I don't doubt it. Your Uncle Oliver has turned you into a formidable gladiator."

"Uncle Oliver has had little to do with it. I paid for
fencing and shooting lessons myself. As my trustee, he only had to approve."

"Regardless, with your skill at arms, I would do well to hire you to defend my regiment."

She managed to laugh at his left-handed compliment, and when he held out his hand commandingly, surrendered the saber to him. "Ah, well, I suppose I can always shoot the villain instead."

Sheathing the weapon, Gervase ruffled her curls good- naturedly, as he'd done a hundred times before. She made a face at him and was about to pull away when his hand suddenly stilled on her hair.

His smile faded as he stood looking down her with a strange expression, almost as if he had never seen her before. Slowly then, as if against his will, he bent toward her and pressed a light kiss on her lips, the merest brush of pressure.

Shocked, Alysson brought her fingers to her mouth and stared up at him.

"You've grown up,
coquine,"
Gervase whispered . . .

The tender
memory of that long-ago kiss
haunted Alysson now as she stared out at the shadowy desert. That first kiss of Gervase's had startled her, flattered her, but it hadn't shaken her. Not the way the unwanted caresses from her Berber captor had done.

What vital element was missing in Gervase's kiss that was not missing in Jafar's? Why had a ruthless stranger been able to arouse her passion so easily, in a way Gervase never had? How could she feel such inappropriate desire for one man and absolutely none for the other?