Lord of Desire (28 page)

She sighed, wishing she could banish her disturbing thoughts.

Behind her, within the tent, Jafar heard her sigh but attempted to ignore it. At the moment he was wrestling with his own haunting thoughts.

He understood quite well his own feelings of desire, and the cause: his bewitching captive. The pleasure of seeing her graceful figure draped in the robes of his country . . . the gratification of finding her sitting at the entrance to his tent, as if waiting for his
return . . .
the pain of sleeping next to her night after night without being able to touch her
. . .
the memory of having her melting in his arms for one brief moment.

He couldn't cease remembering the exquisite triumph of his momentary possession, or the delight he'd felt when she had responded to him with passion, or how captivating she'd looked. Her body pale as ice and beautifully mysterious, her nipples rising like jeweled ornaments to his touch . . .

He wanted to taste again the delectable warmth of her breasts on his tongue, to experience the riveting sweetness of her kisses, to absorb the inner fire and spirit of the woman herself.

And his desire was affecting his judgment, Jafar knew. Again and again he found himself wanting to neglect his many duties. From the moment he first woke each morning, he found himself reluctant to leave her side. Watching Alysson sleep, seeing her tumbling chestnut hair flowing across his pillow had a strange, unsolicited effect on him, arousing
a protectiveness
, a tenderness in him, in addition to the hunger. If not for his responsibilities, he could have spent hours lying there with her, simply to be near.

And when he was away, he looked forward to the end to the day when they could be alone together. Which was rather absurd, Jafar thought dryly, considering the extreme hostility of their relationship. In his company, his lovely young captive either ignored him entirely or treated him to a bout of simmering, mutinous silence.

This was new to him, this overpowering need to be with a woman.
Certainly one who did not want him in return, one who belonged to another man.

He had never denied himself for any other woman, either. The mornings were worst. It would be so
easy
to take her while she slept, to roll over and glide into her slowly, to lose
himself
in her sweet heaven.

But he wanted her willing. He wanted to
effect
her surrender without conquering her pride. He wanted to teach her the meaning of pleasure. Most of all, he wanted to make her forget that she had ever been betrothed to Gervase de Bourmont, his hated enemy.

And that last, more than anything else, was very likely an unattainable possibility.

Chapter 8

H
umility did not come easily to Alysson, but for the sake of her own sanity, she decided that night to swallow her pride and ask Jafar if she could occasionally be allowed to ride. She chose a moment when they were alone, when she thought he would most likely be amenable to her request. The supper dishes had been been cleared away and Mahmoud had withdrawn for the evening.

Surreptitiously, Alysson sipped her coffee and watched Jafar. He was reading, stretched out lean and catlike on the pillows, his newspaper angled to catch the light from the lamp. He subscribed regularly to the French journals, it seemed; she had read every issue in the tent twice during the past week, simply to keep herself occupied, even though some were outdated by nearly a month.

It surprised her that a Berber warlord was interested in the news from France. But then he was a surprising man, Alysson admitted. She never knew quite what to expect from him—whether she would encounter the savage desert chieftain or the suave, educated gentleman. At the moment he looked almost civilized. He had removed his turban, and a few strands of his hair fell loosely about his face, sun- streaked honey and amber in the lamplight. Except for his sun-darkened complexion, he might pass for European, she decided. Perhaps that was the basis for his seeming oddly familiar to her.

The glow of the lamp softened the lean hardness of his features, creating an effect that was both disturbing and deceptive; it made him look younger, and far
more gentle
than she knew he was. And yet he
could
be gentle, Alysson reflected, recalling the tenderness of his kisses and the shameful way she had nearly surrendered to him. Abruptly
Alysson shook herself. Thinking of that only pummeled her already raw nerves.

"Why do you read those journals?" she asked suddenly, as much to take her mind off the disquieting man before her as to initiate a conversation.

Jafar looked up, one eyebrow lifted, as if surprised that she had addressed him. It was the first time in days that Alysson had spoken voluntarily to him.

"I like to keep abreast of what is happening in France," he replied after a moment.

"Why?"

"So that I know what the French intend for my country, now that they have become our conquerors."

"Is that how you learned to speak French so fluently?
By reading the journals?"

He shrugged.
"That and other means.
A wise man learns the language of his enemy."

Alysson almost pursued this line of conversation, but decided she didn't want to become involved in his concerns. All she wanted was to be set free . . . and to see him pay for abducting her.

"I have a request," she declared, changing the subject rather abruptly. “I should like to be allowed to ride for an hour or two each day."

He regarded her at length, taking a long while before he answered, "Why?"

"Because I need the distraction.
I'm going mad here with nothing to do. I am not accustomed to being idle all day long, nor am I accustomed to having to beg for the least courtesy."

"Has not Mahmoud seen to your needs?"

"Yes, of course, but you haven't permitted me even the slightest freedom! I am never allowed out, never allowed any company but yours—and that hardly constitutes scintillating companionship."

"I will send some of the women in the camp to visit you, perhaps Tahar—"

"Thank you," Alysson muttered grudgingly, "but I need
exercise
. "
When he didn't answer, she lost the careful control she'd been keeping on her tongue. "Have you any notion of how excruciating it is to be imprisoned here day
after day? To have nothing to do all day long except pace the floor and worry about when you will ever again see your family, your loved ones, your country?"

A muscle flexed in his jaw, but he remained calm in the face of her anger. "I will consider your request," Jafar said finally.

"Why can you not give me an answer now? Are you afraid I will try to escape if you let me ride?''

His smile was brief. "The thought had occurred to me."

The thought had occurred to her, too, but Alysson was not about to admit it. She managed to shake her head scoffingly. "It would be suicide for me to attempt an escape in the middle of the desert. Where could I possibly go?"

"At the moment, you may go to bed. It is time to retire."

She stared at him, her eyes suddenly bright, glistening with frustration. "Damn
you . . ."

Forcibly, Alysson bit her lip, clamping back the curses she wanted to throw at him. She would not,
would not,
allow him to infuriate her to the point that she said or did something rash. Nor would she plead with him. She would not humiliate herself by begging, as apparently he meant for her to do.

To her amazement, though, Jafar granted at least part of her request.

The following morning her blue-eyed guard Saful appeared, carrying his long-barreled rifle, and with gestures and some words of Arabic that she knew, he made her understand that she was to accompany him. For several hours then, Saful escorted her all around the city of black tents— the
douar,
as she learned the Berber encampment was called. Savoring her first taste of freedom in over a week, Alysson found it all fascinating, but still she was careful to view her surroundings with an eye for escape.

The tents were generally arranged in a large circle, while the horses and pack animals were kept within the protected boundary. Outside the circle, Alysson saw the artesian well that supplied the camp with fresh water, and the sandy depression that served as a latrine. She had expected as much, for none of the Arab tents shed ever been in had possessed sanitary facilities. Except Jafar's, Alysson reflected. The presence of the chamber pot in his only confirmed her belief

that
he'd carefully planned her abduction. He hadn't wanted her to have any reason to leave his tent.

He hadn't wanted her to dress in breeches either, Alysson surmised, for her European clothing had never been returned to her. But despite the fact that she was dressed much like the other women, in a long belted tunic and haik, she drew curious looks from everyone in the camp—looks that she returned.

The Berbers were a handsome people, she decided. Most of the men she saw possessed the same fine aquiline features as Jafar, though many of them wore beards.

Some of the Berber men had wives to see to their needs, she concluded, but there was a cooking tent where the meals for the soldiers and servants were prepared by the women of the camp. When Saful allowed her to pause at the cooking tent, Alysson saw Tahar at work with some dozen other
woman
.

"Ehla,"
Tahar said with a shy smile. "Welcome."