Lord of Desire (32 page)

"Allah is merciful," he said tauntingly. "He has seen fit to bless me with a model captive."

Her only response was a narrow-eyed glance over her shoulder.

"A silent woman is unique in my experience."

There was mockery in his tone and in his eyes. Alysson stiffened in fury. The scathing look she sent him could have torched wet kindling.

In response, Jafar slowly strode across the tent to her side. When he raised his hand to gently brush her cheek, though, Alysson recoiled from his caress.

"If you touch me, I swear I'll kill you!"

His golden gaze hardened. "You dare defy me?" he asked in a voice that was lethally quiet.

"Yes, I dare defy you, you . . . barbarian."

Deliberately, with careftil precision, he reached up and grasped her chin. Alysson cringed.

His eyes surveyed her flushed face, her frightened expression. "That would not be wise,
chérie.
For then I would have to punish your defiancé."

Holding her breath, Alysson quivered with outrage and fear and something else that she didn't want to name.

"Perhaps," Jafar added softly, his gaze dropping to her trembling lips, "I should punish you with kisses, since you profess to dislike them so much."

The desire that she had refused to acknowledge made her heart race and her skin turn
hot. "N-no . . ."
she whispered, but he didn't seem to hear. His fingers shifting, he stroked his thumb slowly over her lower lip, barely grazing the warm moist interior.

"Temellal,"
he murmured.
"My beauty."

I shall be your lover.
He hadn't spoken the words, and yet she heard the silent whisper. And, incredibly, she wanted to believe.

Her emotions in turmoil, Alysson stared at Jafar, trying to fathom the bewildering way he made her feel. How could she be so affected by a man she hated? How could she feel this unnerved, this feminine,
this
shivery? What gave him the power to make her knees so weak, to make her heart
hammer so? What gave him the ability to shatter her firmest resolve with merely a look from his hot, amber eyes?

Try as she might, she couldn't prevent what his nearness did to her, or ignore the stunning awareness she felt for this man. All she could do was
remember
how he had once kissed her—the heat of his mouth, the masculine taste of him, the tender skill of his hands. Jafar overwhelmed her with sensations, made her forget who she was, who he was. He made her own body betray her. She
wanted
him to kiss her again, to touch her, to take her in his arms . . .

"No," she whispered again, desperation giving her the strength to protest.

His expression was gentle, his stroking touch erotic,
his
tone low and husky as he murmured, "You should thank me,
Temellal,
for taking you away from Bourmont. He is no match for your intelligence or spirit. Nor is he
man
enough to make a woman of you."

The remembrance of Gervase, of the peril he was in, sent a wave of guilt flooding through Alysson.
Guilt for desiring Jafar.
Guilt for even momentarily forgetting her responsibility to Gervase, to her uncle, to her country, even.
It made her humiliatingly aware of how dangerously close she had been to succumbing to Jafar's sensual caress. With near- panic, she pulled away from his hold. "Don't talk to me of Gervase!" she nearly shouted at him. "You aren't fit to polish his boots!"

A muscle flexed in Jafar's jaw. He stared at her for a long moment before letting his hand fall, and turning, finally, left the tent.

Watching with fervent relief, Alysson set her teeth. She couldn't allow him to bait her like this. She couldn't allow him to use her this way, as his pawn, his instrument of revenge. She couldn't allow his vital male presence to overwhelm her senses.

She had to pull herself together. She had to think, to plan. She had to eat in order to keep up her strength. She had to sleep so she would have the energy to escape this fiend who had abducted her and who threatened the lives of those she loved. She had to discover any information she could about her captors which might give her even the slightest advantage.

With that objective in mind, she questioned Mahmoud later that afternoon about Jafar and his conflict with the French.

The conversation did not go smoothly. The moment she mentioned the French, Mahmoud cursed. "Zfft! May those sons of jackals live in misery and contempt!"

But she did manage to draw from the boy more details about his master. From what she could glean, Jafar was a powerful
amghar—
administrator of a large Berber tribe. He also held the additional title of
caid,
which meant he had been appointed by the Sultan of the Arabs, Abdel Kader, to act as the local official of the loosely organized Arab government.

Mahmoud's prideful disclosures only confirmed what Alysson already suspected. Jafar el-Saleh was a monolith of authority and fearlessness, a Berber chieftain who had taken the field for the freedom and independence of Algeria.

In all honesty, she couldn't blame Jafar for defying his enemy, the French. That she could understand. She even could almost admire his fortitude in the face of such vast odds. He was fighting for what he believed in, against oppression, against his country's conquerors.

It was his unwavering determination to exact revenge that tormented her. She couldn't bear to think that she might be the instrument of Gervase's death, or that of her beloved uncle.

She had to stop Jafar somehow.

But how?
His tribe's loyalty to their lord was unquestionable. It would be nearly impossible to bribe any of them, or persuade them to aid her.

After her disheartening discussion with Mahmoud, Alysson began to think she might never succeed in preventing Jafar from carrying out his vile plan. Quite against her normal optimistic nature, she found herself fighting an overwhelming sense of despair.

That, however, was before she stole the dagger.

It was the following afternoon, during her daily walk around the camp. She had spent the morning asking Mahmoud about the Berber language, and convincing him to teach her a few words. If she could learn enough to under
stand, Alysson hoped, she might be able to overhear some scrap of information that would be of use to her.

An apt pupil, she caught on quickly. By the time her blue- eyed Berber guard came to collect her for her walk, Alysson was able to surprise him by greeting him in his own language. And when during her tour she visited the camp's cooking tent where Tahar was busy with the other woman, she used the opportunity to practice her new skills. Tahar had called on her twice in the past few days, apparently on Jafar's orders, but with his threat against Gervase preying on her mind, Alysson had been too distracted to enjoy her budding friendship with the Berber woman.

Accepting the handful of parched chickpeas Tahar offered her to eat, Alysson asked questions as the women worked, determined to learn the Berber names for various objects. Her efforts at pronunciation earned both good-natured laughter and respect from the ladies, but after a time she could see Saful growing impatient as he waited by the entrance to the tent.

She was just about to leave when she spied the dagger— a small curved blade that had been used to carve the meat- lying on a platter. Her heartbeat burst into a savage rhythm. Was this the chance she had been waiting for?

Pretending to admire a dish, Alysson surreptitiously scooped up the knife and concealed it in a fold of her robe. Her heart still pounding, she shot a glance at her blue-eyed guard. He hadn't seen her.

Masking both her triumph and trepidation, she said farewell to Tahar, then continued her tour of the camp. By the time she returned to Jafar's tent, she was having difficulty controlling her nervousness, an agitation that only increased when Jafar didn't join her for the midday meal. She had managed to arm herself, but had yet to decide how to exploit her advantage.

The dagger could mean her freedom. She could use it to overpower her guard and steal a horse—but her escape no doubt would be immediately detected. No, she would be better off waiting till the camp was asleep for the night. Jafar would be the only one guarding her then.

And then what?

As she sat staring out at the Berber encampment, consid
ering the answer to that question, a dark shadow suddenly spread over the camp. Glancing up uneasily, Alysson realized the sun had disappeared behind a stormcloud.

A few moments later she received her first taste of rain in the desert, a fierce deluge that threatened to wash away the camp. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the downpour abated and the sun came out again, drawing the dampness in heavy steam-clouds from the reeking sand. In half an hour the streams and rivulets created by the storm had vanished, and the coating of desert mud was dry. After the earlier heat, though, the afternoon now seemed winter-cold.

Shivering, Alysson absently fingered the sharp blade hidden in her robes.

The real question was
,
could she bring herself to use it on another human being?

Could she kill Jafar?

Her opportunity came that evening, when Jafar returned. By that time, Alysson's nerves were worn to a fine edge, yet she still had not come to a decision.

She watched Jafar surreptitiously as he read one of his French journals before supper, her mouth tightening with annoyance and dismay at the picture he made. He looked even more attractive than usual tonight. Wearing a sky-blue djellaba—a long robe of fine wool—Jafar reclined on the cushions with assured masculine grace, his eyes firelighted with amber,
his
tawny hair gleaming in the lamplight.

Alysson studied him without wanting to, noting his lean
features . . .
the high cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw and mouth. They seemed faintly arrogant and savagely noble, and filled with determination. Jafar was quite capable of carrying out his diabolical plan for revenge, unless she could prevent him.