Lord of Desire (33 page)

Her hand trembled as she touched the knife hidden in her robe, but she left her fingers lying against the blade, needing the reassurance the cold steel gave her. Could she do it? Could she use the knife to stop him? Could she kill Jafar?

She was grateful when Mahmoud appeared to serve the evening meal, but the cold knot of tension in her stomach destroyed her appetite entirely. She merely toyed with her supper, all the while conscious of Jafar's intent gaze on her.

"It disturbs me that you are not eating,
ma belle,"
he said finally. "You cannot afford to lose much weight."

Alysson was in no mood to suffer his amused taunting. "Why don't you go to the devil and leave me alone?"

He eyed her with calm self-control. "Finish your food. It might improve your disposition."

The food didn't help, however. She managed to choke down a few bites, but they only churned in her stomach.

When she pushed away her plate, Jafar gestured to the servant to clear away the dishes. Mahmoud, salaaming deeply, obeyed and then left for the evening.

"I understand Mahmoud neglected his duties this morning in order to entertain you," Jafar said, sipping his coffee.

The probing note of query in his tone made Alysson eye him warily. Was that an accusation? Was Jafar fishing for details? Or had he already learned from his servant about her vocabulary lesson that morning, the way he seemed to learn of everything else that occurred in his camp?

"It was nothing
so
enjoyable as entertainment," she replied cautiously. "Mahmoud was only teaching me your language."

"I didn't think you would put yourself to so much trouble."

Alysson shrugged, trying to hide the tension rioting within her. "I was bored."

"Or intent on gaining an advantage over us ignorant savages?"

"Can you blame me if I was? You said a wise man learns the language of his enemy."

"Indeed." Hard golden eyes challenged gray. "It is a wise strategy. But your knowledge of our language will make no difference to the outcome of your captivity. You will not escape me. And you would do better not to try."

His soft warning echoed in the close confines of the tent. Alysson stared at him, her heart pounding. Did he know about the knife?

The uneasy silence stretched between them until Alysson thought her nerves would shatter.

To her bewilderment, then, Jafar shifted his position and returned to reading his journal. He had presented his back to her, leaving himself wholly, carelessly, vulnerable to attack.

She watched him for a long while, indecision warring within her.

Her mouth dry, Alysson reached inside the folds of her robe to grasp the handle of the dagger. If she could get near enough to him, if she could move closer on the pretext of searching for a book, perhaps, it would be relatively simple to drive the blade into his back, deep, between the shoulder blades.

The hand holding the dagger suddenly grew slick with sweat. The thought of how easily that sharp point would slide into his flesh made her sick.

Shutting her eyes, Alysson mentally railed at herself. How could she be such a coward? She had killed wild game before. She had shot tigers in India, wild boars in Russia. Once she had even brought down a rabid wolf.

And this desert chieftain was no better than that wolf. Any capacity for compassion or forgiveness he might once have possessed had been eaten
up,
destroyed, by his need for revenge.

But even the knowledge of his ruthlessness wasn't enough. With a feeling akin to despair, she realized she couldn't bring herself to do it. She couldn't kill a man this way. Not him. Not in cold blood.

Releasing a ragged breath, she eased her hand away from the dagger. She would have to think of another way. She would have to wait until Jafar was sleeping and then use the dagger to free herself from her bonds. If she were lucky, she could manage to steal from the tent, take one of the horses, and be miles away before Jafar awoke. If she were not . . .

No, she wouldn't consider the consequences of failure.

Slowly, Alysson wiped her palm on the skirt of her robe, ridding it of dampness. She had made her decision—a decision that strangely relieved her.

Now she could only pray.

She lay in the darkness, listening to the soft even sound of Jafar's breathing, and watching the faint red-gold light from the brazier's coals dancing upon the tent walls.

Two hours ago, when Jafar as usual had given her time alone to prepare for bed, she had hidden the dagger beneath the edge of the pallet. It had been all she could do to pretend disinterest as Jafar tied the silken cord around her ankle. It had been even harder to pretend sleep, to lie there beside him as if every nerve in her body was not taut with apprehension. Yet she had to wait until she was certain her movements would not awaken him.

She let another hour pass, each minute seeming like an eternity. Then, finally, she slid her hand stealthily beneath the pallet to retrieve the dagger.

The smooth wooden handle felt cool against her clammy palm as she drew it out. Jafar didn't stir.

She waited another long moment, her heart thrumming an erratic rhythm. Taking a deep breath, then, Alysson slowly eased herself into a sitting position. Furtively, she stole a glance at Jafar. He hadn't stirred. His naked chest rose and fell in a relaxed rhythm.

Not daring to breathe, she leaned forward to cut her bonds, pushing aside the blanket and slipping the blade in the space between their ankles. With infinitely careful strokes, she managed to slice the cord that bound her to Jafar.

Some instinct warned
her the
instant before he moved; the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. Panicking, she tried to bolt, yet her desperate lunge wasn't enough to save her. In a startling swift motion, Jafar snaked an arm around her waist and jerked her backward, into his arms.

The next moment he shifted his weight and rolled over her. Before she could even cry out, Alysson found herself pinned beneath his lean body, his fingers clamped around the hand that held the dagger.

Too shocked to utter a sound, she stared into the feral gold eyes glittering down at her. In the faint light, she could make out the hard, chiseled face, the strong flared nostrils,
the
glint of white teeth.

And what she read in his savage expression terrified her. So did his gently whispered, "A grave mistake,
chérie."

His hand slid to her throat, resting lightly on the vulnerable exposed curve, his fingers capable of tightening to a stranglehold. His other hand pried loose the dagger and
tossed it the width of the chamber, out of reach. "You should never have hesitated when you had the chance to kill me.
"

His tone, so harsh and cold, made her want to tremble. "I w-
wasn't.
. . going to use the knife on you," she murmured, ashamed of the way her voice quavered.

Jafar's gaze narrowed ominously. "No? Why not, I wonder? I gave you ample opportunity, all evening long. I expected you to strike any time these past few hours."

A breath caught in Alysson's throat.
He had known.
Somehow he had known about the dagger she had stolen. And he had been waiting for her to make her move.

Forcing back her trepidation, she raised her trembling chin. Never would she admit to him that she hadn't had the courage to kill him. "I am not a murderer, like you are!"

It was the wrong thing to say. His grip loosening, Jafar's hand skimmed downward over the sheer white linen of her chemise, coming to rest threateningly on the swell of her breast.
"How foolish of you to disregard my warnings."
His touch remained gentle, almost a caress, but it raised gooseflesh on her skin; she could feel his simmering anger. "By now you should know better than to challenge your master."

"You are not my master," she hissed through gritted teeth.

"Yes," he replied almost as fiercely, "I am your master, my proud beauty. And it is long past time you were taught that lesson."

Alysson stared at him, a new fear dawning on her. "What . . . do you mean to do?"

His eyes held hers in the darkness. "Aren't you woman enough to know?"

His whisper, harsh yet sensual, sent a strange thrill quivering down her spine.
Yet seeing the smoldering coals in his eyes, feeling the masculine arousal of his body that pinned hers down, she could have no doubt as to his meaning. Tonight, he would become her lover. It was to be her punishment for defying him.

Alysson went pale with shock. "No . . ." she pleaded as she began to struggle ineffectually against him.

He caught her flailing arms, pressing his body harder

against
hers. "Yes, my fierce tigress. You will learn to obey me.
Now.
Tonight."
Jafar hesitated, gazing down at her. "And before the night is over," he said, lowering his head slowly, "you will learn about pleasure."

"No!" she cried again, just before he covered her defiant lips with his own.

It was a stunning assault. It was a seizure that punished, that dominated her mouth with a dangerous and cruel sensuality. His tongue, like a hot dagger, stabbed past her lips to invade the recesses of her mouth, thrusting deep to overwhelm her resistance.

Shaken, dazed, Alysson could scarcely find the strength to fight him. If a woman could be ravished by a single
kiss, that
was what Jafar was doing to her. Completely and irrevocably, he claimed her, in an invasion that held such intimacy she found it hard to breathe. With almost practiced detachment he set about subduing her, mastering her. Ruthlessly he learned the taste of her and forced her to learn the taste of him. She could feel the anger making his body taut, yet in some dim recess of her mind, she knew he was using her not only to vent his fury, but also because he desired her.