Lord of Desire (48 page)

After the battle, he'd searched for Alysson's uncle among the dead and injured, and found him seriously wounded, enough to warrant immediate care. Coming to a swift decision, Jafar had given the order for the elderly gentleman and the Indian servant to be escorted back to the encampment. He had seen the questioning looks on the faces of his men at his decision; they were puzzled and disgruntled by the command to welcome a Frenchman into their midst. But they would not dare to dispute him.

It was perhaps not the wisest action to have taken, but he would make the same decision again. The old man's life would have been gravely endangered on the long march back to Algiers, without rest and proper care.

"Accursed fool," Jafar swore at himself softly, bleakly. Two months ago he would not have regretted the death of one more Frenchman. But that was before he had met Alysson Vickery. The aid he had rendered to her wounded uncle he had given for her sake. He knew enough about her to be aware of the deep love she bore for her uncle. And after all the pain and despair he had brought her, he was determined to give her this much.

Alysson.

Resolutely, Jafar closed his eyes, trying to banish the haunting images of his young captive. Yet he couldn't forget his first sight of her
tonight . . .
all sleep-tousled and ar- ousingly beautiful, despite the lines of fear on her pale face. Had any of that fear been for him? Had she been even the least bit anxious about him? Or was he only imagining the relief in her eyes when she'd looked at him through a mist of tears.

He hadn't imagined her concern for her uncle, though. Her distress over the elderly man's injury was palpable. Seeing it, Jafar had found himself fighting a fierce yearning, the wish that she would care that much for
him.
When he'd seen the tears streaming down her face, all he'd wanted was to take her in his arms and soothe her pain. Pain he had caused.

Those tears had scalded his conscience, a fiercely unwelcome emotion considering how he'd already flayed himself with guilt and disgust for turning his blade aside at the final moment.
For not having the will to carry out his plan of vengeance.

Why,
why
had he abandoned his vow?

There was only one answer.
Alysson.
That, too, he had done for her sake. Because of her, he had spared the life of the man she loved. Because of her, he had disHonoréd his Berber name, his birthright.

Jafar's fists clenched convulsively. It was what he had always feared, what he had struggled against for years,
his
English blood taking preeminence over his Berber heritage. Never, though, had he dreamed he would break the blood oath he'd held as dear as his own life.

And now, Jafar thought bitterly, now he was left to face the enormity of his failure. He had betrayed both his vow and his tribe. Most of all he had betrayed his father's memory. And he would have to pay the price.

Despite his current position as his tribe's overlord, he would be required to answer for his actions. His was a democratic society, but Berber warriors followed only a man they respected or feared. It was not his way to inspire through fear, though. He was not some petty despot, to force obedience by might of arms. If he could not command the loyalty of his tribe by merit, then he did not want to rule.

But then, perhaps he did not deserve to rule now, after letting his blood enemy live—

"Jafar?"

His head came up abruptly; he hadn't heard Alysson's soft tread.

When he swung around and locked gazes with her, she was startled by the dark emotion shadowing his features. His lean face bore the marks of suffering.

"What is it?" she asked in alarm, moving quickly across the chamber to his side.

Immediately his expression became shuttered, his eyes lidded, withdrawn, secretive.

Her own eyes bright with concern, Alysson reached up to touch his stubbled cheek, wanting to comfort him.

It was the first spontaneous caress she had ever given him. It was a gesture of simple compassion.

Jafar abruptly drew back, as if her touch might wound him.

Alysson slowly let her hand drop, feeling dread return to curl in her stomach. When she searched Jafar's hard face, she could find no trace of the gentleness she'd once seen there. She knew she should demand at once to be told what had happened to Gervase, but it was a subject she couldn't bring herself to broach. The truth was she was afraid.
Afraid to face the possibility that Gervase was dead, that Jafar was responsible.
And so cravenly she continued to put off the question.

A tense silence stretched between them . . . Alysson not knowing what to say to the hard, enigmatic man standing before her, Jafar waiting for her to ask about the fate of her fiancé. He could read the unasked question in her eyes:
What of Gervase? What have you done to him?

Jafar's fingers slowly clenched into fists as he fought the onslaught of stinging jealousy.
He should tell her, of course. He should allay her fears at once and let her know that her beloved Gervase was unharmed. But he couldn't bring himself to say the words, for then he would see her love for his archenemy confirmed in her eyes.

But her question, when it finally came, was not about Gervase de Bourmont.

"Why have you brought my uncle here?" Alysson asked quietly.

It provided only marginal relief to Jafar that she hadn't voiced her fears about Bourmont. He did not want to discuss her uncle, either, or his reason for bringing the elderly Frenchman here. For doing so would be to expose his weakness, his vulnerability.
Alysson herself.

Fortunately, as a Berber warlord, he was not compelled to give her his reasons. He was still her captor; she was still his to command.

Jafar turned away abruptly, impatiently striding across the carpets to the bedchamber.

Alysson followed. At the curtain, she paused, watching as he began unbuckling his elaborately embossed sword and scabbard. "Why, Jafar?"

"Because it was my wish."
The words were harsh, gritted out between his teeth.

She hesitated, struggling to fathom his anger. "Jafar,
please . . .
my uncle is an old man . . . and now he's severely wounded. Have you no pity?"

He cursed softly, while his fierce gaze sliced to hers. "I showed him pity,
Ehuresh.
Would you rather I had left him to die on the battlefield?"

"No . . .
of course not."

Alysson twisted her fingers together in agitation. She was immensely grateful for the care Jafar had shown her uncle, but that couldn't ease her fears about how Honoré would fare as his prisoner.

She took a deep breath. She would not plead for herself, but she would pay any price to spare her uncle the ordeal of captivity. Yet she had only one thing to offer that Jafar might want. She swallowed hard. Could she humble herself to become the consort, the concubine of this vengeful Berber lord, a man she didn't know—
But
she did know Jafar. She knew that sometimes he could be tender and caring. She knew he could be fierce and unforgiving. She hoped he could be merciful . . .

"You once wanted me in your bed," she
whispered,
her voice so low he could barely hear. "You said you wanted
me to submit to you.
Very well, then.
I will yield to you. I will call you master, whatever you
wish . . .
if you will only let my uncle go free."

Even in the faint light, she could tell she had struck a nerve, for Jafar's jaw suddenly hardened. But although he turned to stare at her, he still remained silent.

Alysson's gaze probed his anxiously, trying to read his granite expression. Did he no longer want her as his lover? The hardships of the past weeks could not have enhanced her physical charms, but Jafar's sexual desire for her once had seemed ardent enough to overlook her recent loss of weight now.

"Do you want me to beg, is that it?" Moving closer, Alysson came to stand directly before him. "Should I go down on my knees? I am not above begging you for my uncle's freedom, or that of my servant."

Startled by her offer, furious that she would consider humbling herself so, Jafar gazed down at her with glittering eyes. "My answer is no."

His face had darkened ominously, in a way that was almost frightening, but she wouldn't give up.

“Don't you understand? I am willing to bargain with you.
Their freedom in return for mine.
Release them and I will surrender to you of my own accord."

"A Berber warlord does not bargain with women!" he ground out, taking refuge in his position.

"In your culture, perhaps women have no power to bargain, but in mine it is done all the time! I mean it, I swear to you. It will be just as you wanted. I'll bow to your will. I won't defy you any longer."

His expression was no longer shuttered now. There was raw emotion in his eyes; his stance was rigid, his face drawn as though in pain.

And it was pain.
Pain and guilt.
He should release her, Jafar knew. An honorable man would have done so at once. Yet he couldn't bring himself to let Alysson go—for reasons he didn't want to admit even to himself.

Certainly, he had ample justification for continuing to hold her captive. Keeping Alysson and her uncle in his power would strengthen his bargaining position with the French. Yesterday at the battle's end, he'd taken the defeated
Bourmont prisoner, to be exchanged later for Arab prisoners of war. But until the negotiations were final, he couldn't afford to give up the slightest advantage. Moreover, his tribe would never sanction setting his European captives free without recompense. Not now. Not after his failure to carry out his blood oath.

They were flimsy rationalizations, Jafar knew, but they were preferable to acknowledging another, far more damning reason he had to keep Alysson here.

He couldn't bear to let her return to the arms of another man.

Especially one man, his blood enemy.

Jafar closed his eyes, his lips twisting at the bitter irony. He wanted to laugh at this trap he had devised for himself, but he couldn't find the remotest humor in his present circumstance. It was a situation he himself had made possible—by betraying his oath of vengeance. If he had carried out his vow as he should have, he would not now be facing this bitter dilemma.

Yet there was really no decision to be made. The one thing he was not capable of doing was letting Alysson leave him. She was his, by Allah,
his.