Lord of Desire (51 page)

She told her uncle and servant what she'd learned about Gervase.
but
afterward, Alysson lapsed into silence. As she stood waiting for the caravan to finish forming, she found herself growing impatient. Where was Jafar?

It was nearly twenty minutes later that she caught a glimpse of him, moving on foot toward her. She watched his approach with a new-felt tenderness in her eyes and
an eagerness
in her heart that caught her off guard.

And yet she shouldn't have been surprised by the depth of her feelings for him. For some time now she'd been increasingly aware of a truth she didn't want to acknowledge. She couldn't deny the longing she felt for Jafar.
The desire.
The love—

Abruptly, Alysson drew a labored breath. She didn't love Jafar. She couldn't. It was impossible. He was the man who held her captive, who had taken her uncle and Gervase prisoner.

And certainly he didn't cherish any such tender feelings for her. Color tinged her cheeks as the disturbing events of last evening came back to haunt her. She had humbled herself before Jafar last night, offering to submit to him willingly, to give him the use of her body. Not only had he refused, but when later she'd tried to kiss him, he had rejected her entirely, storming out of the tent as if he couldn't even bear to touch her. The memory made her acutely self- conscious. Biting her lip, Alysson wondered how she would find the courage to face him now.

When Jafar reached her, though, the sight of him startled her. His face was smooth-shaven now but carved by lines of weariness
that made her want to take him in her arms and soothe
away the pain. Apparently he had not passed a very restful night, either.

His hard golden gaze swept over her briefly, then moved to her uncle, who was lounging comfortably in the curtained litter. "You are ready to leave?"

"Yes," Alysson replied.

His gaze swung back to her. "I will help you mount."

His terse statement was a command that held no warmth. He gave her no time to protest, either, but caught Alysson around the waist and lifted her into the saddle.

Yet when Jafar had set her on her horse, she couldn't help reaching out to touch his lean cheek in a tender gesture. "Thank you . . ." she murmured, her throat tight with emotion.

He looked at her with a slight wariness.
"For what, mademoiselle?"

"For sparing Gervase's life."

Abruptly Jafar's expression turned savage. "I do not want your gratitude!"

The words were nearly a snarl as he spun on his heel and stalked off, toward the head of the column.

Startled by his vehemence and abrupt departure, Alysson watched Jafar's retreating figure with bewilderment. Belatedly, she remembered his express command not to mention Gervase's name in his hearing, and yet she didn't think that alone explained his anger toward her.

Beside her, Chand, who had not yet mounted, also gazed after Jafar. "I do not know why the Berber lord did this thing . . . sparing the Bourmont Sahib."

Helplessly Alysson shook her head. She did not know why either. In truth, she didn't understand anything about Jafar anymore.

"I do not believe the Jafar Sahib is as savage as I have judged him," Chand remarked thoughtfully.

"No," she answered, her expression softening. "I suppose not.''

The traveling conditions for the caravan shortly became very difficult. The limitless sand deepened into shifting dunes that formed high ridges, broken occasionally by thorn- scrub. The shimmering panorama of the desert abruptly ended to the west, however, where gaunt masses of cliff rose steeply and dipped away to the south. According to Mahmoud, who rode beside Alysson, this rugged and torn range was the Ouled Nail
mountains
.

As the morning progressed, Alysson began to wonder if she was seeing things, for nestled at the foot of the mountains was a mirage of dark groves and white minarets. It was with a sense of shock when, an hour later, she realized the vision was no mirage, but rather an oasis. During her captivity she had been only a few hours' ride from civilization! If she had known, she might have made good her escape, instead of nearly perishing in the desert.

Dismayed by the injustice of it, Alysson pressed her lips together and called herself a hundred kinds of fool for cherishing such tender feelings toward Jafar.

She could not sustain her ill humor, though, once they arrived. It was a huge oasis, boasting thousands of palms. Among the towering trees glistened white cupolas and the slim turrets of mosques, while higher up, on a yellow, rocky plain, stood a citadel overlooking the terraced mud-houses and narrow lanes of the town.

The beautiful oasis was called Bou Saada, Mahmoud informed her. "It bears the name 'Abode of Happiness,' " the boy said. Perhaps, Alysson suspected, because of the profusion of lush greenery and obviously productive land. The forests of date palms, crowned by dark green feathery leaves, were still partially laden with golden and coral clusters of dates. Prickly pears and oleanders also abounded, along with apricot, fig, and other fruit trees. Along the way, Alysson caught a glimpse of a riverbed, in which flowed a quiet stream, with thickets of tamarisk bushes lining the high bank.

Their caravan skirted the edge of the oasis, but Alysson was close enough to see that it bustled with activity and swarmed with people: Berbers, Jews, and Bedouin nomads.
Merchants, peasants, sheiks.
Women,
veiled and unveiled.

"Do not look, lady!"
Mahmoud exclaimed when Alysson found herself staring curiously at an old Berber woman who was chanting some strange song. "She is a
kahina,
a witch. It will bring grave misfortune to you and your kin to look so closely upon her."

Alysson smiled but refrained from comment, for Mahmoud obviously believed in the power of sorcery. Apparently it was true, as she'd been
told,
that the Berbers were even more superstitious than the Arabs.

"Is Bou Saada always this crowded?" she asked instead.

"It is possible, I do not know. I have visited here only once. Currently there is a festival in progress."

Intrigued by the prospect of a festival, Alysson feasted on the exotic sights and smells and sounds. Shortly, her attention was caught by shouts and the noise of bargaining, which she recognized as coming from a bazaar—a
suq,
as it was called in Arabic. Every village and oasis had one.

It was at this market, according to Mahmoud, that they would purchase provisions for the long journey to Jafar's mountain home.

Alysson would have enjoyed exploring the
suq,
but she was still weak and her energy was depleted after the long ride. She made no protest when they set up camp on the outskirts of the oasis.

Alysson saw to her uncle first. Honoré was in more than a little pain from the jostling he had received, even in his comfortable litter. She made certain Gastar gave him another sleeping potion,
then
returned to Jafar's tent to rest for the remainder of the afternoon. She immediately fell into a deep sleep.

She woke several
hours
later, feeling more refreshed than she had in days. By the time she was fully awake, though, her energy had returned in the guise of acute restlessness.

With no other way to dispel it, Alysson began pacing the tent floor, her thoughts chafing again at her captivity. It chagrined her to think how near to escape she'd been.
Just as it frustrated her to still be so helpless . . . more helpless than ever, now that she had to worry about her uncle and Chand as well.
This tent, this camp was still her prison.

Alysson interrupted her pacing to pause at the entrance of the tent and look longingly toward the exciting, vivid, thriving community of Bou Saada. The sight filled her with a fiery, restless need. The mounting pressure built till she felt ready to explode, and she turned to pace again—until she suddenly sensed Jafar's presence.

She came to a halt, trying to quell the sudden pounding of her heart, and slowly turned to face him. She'd seen no sign of him for hours. Uncertainly, she regarded him with questioning eyes. Was he still inexplicably angry with her?

"I thought perhaps you might like to see something of the town." His low tone was even, his expression enigmatic as usual.

Alysson let out her breath slowly. She would have given half her fortune to be allowed a moment's freedom.

"Yes, I would love to see the town," she replied, not bothering to keep the eagerness from her tone.

His gaze traveled down her body, which was clad in only in a blouse and pantaloons. "Wear your good robes. I will return for you in one hour."

Alysson didn't need to be told twice. She wasted no time in washing and then dressing in the second-finest outfit she had, a rose silk tunic and haik, with a burnous of soft blue wool as an overwrap. Even after checking again on her sleeping uncle, though, she was ready half an hour early.

She caught her breath when Jafar finally arrived. He was dressed magnificently in a flowing white djellaba and a scarlet burnous that was fit for a king.

Drinking in the sight of him, she realized that he was also staring at her. The light in his tawny eyes that was so harsh and unreadable suddenly softened with warmth, leaving no doubt in her mind that he was pleased with her appearance, that perhaps he even thought her beautiful.

"Come,
Temellal."

The husky scrape of his voice surprised and disturbed her, and so did the way he offered her his arm, just as any European gentleman would have done. How could she maintain an impersonal aloofness toward him when he acted in such a provocative, civilized fashion?

The sun was beginning to set as they crossed the short distance from the encampment and delved into the town. Their progress along the busy streets soon became impeded, for Alysson stopped every few minutes, observing everything around her with unfeigned delight and asking questions that tumbled over one another. Her enthusiasm brought a smile to Jafar's lips more than once.

Alysson ignored his amusement, for she was enjoying herself immensely. Even if she hadn't been told of the festival in progress, she would have known from the hint of expectation and excitement that filled the air along with the noise. People of all descriptions crowded the narrow streets, while scores had gathered on the flat rooftops and were leaning from the open verandas and galleries. When over the throng she heard music coming from a distance—the rhythmic sound of drums and trumpets and tambourines- she tugged at Jafar's arm like an eager child.

Shortly they came to a square that was lit by smoking torches. In one corner a juggler performed his act, showing an uncanny dexterity in throwing knives into thin boards. In another corner, beside a huge bonfire, were some dozen musicians.

She could tell they were Berbers by their lean ascetic features. Clad in white burnouses tied at the waist with thick hemp ropes, they were otherwise barefooted and bareheaded. Half of the men were engaged in chanting a solemn prayer, while the others blew on their trumpets and pounded on their drums and tambourines.