Lord of Desire (9 page)

Indeed, these had to be Berbers, Alysson concluded, eyeing the faces of three men who weren't wearing scarves. Unlike her Arab guides who were swarthy Bedouins, these men surrounding her were fair-skinned, with hard, lean, proud features. And they were much taller, their carriages athletic and noble. She had been told about this fierce warrior race that populated the mountains. The Berbers had lived here for centuries before the conquering Arabs had swept over the face of Africa.

She would have inquired as to their intent, but her uncle spoke before her, demanding in French to be told the meaning of this outrage. Alysson had thought the dark horseman was their leader, but it was one of the other Berbers, a red- bearded man, who responded to her uncle.

He smiled benignly, pressing his hands to his mouth.
"Salaam aleikum,"
he greeted them courteously in Arabic,
then
repeated in French, "May peace be with you."

"What the devil do you mean, accosting us in this manner?" Honoré exclaimed, ignoring Eastern etiquette entirely.

It seemed rather absurd to be exchanging polite salutations while the acrid smoke of the Berbers' musket fire still hung in the air and their horses stamped and blew, but Alysson was both more familiar with and more accepting of other cultures' customs than her uncle.

"Aleikum es-salaam,"
she replied, repressing her trepidation. "Perhaps you will forgive my uncle," she added in French, "if he is anxious to learn your intent. Your actions just now do not argue for peace—"

The dark horseman interrupted her with another order in that strange tongue.

"Abandon your weapons," the bearded man advised, "and you will not be harmed."

The automatic refusal that sprang to Alysson's lips died unspoken when she glanced around her. All the Arabs in her party looked appropriately terrified, except her chief guide. He looked infinitely satisfied with present events. Rather smug, in fact.

Anger filled her at the realization that this Arab scoundrel had led them into an ambush. Her gray eyes narrowed, her gaze impaling him.

The guide caught her fierce look and, with a start of alarm, immediately set up a very vocal protest in Arabic against the Berbers, denying their right to make such demands. His resistance rang so hollow that Alysson snapped an order for him to be silent. She was furious that she should have been so dim-witted as to ride blindly into this trap, more furious still at their current dilemma. If they fought now, they might very well die. But the alternative—to meekly hand over their only means of protection—was unthinkable. She would have to determine some way to foil these Berber ruffians—and quickly, before her French escort abandoned her. As it was, they were already shifting uneasily in their saddles, their aims wavering as they looked to her, obviously seeking guidance.

Even as Alysson ground her teeth at their cowardice, a single rifle shot rang out, sending Honor's hat hurtling into the road and making the Europeans' horses shy.

Alysson flinched, staring in horror. The bullet had come so close! It might have killed her beloved uncle. Honoré's mouth had dropped open in shock, while his angry flush had faded to waxen.

Her gaze flew to the dark horseman. He was calmly reloading his weapon, the black stallion beneath him standing rock-steady.

The tense moment drew out, with only the creak of sad
die leather and the clank of bridle bits to alleviate the silence. Alysson regarded the black-swathed Berber
with every evidence
of loathing, but his veiled face, his hooded eyes, gave no indication that he knew or cared about her fury or disdain. As indeed he had no cause. His ease with the long rifle and the accuracy of his shot just now only underscored something else she had been told about the Berbers: they were outstanding marksmen.

The thought filled Alysson with dismay. Her party would have to surrender. If it came to a battle, her spineless French protectors would prove no match for these fierce Berbers.
She wouldn't, couldn't, risk her uncle's life.

Just then the bearded spokesman addressed the French troops directly, his tone soothing, almost deferential, as he reasoned with them, appealing to their logic. "Do not be concerned for yourselves. We mean you no harm. We only want the woman."

They meant to single her out? In God's name, why? Alysson wondered. But it was the answer to a prayer. If she could manage to get free of this melee of horses and men, the Berbers would no doubt follow her. She could draw them away, and her uncle would be free to take cover. Moreover, if she fled, she stood a better chance of foiling their plans for her. She was an excellent horsewoman. She might even be able to escape into the shelter of the hills before they caught up with her. Unless they shot her first . . . but if they wanted her, surely they wouldn't shoot her.

This chaos of thoughts whirled through Alysson's mind, even as her Uncle Honoré sputtered in outrage. Despite his close brush with death, he was trying to urge his mount between her and the Berber leaders, evidently in order to protect her. Alysson's heart swelled with love and fear. That he, an aging, comfort-loving gentleman should be the only man with the courage to defend her made her want to weep. She had to get away, now, before another bullet struck a mortal target on her uncle's person, rather than merely his hat.

Letting Honoré's blustering gestures act as a distraction, Alysson edged her gray mare sideways till she glimpsed a clear path between the other horses. Turning the mare's head then, she brought her riding whip down hard on the animal's
flank in a single swift motion and dug in her heels. The startled animal let out a squeal, reared on its hind legs, then bolted headlong through the throng of Frenchmen and Berbers.

The mare's rapid flight was all Alysson could have wished. Bending low over the horse's neck, she called out encouragement as she tried to provide some kind of guidance to the frightened animal.

They left the road, surging up a hill covered with prickly shrubs and ancient olive trees. When they came down again, Alysson spied a narrow ravine. She felt the mare gather for the jump . . .

With a flying leap they were clear and racing across a bare, relatively flat stretch of land that offered not even the dubious protection of the trees.

Then she heard the sound of pounding hoofbeats behind her, and dared to look over her shoulder. Only a single rider pursued her.

The dark horseman on his midnight stallion.

Her heart sank. Had her heroics been for naught? Why hadn't the other Berbers followed her? What was happening to her uncle? What would happen to her if her savage pursuer caught her?

Sudden fear gave Alysson renewed determination. Desperately she used her crop again, calling for all the speed her straining mare could muster. Her hat flew off, ripped from its pins, but she ignored the loss. In the distance, some two hundred yards away, she could see a cluster of tall rocks which might provide cover if she could only reach it.

She chanced another glance over her shoulder at the stallion galloping after her. The black beast was strong-boned, long-legged,
powerful
. He was from Barbary, after all. Such horses could outrun the wind . . .

How absurd her notion of escape had been! But she wouldn't give up. She groped inside her saddlebag for her pistol, grateful for the comfort it gave her.

Her breath came in ragged spurts as she focused her gaze on the boulders ahead.
Nearly there.
Twenty more yards.
Ten.
She could hear the echo of savage hooves pounding in her head, could almost feel the stallion's breath hot on her neck.

She reached the rocks with mere seconds to spare. Hauling back on the reins, Alysson used every skill she possessed to halt her plunging mare. Her heart beating frantically, she flung herself from the gray's back, almost stumbling as she took cover behind a boulder. Catching herself, she whirled, prepared to fight back, desperately aiming her pistol at her attacker.

A scant three yards away, the dark horseman reined back fiercely, bringing the stallion almost to its haunches. She started to shoot. Truly she did.

Then she saw his face.

The wide end of the scarf tied about his mouth had worked loose, slipping down. Dear God, she thought, stunned.
The stranger from the garden.
She recognized that lean, proud face. He was the same man who only two nights ago had frightened her, had nearly kissed her.

Could she kill someone she had conversed with such a short time ago, someone she had exchanged banalities with, however unpleasant? Her mouth went dry, while her mind wildly sought answers to the questions that were assailing her: why had he pursued her, why was he so determined to frighten her?

She raised her wavering pistol.

Amusement flickered across those arrogant features, as if he saw her dilemma and found it humorous. He made no move to retrieve the rifle that was now resting in its scabbard on his saddle. Instead, he leaned forward and spoke in the horse's ear, as if sharing the jest. Alysson clenched her teeth. When he sat up again, she aimed, this time straight at his heart.

He laughed. He actually laughed, the low rich sound daring her to shoot. His teeth flashed strong and white in the bright sunlight, a startling contrast against his desert- bronzed skin. Then he struck. Heedless of the danger he charged directly at her on his powerful mount.

Fury at his contemptuous mirth, terror at her imminent peril, overcame her misgivings. Her finger frantically jerked on the trigger.

But she had hesitated a moment too long; the bullet went wide, only grazing his arm.

She never got another chance to fire. The Berber crowded
his horse against her, compelling her to stumble back, making her trip and
lose
her grip on the pistol. The next instant he flung himself from the stallion, landing nearly on top of her as she fell, yet somehow sparing her the full force of his weight. Even so, her breath fled her lungs. Alysson found herself on her back, sprawled beneath the hard length of him, her hands manacled above her head by his long lean fingers.

For nearly the first time in her life she was confronted with real fear.
Wild, muscle-stiffening fear.
His body was taut and dangerous, radiating menace from every muscle. She could feel it through the thickness of his robes, through her own suddenly inadequate layers of clothing. The threat was as palpable as his body's heat.

Alysson whimpered, the frantic sound of an animal entrapped, as she struggled against unyielding masculine strength.

"Be still!" he ordered in that low, fluid French she remembered from the garden. "I won't harm you.'

Her panic abated at his promise, at the quiet reassurance in his voice. She ceased fighting so wildly, though she continued to sob for breath as she stared up into golden eyes that gleamed.hot and dangerous. What would he do to her?
Torture, murder, rape?
Oh, God, what would this savage do?

Those eyes were so fierce, so unforgiving. Her heart pounded in her breast as she lay trembling beneath him.