Lord of Desire

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, lon

g-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.

The force of his unblinking, mesmerizing gaze held hers for the longest moment, before he slowly he sat up. Shifting his weight, he released her wrists but kept her thighs pinned beneath his. His mouth was ruthlessly set as he pushed back a fold of his burnous—the voluminous cloak the natives of Barbary wore—and glanced down at his left arm. The sleeve of his black tunic glistened with something dark and wet.

Blood. She had wounded him. Would he punish her for her act of self-defense?

Alysson held her breath as he reached for the scarf about his throat. Frozen, rigid, she watched him struggle to tear off a piece of the cloth.

He only meant to bind his wound, she saw with infinite relief. Holding one end of the cloth with his teeth, he wrapped the other about his arm and tried to tie a knot. She had tiie humanitarian impulse to offer her help with what should have been an awkward, painful task, yet he obviously didn't require her aid. His swift, practiced movements held the ease of a man accustomed to caring for himself, accustomed also to sustaining the injuries of battle.

Which of course he was, Alysson reminded herself. He was a warrior, a primitive Barbary tribesman to whom fighting and killing was a way of life. She couldn't afford to cherish any misplaced consideration for a man who, at the moment, held her totally at his mercy.