Lord of Desire

And now the trap was set, with the colonel's lovely fiancée as bait.

Jafar's gaze again found his captive. He had spoken the truth a moment ago. He'd done her a service by taking her away from Bourmont. Better now, before the marriage could take place, for he would only have made her a widow later.

He'd done her another favor as well, though she would never know it. He had spared her Indian servant's life. Such a devoted follower would have fought to the death to prevent his mistress's capture. It had been a kindness to render the man too ill to travel. That, too, had been accomplished with ease. The Arab guide had been well paid to ensure that both Miss Vickery's servant and the lieutenant in command of her escort would not be in the way.

After that, her abduction had been child's play. All had gone as planned . . . except for the young lady herself, Jafar amended with a grim smile. His throbbing arm testified to the accuracy of her aim. He should have heeded her claim of being a good shot, should never have underestimated her courage. She was full of surprises—nothing like the maidens of Barbary, either Berber or Arab.

No, she was proud, lovely, defiant . . . Defiant even in fear, he thought, remembering the stormclouds in her eyes as she'd railed at him, remembering also the despair when she'd discovered herself his prisoner.

Seven years ago those anguished gray eyes had had the power to move him. Even now they had managed to strike a tender chord in his heart.

He had to guard against the protective instincts she aroused him, Jafar warned himself silently as he again set the horses into a gallop. Already she had made him question the wisdom of using her in his quest for revenge.

She could never persuade him from his purpose, certainly.

But still, he had to take care.

Chapter 3

The pace was grueling, her captor scarcely slowing even when they began to climb the hilly country of the Tell. Alysson's hopes sank with each swift mile, each foot of elevation. Her French escort would never find her in the mountains. There were too many places to hide.

She stole a glance at the black-robed devil who had abducted her. He had changed direction slighdy, heading south and east, but his determination never faltered, and he still maintained firm control of her mount's reins.

Continuing to climb, they passed through forests and lighter wooded lands. An hour later the landscape suddenly turned barren. Chalk rock and red sandstone slopes ran between steep precipices and wild narrow ravines that spelled death to the unwary. The horses were forced to slow to a walk then.

Hot and weary, Alysson clung to the saddle as her mount negotiated a dangerous path strewn with loose stones. To think only a few short hours ago she had been eager to explore this fierce country.

A moment later, Alysson shook herself from her morose thoughts. She had to be brave. She had to accept that she was alone with only her instincts of survival to guide her. Rather than wait for an opportunity to escape, she would have to create one. He had allowed her to ride her own horse, that was something. And if she was his hostage, then surely he would not be so imprudent as to harm her.

Not that he seemed at all concerned about her welfare at the moment. Her thirst was mounting rapidly, and the cord that bound he

r hands had chafed her wrists nearly raw in places. She was feeling another discomfort as well, but every ladylike instinct quailed at mentioning it. By the time they descended into a bare valley surrounded by naked mountains, however, she decided there was no purpose in prolonging the torture any longer.

"Please, I have to stop."

At her abrupt announcement after so long a silence, her captor halted the horses. When his penetrating gaze found hers, Alysson resisted the urge to look away nervously. "Do you mean to make me perish from thirst? It has been ages since I last had anything to drink."

His hard mouth curved in what might have been a rueful smile. "I forget the pampered life you have led." He reached down to retrieve the goatskin water bag that was tied to his saddle and handed it to her. "Forgive me if I have no tea or chocolate to offer you."

Repressing a retort, Alysson accepted the goatskin from him. Raising it to her lips, she drank eagerly, finding the water tepid and strange-tasting but soothing to her parched throat.

When she finally handed it back to him, the Berber took a brief swallow himself, then again secured the bag to his saddle. He was about to proceed when Alysson gathered her courage.

"Wait!"

He hesitated, looking at her questioningly.

"I would like a moment of privacy," she said stiffly. She endured his long scrutiny, feeling the warmth of acute embarrassment but refusing to give in to it.

Fortunately he understood without further explanation, for he gave a brief nod. "In a moment we will stop to water the horses. You may have your privacy then."

Alysson had to be content with that, although where they would find water in this godforsaken place, she had no idea.

But he was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes they came upon a deviation in the barren rocks where the vegetation grew lush and thick. A shallow but steady stream of water gushed from a crevice in the rock, Alysson saw with surprise. An underground spring.

She watched as her captor dismounted and came to her side. When he raised his hands to her waist, Alysson flinched from his touch, not liking even this small contact with this savage. It made her too aware of how vulnerable she was, alone with the man, at his mercy. Worse, it made her too aware of his hard male vitality, of the trembling agitation he made her feel.

The cynical smile that curved his mouth was almost a taunt, as were his murmured words. "Surely you do not fear me? Not the young lady who boasted of her unconcern regarding the dangers of the interior.''