Alysson raised her chin in a brave show of defiancé. "I had not expected such treachery as you and your fellow scoundrels showed me."
"Now you know better." His fingers closed firmly about her waist. When her body stiffened with resistance, he added in that calm low tone, as if soothing a frightened child or a skittish horse, "You have no need to fear me. Not as long as you obey me."
Obey him? She would sooner scratch his eyes out—which she would, at the first opportunity.
Steeling herself against the disquieting awareness he aroused in her, she suffered him to lift her down from her mare, but she broke away as soon as her feet reached the ground.
She was weaker than she realized, though. She nearly stumbled in her haste to be free. When his fingers tightened on her arm to steady her, Alysson twisted from his grasp, her pulse accelerating in alarm. "Don't touch me!"
He let her go without argument. With a slight shrug, he turned to gather the reins.
Shaken, breathless, Alysson watched warily as he led the horses to the spring so they could drink. Gingerly then, she shook out her weak limbs and stretched her sore muscles, at the same time looking around her, searching for a private place in which to take care of her needs, or better yet, an avenue of escape.
Even as the thought formed, a wild idea occurred to her. She could not hope to elude him on foot, but if she could manage to steal her horse . . . It might be grasping at straws, but she had to do something.
She stole a glance at her fierce captor. He seemed to be paying her little attention. Indeed, his whole attitude suggested supreme confidence, even arrogance. No doubt he was certain she wouldn't have the nerve to attempt an escape, or that he could catch her if she did try. Well, she would show him he wasn't dealing with a frail female who fainted at the first sign of adversity.
But first she had to improve the odds.
Forcing herself to adopt a more conciliatory manner, Alysson approached him warily. When he turned, one eyebrow raised in question, she held out her bound hands. "Do you suppose you could release me? I cannot manage . . ." She faltered, avoiding his golden gaze, as if explaining how awkward the fastenings of her breeches would be with her hands tied embarrassed her. Which it did; the blush that rose to her cheeks was not at all fabricated.
He stood looking down at her for a long uncomfortable moment. Alysson refused to look at him directly, but she could feel him taking her measure. To her dismay, she felt like squirming beneath his intent scrutiny. What was it about this man that unnerved her so?
When the silence drew out, she risked a glance up at him. His face, overshadowed by that black turban, showed no indication of what he was thinking.
"Where can I possibly go?" she asked with a helpless little nod that indicated their rugged surroundings.
When he still made no reply, she tried once more. "Please . . . the binding is hurting me."
That at least brought a response; abruptly he caught her arm, holding her wrists up for his inspection. The slight scowl between his brows as he eyed her chafed skin indicated what? Alysson wondered. Suspicion? Anger? Remorse?
Without commenting he reached inside his burnous and drew the curved dagger from his belt. Alysson couldn't manage to stifle a gasp as the wicked blade flashed in the late-afternoon sunlight.
"Be still," he ordered. His tone was harsh, but his face softened minutely as he cut the woolen cord from her wrists, freeing her.
As soon as he was done, Alysson pulled away and rubbed her sore wrists. "Thank you," she said gratefully.
"Make haste, mademoiselle," was all her captor said in return. "We have a long way to go before nightfall."
For once Alysson did as she was bid. Slipping behind a craggy boulder, she attended to her personal needs quickly. He was waiting with the horses when she returned. Like before, he helped her to mount the gray mare, but unlike before, Alysson gave him no resistance—until he turned away to secure the mare's reins to his saddle.
It was the moment she had been waiting for. With a frantic lunge, she grasped the reins and pulled with all her might, ripping them from his hands, startling a low oath from him. The instant they broke free, she used them to lash at the black stallion's hindquarters, trying to drive it away. Even as the animal shied, she spurred her own horse into a gallop. She had difficulty guiding the mare with reins only on one side, but direction seemed far less critical than speed.
For the space of a heartbeat, she tasted the sweet glory of freedom. Then Alysson heard a sharp whistle and glanced frantically behind her. The stallion had whirled and returned obediently to its master, coming to a skidding halt before him.
Scarcely pausing to gather the reins, the Berber leapt into the saddle and came after her, his black robes streaming in the breeze.
Alysson redoubled her efforts, but it was hopeless. In a matter of moments, her pursuer caught up to her. This time, though, he plucked her from her mount with the ease of a hungry thief picking a ripe plum, and dragged her onto his saddle in front of him.
Wildly twisting, she screamed at him, flailing her arms, beating at his face and chest with all the strength she could muster, trying to break free of his grasp. "Vile coward, waning on women!"
Her struggles were to no avail. Abruptly halting the stallion, he wrapped both his hard arms about her, pinning her own at her sides, imprisoning her in an unyielding embrace.
"Devil! Fiend! Monster!" she sobbed against his chest, still refusing to admit defeat.
"All the more reason
to do as I say," he hissed in a low, hard voice.