Lord of Desire

"Let me go!"

"No, mademoiselle. You cannot be trusted with your own mount, so you will ride with me."

"No, never! I won't!"

The pressure of his grip increased, tightening about her ribs until she thought he might crush the very breath from her lungs. “Will you yield?''

What choice did she have? Finally ceasing to struggle, she managed to nod in surrender.

His fierce embrace immediately eased.

Gasping for air, she closed her eyes in defeat. She lay there awkwardly, half-sitting, half-sprawling in her captor's lap, her face and right shoulder pressed against his chest, her heart still pounding. She refused to acknowledge the stinging tears that were running down her cheeks, yet as he urged the stallion into a walk, in pursuit of the mare, Alys- son's thoughts gave her no peace. What good had her attempt at escape done her? Not only hadn't she succeeded, but now she was required to suffer the indignity of sharing a mount with this savage brute. Her discomfort was acute. The Berber saddle was not fashioned to accommodate two riders. The high pommel was digging uncomfortably into her left thigh with each step the stallion took.

Gradually Alysson became aware of another sensation— a masculine warmth that brought heat rising to her face. She shifted abruptly, trying to sit up and thus avoid the hardness of the muscled thighs beneath her. But he prevented her from moving by tightening his arm around her waist and snapping a low command for her to be still.

Only when she quieted did he settle her more comfortably in his embrace—turning her slightly so that she faced more forward, drawing her hips back into the cradle of his thighs, cushioning her head in the curve of his shoulder. Despite his consideration, Alysson remained rigid in his arms, tense with anger and defiancé and a disquieting physical awareness of his body against hers. Quelling the urge to shudder at the shocking contact, she willed her erratic heartbeat to slow. She might be humiliated but not vanquished. He would not succeed in whatever scheme he had planned, she vowed. She would defy her ruthless captor at every turn, and somehow she would manage to escape.

Cherishing her smoldering thoughts, Alysson endured his embrace in silence. When they reached the mare, he bent down and gathered the dangling reins, the secured them to his saddle again. Immediately they resumed the swift pace of before, with the galloping stallion leading the now riderless mare.

They climbed once more, and when they topped a rocky hillock, the landscape abruptly changed again. It was no longer barren here, apparently because rainfall was more abundant. Soon they were riding through a cedar forest, the shadows cool after the heat of the afternoon.

Alysson found herself shivering—but not because of the temperature. Evening was fast approaching, and she found it harder and harder to hold on to her courage with the coming darkness.

She would have given her entire fortune to find herself back in Algiers, in the safe and civilized company of her uncle and her prospective fiancé, surrounded by the powerful French army. But money would not help her now; this savage Berber had already said so.

She should have listened to Chand. Hundreds of times her Indian servant had warned that she would land herself in dire trouble, but she hadn't heeded him. And Gervase. Only two nights ago he'd argued and pleaded with her not to undertake this expedition, but she hadn't listened. How she regretted that now!

Biting her trembling lip, Alysson glanced up at the stranger's face, surreptitiously studying him from beneath her lashes. His sun-hardened features gave no clue as to her fate. His expression was impassive and aloof.

As if he sensed her watching him, he looked down. Alysson was hard-pressed to control a shudder as his amber gaze clashed with hers. He seemed so merciless, so savage. What would he do to her, once it grew dark? Tearing her gaze away, she concentrated on keeping her fears at bay.

Jafar, too, looked away. The stains of tears on her pale cheeks had affected him more than he cared to admit. He hadn't wanted to hurt her—and he wouldn't, as long as he could maintain the upper hand without jeopardizing his mission. Steeling his heart against the insidious tenderness, he forced himself as well to ignore the arousing feel of soft woman, the feminine warmth that was proving a supreme test of his willpower.

The sun burned red and gold on the horizon when he finally brought the horses to a halt. “We will stop here for the night," he told her in a quiet voice.

Alysson opened her eyes and looked around her. They were in another valley, this one flat and treeless, and covered with rank shrub and grass. There was no house in sight, nor was there any sign of a tent. He meant to sleep out in the open, under the stars, she concluded. With effort she fought back her rising trepidation.

Even so, she flinched when his encircling arm tightened beneath her breasts.

Abruptly, his movement stilled. "I trust you don't intend to fight me again."

He had only intended to help her dismount, she realized, feeling awkward. Swallowing her apprehension, Alysson shook her head. She was too weary to fight. Her head ached dully and her neck had grown stiff, caught as it had been against the Berber's rock-hard shoulder.

Perhaps he sensed her exhaustion, for his movements were gentle as he eased her down from the stallion. Alysson sank to her knees right there where she landed, yet she kept her attention focused on her captor, watching him with wary unease as he dismounted. But he didn't approach her.

He saw to the horses instead, first hobbling them with woolen cords so they couldn't roam, then removing their bridles, then arranging a feed bag over the mare's nose. The stallion he fed by hand, offering it small portions of barley in the palm of his hand. Surprisingly, the spirited animal ate with dainty bites, displaying exquisite manners that would have been at home at a formal dining table. All the while the Berber spoke to the horse in his strange tongue, in a soft voice that was at odds with his ruthless treatment toward her.

Listening to the soft murmur, Alysson felt herself being lulled against her will. His voice was attractive and low, with a gentleness that was oddly comforting.

He felt a fondness for the noble beast, that was obvious. But the people of Barbary prized their horses, Alysson remembered hearing, cherishing them above any other possession. And the stallion was a magnificent animal, if a bit savage-looking. Its proudly arching neck, long well-shaped head, and fine tapering muzzle bespoke excellent bloodlines, while the liquid, wide-spaced eyes held both intelligence and courage.

Involuntarily her gaze shifted to the stallion's master. He had strong hands, with long slender fingers that possessed an austere beauty. He moved with an easy carriage, his body fluid and graceful beneath his black robes—

Abruptly Alysson jerked her disturbing thoughts to attention. She had to resist totally the compelling attraction this dangerous man held for her. It would never do to relax her guard even for a moment. She had to remain constantly alert.

Forcing her absurd musings back along safer channels, she watched as her captor removed the horses' saddles and accoutrements. As he began the task of grooming, her gaze fell on the long, silver-embossed rifle that he'd left leaning against the pile of saddlery. Hope suddenly flared within her. If she could only manage to reach the weapon and turn it on him before he could carry out whatever heinous plan he had for her . . . Yet she couldn't afford to give him the slightest hint of what she was considering.

She busied herself with the head scarf he had given her, unwinding it to settle around her shoulders. Then she began the task of repinning her hair that had escaped its knot and was wisping around her face. By the time the Berber was done grooming the horses, Alysson had her expression schooled to impassiveness.