Lord of Desire

She kept her attention fixed on her ruthless captor, instinctively tensing as he shed his burnous.

He spread it on the ground some ten yards from the horses. "You may sit here."

Alysson regarded him warily. Beneath his desert robe he wore a belted, thigh-length tunic, loose trousers, and soft leather boots. "Why?" Her tone was cautions, shaky.

"So you may eat. I don't intend to starve you. You needn't be afraid of me," he added when she remained silent.

"I am not afraid!" But it was a lie. She did fear him. Determinedly, though, Alysson raised her chin to stare at him, hiding her fright behind a brave front of hauteur.

One corner of his mouth curved wryly, but he didn't contradict her. Instead he sat cross-legged on his burnous and unwrapped a packet of food, removing a round, flat cake of what looked like unleavened barley bread and a chunk of what might have been goat's cheese.

"Come here and eat," he said softly.

Alysson felt her mouth watering. Until now she hadn't realized how hungry she was. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Disobeying his command, she remained where she was.

He ate in silence, ignoring her stubbornness. But his intent was clear. If she wanted to eat, she would have to go to him.

After a few moments, Alysson reevaluated her decision. It would be foolish to let fear or pride prevent her from assuaging her hunger, especially since she had to keep up her strength if she were to escape.

Swallowing her trepida

tion, she rose and went to him. Cautiously she knelt beside his burnous, prepared to flee at his slightest move. But he merely handed her a barley cake and a piece of cheese. A moment later he passed her the goatskin water bag.

Alysson chewed on the tough bread and watched him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes. With the onset of evening, his ruthless arrogance was not so noticeable. The waning golden light caressed his lean face, softening the high, proud cheekbones and the slashing grooves carved on either side of his mouth.

They finished the meager meal in silence. When he was done eating, the Berber turned his attention to the wound on his left arm, examining the crude dressing. Even from several paces away, Alysson could see the black bandage was crusted with dried blood.

Unexpectedly he raised his wounded arm, holding it toward her. "Would you untie the knot?"

Startled, Alysson stared at him. Her first reaction was to tell him to go to the devil. But it was obvious he would have difficulty managing on his own.

With poor grace she brushed the crumbs from her fingers and edged closer on her knees so she could attack the knot. Her movements were awkward and tense as she slowly peeled away the bandage. Through the rent in his tunic sleeve, she could see the groove in the flesh made by her bullet. The wound didn't appear dangerously deep, but she knew it had to be painful. When he rolled up his sleeve, though, to expose die bloody gash, he showed no sign of pain.

"It needs cleansing," he observed, his tone emotionless. He held out the goatskin bag to her. "Pour water on it."

Alysson balked at his obvious assumption that he could order her about. She was not his servant, to do his bidding. She stared at the bag, refusing to take it.

"This is your first lesson in obedience." It was said so calmly, with such deliberate blandness that it took her a moment to absorb his words. Her gaze flew to his. He was perfectly serious, she realized.

A dozen scathing remarks tumbled to be the first from her lips. "You . . . you arrogant barbarian! If you think for a moment that I . . . that you . . ." Furiously, she curled her fingers into fists.

"You caused the damage. Therefore you will be responsible for repairing it. It is the law of this land—just reparation for injuries done."

"I don't give a tinker's curse about your laws!"

A muscle in his jaw flexed. "No, you superior Europeans choose to ignore those not of your own making. But you will learn differently."

"The devil I will!"

Alysson's chin came up in determination while her eyes clashed with his in a meeting of wills. The hard gleam in his was almost frightening in its intensity. Yet meekly yielding to such raw audacity was untenable.

"What about the injury you've done to me?" she exclaimed in frustration. "Did I ask you to abduct me?"

"That too is reparation."

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"The wound. I am waiting."