Lord of Desire

She tried to make herself believe it as the morning progressed, but soon their climb ended and they left the relative coolness of the mountains. Before them stretched a broad plain rippling with mild undulations. They had reached the High Plateaux.

When the hot yellow sun began to beat down upon her, her lie became a litany: I'm not thirsty. I am not thirsty. But by noon Alysson was willing to admit her misery. She was hot and dusty and hungry and perishing from thirst. She wanted a long cool drink. She wanted a bath. She wanted a soft bed. And more than anything, she wanted a weapon that she could use on this barbarian. At the moment she would relish murdering him by slow degrees.

An Arab method of torture came to mind. She would stretch him out, stake him to the ground in the desert sand, pour honey over his body, and allow the ants to devour him, bite by stinging bite.

Her fierce musings had no effect on her merciless captor. They kept up the same grueling speed, hour after hour. Alysson's weariness and craving for water grew, while her hopes of either escape or rescue sank with every endless mile. She could only pray that her uncle would make it safely back to Algiers rather than setting out in search of her. He could never endure these harsh conditions and would do better to leave the task of rescuing her in Gervase's more capable hands.

By mid-afternoon the high tablelands melted into steppes covered with alpha grass.

In the distance Alysson occasionally glimpsed flocks of sheep and goats ranging on the grassy plains, but her Berber captor stayed well away from these manifestations of civilization.

They stopped once more, later in the afternoon, to water the horses. Alysson's resentment at Jafar surged anew. He was trying to kill her, yet he took great care of the animals—slowing to a walk and letting them cool off before permitting them to drink, allowing time to pass before resuming the gallop.

When she felt Jafar watching her with his shuttered amber eyes, though, she stiffened her spine. She didn't know how much longer she could hold out with her throat, parched as it was, and her swollen lips, but some last flicker of pride made her determined not to give in.

Her pride waned, however, as her abductor carried her further into the interior. Alysson had to clench her teeth to keep from surrendering. She wanted to scream at him, to pummel him with her fists, to beg him to let her go, but as she had learned yesterday over and over again, struggling against him was useless, as were all her pleas and threats. He would not release her. He was hard and cruel and relentless, a man who tolerated no opposition to his wishes.

Fighting back a wave of angry sobs, Alysson glared at him, hating him with an intensity that left her shaken.

Jafar was undeterred by her malevolent look, partially because he knew how she was suffering. He felt a grudging admiration for her strength of will, despite his frustration at her rebelliousness.

When a short while later he saw her proud shoulders sag with weariness and despair, he abruptly brought the horses to a halt, determined to put an end to this futile battle. He had meant to teach her a lesson; indeed, he had expected her to give in long before now. But he couldn't allow her to continue suffering any longer. He couldn't bear to see her in such distress. He untied the goatskin and held it out to her. "Here, drink."

Alysson gave the water bag a longing look before raising her defiant gaze to Jafar. "I don't want it."

"Don't be foolish." He unplugged the nozzle and held it to her lips. "You will kill yourself with your stubbornness, and then you will be useless to me."

Alysson wanted to throw the bag in his face, but when she felt a cool trickle of life-sustaining liquid wash over her lips, she was lost. She opened her mouth eagerly, nearly gulping in her haste to satisfy her craving for water.

"Slowly," Jafar warned. He withheld the bag for a moment before letting her drink again, forcing her to take smaller sips. He took it away entirely before her thirst was completely quenched. "You may have more later. You will make yourself sick if you drink too much now."

Her face flushing, Alysson looked away. He had made no reference to her shameful surrender, nor did he repeat his demands that she do his bidding, but she felt the humiliation of her defeat all the same. And it was her defeat. He might have been the first to back down, but only because he needed her alive in order to carry out his nefarious plans, whatever they might be. And in doing so, he had forced her to face the reality of her situation—her helplessness, her power- lessness. She needed him in order to survive, and fighting him would only cause her more misery. The sooner she accepted that fact, the less wretched she would be.

They rode for another hour before the sun began to set. To her left, in the far distance, Alysson could see the beginnings of a mountain chain. Just beyond it to the south, where the rugged terrain sloped into a valley, she caught the golden flash of a river. She also glimpsed what might be a village nestled in the protection of the foothills, but her momentary spark of hope was short-lived. Any village here would likely be a Berber stronghold, and she would get no help from its inhabitants.

They stopped for the night beside a thicket of tamarisk shrubs and pistachio trees, where a spring gushed from an outcropping of rock. Like the previous evening Jafar fed the horses, then hobbled and unsaddled them before allowing himself or Alysson to eat. He didn't withhold water from her this time, but only because she finally brought herself to ask for it.

"May I have a drink?" she muttered when the bite of bread she had just swallowed stuck in her dry throat.

Jafar turned to eye her with a curious gaze. "What did you say?"

"I said, may I please have a drink of water?"

The words were polite, the tone like acid. Hesitating, he raised an eyebrow. "And my wound?"

"I will see to it."

"Very well," he replied mildly, his tone devoid of the triumph Alysson was certain he felt.

When they were done eating, he returned the remains of their meal to his saddlebag and pulled out various items from its numerous folds, including a cake of soap and a clean cloth. The soap surprised her, for it had to be European.

He meant to wash in the spring, Alysson realized when he carried the items over and set them down beside the bank. Having given her word, she followed Jafar warily, but she came up short when he began to remove his tunic. The unexpectedly virile sight made Alysson catch her breath. His powerful arms were corded with muscles, while his chest was lightly furred with hair made tawny by shades of gold. She couldn't help noticing, either, how the fine hair on his chest tapered to a narrow line at his waist and disappeared beneath the waistband of his loose trousers.

Her reaction alarmed Alysson. She had seen shirtless men before, of course—two of her uncles and Gervase, as well. But none of them had ever before elicited this sudden flut- tery feeling in her stomach. Perhaps because none of them were so . . . acutely male.

Alysson averted her gaze as, reluctantly, she forced herself to take the final steps to reach Jafar's side. From the heat that was flooding her cheeks, she knew she was blushing, yet she hoped her discomposure wasn't obvious. When he handed her the soap and cloth, though, she made the mistake of looking up at him. His tawny eyes gleamed bright with amusement.

"You only have to wash my arm, ma belle," he said in a tone laced with soft laughter, "not the rest of me."