He hesitated a moment, his gaze contemplating her. "You may consider yourself my guest."
"Your guest?" Alysson gave him an incredulous look. "And for how long am I to remain your guest?"
"Until I no longer have need of you."
“And just how long is that?''
Jafar shrugged, keeping his expression deliberately impassive. Alysson pressed her lips together to refrain from shouting at him in frustration. "You won't even tell me what it is you want with me?"
"Simply your presence."
Unnerved by his quiet tone, she stared at him. She wanted to demand precisely why he required her presence, but it was obvious he didn't intend to give her any complete answers. "Then would you mind telling me just what I am to do here in the meantime?"
"You may enjoy the freedom of my tent." He gestured with his cup, indicating their surroundings. "I apologize for my humble dwelling, and for the meager fare. It is not what a pampered heiress like you is accustomed to, perhaps. But you will not be uncomfortable here. You will have ample servants to see to your needs."
Alysson stiffened. She admitted to being spoiled and pampered, but she was not about to listen to him telling her so. "Your generosity overwhelms me. However, I find the accommodations hardly up to my usual exacting standards. I'm afraid I must respectfully decline your hospitality."
"I'm afraid," he said softly
, "it is not your choice, my proud ingrate."
"Ingrate!" Alysson raised her chin, her cheeks tingeing with the rosy blush of anger. "You think I should be grateful that you attacked my uncle's party, forcibly abducted me, dragged me to this godforsaken place, and mean to keep me prisoner from some unspecified time for some unspecified purpose? What kind of man are you? Only a coward and a thief would treat a woman in such a despicable fashion!"
For a moment Alysson thought she might have gone too far, calling him a coward. Jafar made no reply, and no movement—indeed, he remained quite still—but there was an animal alertness behind the indolent pose, and he was watching her with a hooded look that warned her she was treading dangerous ground.
"You would do well to remember one thing, mademoiselle," he said evenly. "Here, I am master, and you will do my bidding."
Her palm itched to strike his hard, handsome face, but she didn't quite have the courage. Instead, Alysson sent him a scathing look. "I don't recognize your authority." Her antagonism was not wise, she knew, but it was better than meek subservience. "I won't feed you again, and I won't see to your wound! You can perish from your injury, for all I care."
“Wounds seldom putrefy in the desert, so I am unlikely to perish."
"How lamentable!"
His eyes narrowed, but there was a sudden glitter in the golden depths that looked suspiciously like amusement. "You should count yourself fortunate that I do not require you to wash my feet as Bedouin women do for their men."
"If you think for one minute—" Leaping up, Alysson stood, hands on hips, glaring down at him. Wash his feet, indeed!
Jafar, watching, thought she looked magnificent in her scorn. A half-smile curved his mouth. "Most men of my race prefer sweetness and docility in a female, but I enjoy a woman with spirit."
When she realized he was deliberately provoking her, Alysson nearly sputtered in her outrage. Oh, how she wished she had a weapon to use on this barbarian!
With royal disregard for her fury, Jafar drained the remaining coffee in his cup. Rising then, he went to stand at the doorway to the tent, his back to her as he looked out over his camp. A lord surveying his realm, Alysson thought with derision, silently cursing the arrogance that categorized everything the man did.
Jafar's thoughts were running along similar lines, though his curses concerned Alysson's passionate spirit. He almost would have preferred the weeping and tears or the cries for pity that was expected of a woman. How much easier he would find it then to resist her appeal. As it was, he was entirely too aware of the angry young beauty behind him. He actually felt himself wanting to soothe and comfort her, to yield to her demands that he release her.
Silently he shook his head, knowing himself for a fool. All he needed was to remember four nights ago when he'd stood outside the reception, watching Alysson Vickery surrounded by her personal entourage of admirers. Every male there, young or old, had been drawn to her like a fly to honey. Her uncle particularly doted on her, while Bourmont . . . that devil-spawned gallant had become so enamored of his lovely fiancée that hed allowed her to oppose his direct wishes, against every instinct that warned of danger.
A muscle in Jafar's jaw tightened. He would not allow himself to follow the same path as those other witless fools. He would not become a fawning slave to the young lady's whims.
"It is time to retire," he said in a low voice, determined to ignore her anger. "I suggest you prepare yourself for bed." Behind him, he felt Alysson tense.
"You can't possibly mean . . ."
Glancing over his shoulder, Jafar met her gaze. She was staring at him, her gray eyes smoldering. He could read every emotion on her expressive face as she came to the realization that he meant for her to share his bed: fury, frustration, defiancé, distress.
Jafar raised an eyebrow and waited. They had been through this before, and the outcome would again be the same.
To his surprise, she capitulated without a word. Her fingers curling into fists, she turned abruptly and stalked into the other room.