Lord of Desire

Jafar sighed. If there had been another alternative, he would have taken it. If Alysson were a more biddable female, he could have put her with the few unmarried serving women in his camp. But he couldn't trust her not to try and escape. She would have to be guarded day and night, and keeping a close eye on her himself was the most practical solution.

Bending, Jafar secured the front flap of the tent for the night. He was not looking forward to the next few weeks. He'd never had a reluctant woman in his bed before, and Miss Vickery, at the moment, was highly reluctant. Sleeping with her was certain to prove an extraordinary exercise in restraint.

He heard no sounds of movement in his sleeping quarters, so he entered. She was standing stock-still, completely dressed, staring at the brazier. During the meal, Mahmoud had prepared the room for the night, lighting the oil lamp and kindling a few coals in the brazier to ward off the chill of the desert night. For Jafar the fire was not necessary, since he had spent a good deal of his life in this harsh climate, but hed thought his lovely guest would prefer the warmth of the brazier to the warmth of his arms. He had done his best to provide the amenities to which she was accustomed, though she would probably never appreciate the fact.

Alysson stiffened when he entered, turning to look up at him, her eyes shadowed and opaque, like smoke from a wildfire.

"My little tigress," Jafar said gently, "your time here will go easier if you accept your fate."

Alysson felt the familiar panic curling within her. What would be her fate? Was this the moment he would ravish her?

He meant for her to remove her clothing, she knew. His eyes were holding hers, issuing a silent command. Silently she screamed in mortification and fury, but she obeyed, slowly removing her jacket, boots, stockings, and breeches.

"Get into bed," he said then.

With great reluctance, she lay down on the pallet and pulled the blanket up to her chin, watching him apprehensively over the edge, vowing he would not make her beg or cry.

To her relief he snuffed the lantern before he undressed. The coals glowing in the brazier, however, betrayed the oudine of his masculine form, red-gold light glinting off his bare back and shoulders, highlighting the solid play of muscle.

When he was naked but for his trousers, he came toward her, his body lithe, sleek and menacing in the darkness. Alysson went rigid, watching him with trembling anticipation. She would fight him to the death if he dared touch her . . .

He sat beside her then, reaching down to bare her ankle beneath the blanket. With a gasp, Alysson sat up abruptly.

But he was merely securing her leg to his, as hed done all the other nights of her captivity, she realized as relief flooded through her. This time the bond was not wool but silk. She could feel the rough-sleek texture of it against her skin.

When he was done, Jafar glanced up at her. His golden eyes captured the firelight, glinting in the darkness. Alysson held her breath, her heart pounding. His hands, which she imagined were so accustomed to violence, were oddly gentle as they gripped her shoulders and pushed her back down onto the pillows.

Oh, God, what did he mean to do? She bit her lip hard, to keep from crying out. She would not plead for her virtue, or for her life.

But he merely stretched his long form beside her on the pallet. Lying on his back, his head pillowed by one arm, he pried the edge of the blanket from her death grip and covered himself. "Sleep well, captive."

Shocked by this unexpected deliverance, Alysson turned to stare at Jafar in the darkness. Within her, relief vied with confusion.

Why in the world had he brought her here to his desert, camp? If not because he wanted her as his concubine, then why ever had he taken her captive?

Chapter 6

Much to Alysson's relief, Jafar was gone by the time she woke the next morning. Mahmoud brought her water to wash with, then food to break her fast, which Alysson ate with relish.

As she'd expected, breakfast was couscous—the traditional dish of Barbary—made from wheat kernels steamed like rice and kneaded into tiny balls. For the morning meal, the couscous was sweetened with milk and honey, accompanied by dates and almonds, and served with hot, sweet tea infused with mint.

Refreshed both by the food and a decent night's sleep, Alysson felt almost recovered from the grueling journey of the previous few days. She drank her third cup of tea slowly, watching as a sullen Mahmoud performed various chores around the tent—sweeping the carpets, airing the blankets and pallet, refilling lamps with olive oil, and seeing to his master's clothing.

Outside she could hear sounds of camp activity, and through the open doorway, amid the sea of black tents, she glimpsed dozen

s of Berber warriors attending to their daily tasks. Beyond the camp lay the vast desert, already shimmering as the sun burned away the last vestiges of morning chill.

Directly outside her tent, Alysson spied the tall, blue- eyed Berber she'd seen the previous day. He was still guarding her, it seemed, even while he occupied himself with caring for the horses. Here, as in the more civilized cultures she was familiar with, the horses must be fed and watered and groomed, their bridles and saddles polished.

The man was some kind of equerry, Alysson decided, while Mahmoud was the equivalent of a body servant or valet. She tried engaging Mahmoud in conversation, to discover any information about where she was and why Jafar had brought her to his camp, but all she managed to drag from the boy was that Jafar el-Saleh was a mighty lord who served the Sultan Abdel Kader, Defender of the Faithful.

Mahmoud had just stomped awkwardly from the room when Alysson became aware that she was being watched. Looking up with a start, she saw some half dozen young women loitering outside the doorway to the tent, eyeing her curiously, as if she were some unusual exhibit at a fair. Lifting her chin, Alysson returned their regard with a frank inquisitiveness of her own.

None of the women were veiled, so she could see their noble, proud features. They all possessed fine-shaped eyes, narrow aquiline noses, and light complexions, while two had delicate tattoos marking their foreheads. They were Berbers, Alysson was certain, for Berber women never veiled their faces as the Bedouin Arabs did. All of them wore colorful tunics girdled at the waist, flowing head- cloths, and dozens of silver chains and bangles.

One of the tattooed women, apparently the oldest of the group, stepped forward shyly and bowed to Alysson, then pointed to herself. "Tahar."

Realizing that must be the woman's name, Alysson gave a tentative smile in response. "I am called Alysson. Al-ys- son."