Lord of Desire

The constant state of tension she felt reached a breaking point later that morning. She was trying for the dozenth time to read one of the French journals that had been placed at her disposal, but images of Jafar's nakedness kept returning to haunt her, totally destroying any attempt at concentration. Finally despairing, Alysson lunged to her feet with a soft curse and threw the hapless newspaper across the tent—at the very same moment that Mahmoud came limping through the doorway.

With a frightened whimper, the young boy dropped the water jug he was holding and cringed, his arm raised as if to ward off a blow.

The paper had missed him by a good five feet, but immediately Alysson was all contrition. "Oh, Mahmoud, forgive me! I didn't realize you were there. I'm sorry—"

She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched in apology, but the servant fell to the floor, prostrating his small form on the carpet, his hands covering his turbaned head. Alysson halted in her tracks; his skinny body was actually quaking.

Horrified, she knelt on the carpet beside him and hesitantly touched his shoulder. "Mahmoud, I'm sorry. Do get up, please. I'm sorry I frightened you. I never intended to throw that journal at you, please believe me."

It was a long moment before the boy cautiously lifted his head to look up at her. His complexion was pale in contrast to the savage red scar covering the right side of his face, and Alysson could see fear in his dark eyes, along with wary regard.

"You . . . do not mean to beat me?"

"No, of course not. Why would you think so?"

"But I dropped the jug . . ."

"Only because I startled you." She bent to pick up the clay vessel and held it up for inspection. "See, no damage was done. And even if there had been, the fault would have been entirely mine. I had no right to take my ill humor out on you, even unwittingly. If I do so again, I hope you will take me to task."

Mahmoud's wary look turned to mild shock as slowly he raised himself to his knees. "Never would I dare such a thing, lady. The lord would be severely displeased should I presume to say a word against you."

Alysson gave a smile that held more than a touch of wry- ness. "You should meet my servant Chand, then. He speaks against me regularly. If he isn't contradicting me, then he's scolding me like a mother hen."

"And you do not beat him?"

"Good heavens, no. Why ever should I?"

"Because it is your right. A master may strike a servant whenever it pleases him, or even kill him if he wishes."

"That may be the custom in your country, but I assure you it isn't in mine. I wouldn't dream of striking Chand."

Mahmoud looked puzzled. "But my French mistress beat me many times."

That sobered Alysson at once. "Not all Europeans are alike, I'm relieved to say. I would not beat you, Mahmoud. Ever. Not if you broke a hundred water jugs. There is no reason for you to be afraid of me."

"I am not afraid!" At this siur on his honor, the boy bravely puffed out his meager chest and scowled up at her.

"No . . . of course not," she said soothingly, realizing her error.

His scowl easing, Mahmoud climbed to his feet and abruptly lost his balance, nearly falling. When Alysson grasped his bony arm to steady him, he shot her a self- conscious glance, then ducked his head. He was embarrassed by his handicap, she realized, feeling a wave of compassion surge through her.

Pretending unconcern about the incident, Alysson handed him the jug. Mahmoud averted his face as he accepted it with a mumbled word of thanks, then turned and limped toward the rear room.

Following him with her gaze, Alysson rose slowly to her feet. She had never noticed it until now, but whenever he could, Mahmoud kept the scarred side of his face turned away from her. But then how could she have noticed? Ever since her arrival in the Berber camp four days ago, her concern had only been for herself, her every thought focused on either escape or the threat that Jafar presented her.

Wishing she could make amends for her insensitivity, she followed Mahmoud into the bedchamber and found him filling the pitcher with wash water.

"What of your master?" she asked more casually than her interest warranted. "Does Jafar ever beat you?"

Mahmoud gave her a look of disdain before he shook his head vigorously. "No, never has the lord raised his hand to me. Indeed, he saved me from the French when they would have tortured me again.''

"Oh, Mahmoud . . ." Alysson felt a tight ache in her throat at the thought of how much this child had suffered in his short life. She wanted very much to console him, to wrap her arms around his skinny body and promise that he would never have to endure such pain again. But even if he would have accepted such a show of concern from a foreign infidel—which was highly doubtful—any promises she made him would be empty. Mahmoud's fate, like her own at present, was entirely beyond her power to control.

"What of your family?" she asked quietly. "Have you no parents?"

The expression on his scarred young face turned a bit wistful. "I have no father. My mother . . . she was taken away by the French. I do not know what became of her."