Lord of Desire

Her listlessness disturbed Jafar most of all. She was recovering her health slowly, but the luster had gone out of her eyes, the fire out of her spirit. The only time he had seen an inkling of the same passionate defiancé Alysson possessed in such great measure before her illness was the first time he bathed her after she regained consciousness. In a pitifully weak gesture, she had tried to cover her nakedness and ordered him from the room, but the rebellion had cost her every ounce of energy she had. He had won the battle, but the victory gave him no satisfaction.

Still he wouldn't abdicate his responsibilities. He continued to change the dressing on her wound regularly, carefully massaging the muscles of her thigh around the scorpion's bite to keep the flesh supple. He continued to feed her, even though she might have managed it on her own, for she would not have eaten one tenth of the food that he persuaded her to swallow by sheer persistence. And he continued to bathe her.

Four days after the fever had broken, Alysson lay quiescent and unmoving as Jafar bared her body for his ministrations. For one brief moment, as he peeled away the gauze to expose the wound on her thigh, she tried to close her legs to him, but Jafar scowled down at her, a glimmer of something protective and fiercely intimate in his eyes.

Subdued, she looked away, her moment of rebellion over.

"The flesh is no longer so swollen and red," he pronounced as he gently washed the lacerated area.

Indifferently, her shoulders moved in the barest of shrugs. "You said wounds heal quickly in the desert."

Physical wounds, yes, Jafar thought, but not the despondency that was consuming her. He wanted to shake her, to breathe life into her, to erase the stamp of defeat in her new manner. He wanted to see a return of the courage and indomitable spirit that had first attracted him to her. He wanted to revive the passion that was so much a part of her, to feel once more the heat and honey between her thighs.

Deliberately, he moved the damp cloth upward, to the vee between her legs. After a brief, startled look, Alysson closed her eyes, not caring what he did to her.

Tempering a surge of impatience, Jafar slowly trailed the cloth upward, over the silken skin of her abdomen. When still she didn't respond, he covered a small, lush breast with his hand.

How fragile her nipple felt against his palm. He was suddenly filled with a tension that had little to do with desire: tenderness, possessiveness, a need to care for and protect that was at sharpest odds with his fighting instincts. What was it about her that aroused such protective feelings in him? He had never been particularly kind to women, yet he found himself wanting—no, needing—to comfort and console her, to lend her his strength.

Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, no longer willing to press her, hoping that somehow he would soon overcome her indifference.

* * *

The following day Jafar had more success. When he parted her robe, leaving her naked and open to his gaze, Alysson roused herself enough to protest again. It did no good. Jafar ignored her muttered imprecation entirely as he proceeded to bathe her.

Alysson felt her fingers curl into fists. "I can do this myself," she said tightly.

"No you can't. You are still as weak as a newborn lamb."

"But it isn't seemly for you to be taking care of me this way!"

Wry amusement curved his lips. "Allah deliver me from the prudery of women. My eyes have already seen your nakedness, chérie. My lips have tasted every inch of you. You have nothing to hide from me."

The faint blush that stained her cheeks was the first real sign of life he had seen from her in days. Jafar gazed down at her, a wash of tender emotion, alien and strong, sweeping over him. "I enjoy helping you, Ehuresh."

"You enjoy provoking me."

"Yes." The word held a hint of smug laughter. "And you, in turn, take delight in defying me. I swear you are as stubborn as the offspring of a cross-eyed she-goat."

His gentle teasing had the desired effect; Alysson glared at him with a trace of her former spirit. Now that he had managed to a provoke a response, however, he would not give up his methods. When he had finished with her bath, Jafar casually announced that he would wash her hair.

Alysson balked, but in the end she was forced to submit to his ministrations. To her dismay, the simple task of washing and combing out her wet tresses seemed even more personal and intimate than bathing her naked body. The light touch of Jafar's fingers in her hair was tranquilizing and incredibly sensual. Alysson closed her eyes, both fatigue and listlessness slowly draining away. She was awed that the cold, ruthless man she knew him to be could show such infinite tenderness.

Lulled by his quiet efficiency, Alysson allowed him to dress her in a soft robe of white cotton, making no protest until, to her surprise and alarm, Jafar lifted her in his arms.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded as he cradled her against his chest.

"For some fresh air, my dove. You have been confined here for too long."

Striding with her through the main room, he set her down at the entrance of the tent. The late-afternoon sunlight was bright and glaring after her long convalescence, even though it was the beginning of November, but the rays were welcoming and warm on her face.

Jafar spread her damp hair with his fingers, arranging it over her shoulders so it would dry. Then, settling himself behind her, he drew Alysson back against his hard chest. She couldn't find the will to resist him; his sheltering arms were warm around her, his presence intimate and soothing. For a moment, his nearness seemed even to banish the chill in her soul. She could almost forget the terrible truth that divided them.

Allowing herself to grow limp, Alysson stared out past the encampment, at the vast desert. Even after her brush with death, the arid wilderness beckoned to her. That surprised her. After all that had happened to her, she should have been terrified by the danger the desert presented. Yet she felt almost as if she belonged here . . . in this hard land . . . with this savage Berber warlord who had brought her here.

The thought was absurd, of course. And so was the rich languidness that stole over her, one of peace and contentment. Alysson wouldn't let herself wonder about it, though, or the strange longing that kept her, for just this small length of time, a willing captive in Jafar's arms. She refused to think about it.

She couldn't dismiss Jafar so easily. His thumb stroked her inner wrist absently, but Alysson was aware of every caress, and of the quivery sensations he sent racing along her skin. As much as she wanted to, she could never be indifferent to his touch. She shivered.