Lord of Desire

His own eyes were dark with regret and a glaze of passion that Alysson didn't want to recognize. She stared at Jafar numbly. "And I cannot," she whispered, "sit by and do nothing while you plan to murder the people I love."

Unable to hold her gaze any longer, he looked away.

The bleak chill of despair came seeping back into Alysson's soul once more in full force. Turning, she shivered.

At her trembling, Jafar became aware that the shadows were lengthening and the temperature rapidly dropping as the sun slipped behind the horizon.

"Come," he said quietly. "It grows cool."

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her back inside—but not to the bedchamber. Instead, he settled her among the silken cushions in the main room, then busied himself retrieving a blanket with which to cover her, lighting an oil lamp, closing the tent flap against the evening air.

Not for the first time, Alysson was struck by the consideration and care he showed her, the extreme tenderness that contrasted so dramatically with the determined, ruthless man she knew him to be. Just now, the lamplight shone on his gilded head and muted the hard lines of his face, disarming and softening.

Against her will, she lay there watching Jafar, studying his austerely handsome features, as if she might find the key to the enigma. It was almost as if he were two different men. One forbidding, hard, dangerous. The other gentle and compassionate . . . and almost vulnerable, in a way she couldn't begin to fathom. There was something lonely about him. More than that, there was a sadness in his soul, as if it held dark secrets that he could share with no one else.

Then she remembered the tale of his childhood. What would it be like to watch one's parents murdered so hideously? To be forced to watch their brutal tortures, unable to raise a finger to aid them? How could someone as proud and authoritative as Jafar endure such helplessness?

She couldn't hate him for wanting to avenge their murders, or for wanting to protect his people from the rapacious French. She couldn't hate him at all . . .

Alysson closed her eyes, deliberately shutting out this softer image of Jafar, yet unable to dispel her intense awareness of his nearness. A desolate smile of irony touched her lips. Sometime during the past days of pain and fear and despair, she had given up her futile attempt to despise him. And she very much feared that in the end, she would learn to want him, just as he had predicted.

Chapter 14

"They come! They come!" Mahmoud exclaimed as he rushed into Jafar's tent the following morning. "The French troops—they come!"

Straggling to sit up on the cushions where she'd been resting, Alysson stared at the boy in alarm. She had thought that when the time came for battle, her concern would only be for Gervase and her Uncle Honoré. But at Mahmoud's shouted revelation that the French army was on the march, the first thing that entered Alysson's mind was fear. Fear for Jafar. She had never before considered that Jafar might be wounded or even killed in the fighting. As a Berber warlord, he seemed so powerful, so invincible. And yet he was mortal. Bullets and sharp steel would penetrate his flesh as they would any other man's.

Raising a calming hand, Alysson momentarily pushed aside her disturbing reflections about Jafar and tried to question Mahmoud. He was nearly dancing with excitement, despite his crippled foot.

"Allah be praised! We will make a razzia on the French jackals!"

A razzia was an attack, Alysson eventually managed to learn. The Berber scouts that had been sent out to observe the enemy's movements had returned with a comprehensive report. A column of French cavalry had been sighted near- ing the mountains to the west. The force consisted of hundreds of mounted troops and an artillery train with at least two cannons. Alysson wondered if those guns were meant for a siege—a reasonable precaution if they expected her to be held hostage in the mountains.

Mahmoud did not know much else about the French army's intentions, or about his lord's plans. He thought it was a French general who led the column, but Alysson was certain Gervase had come as well.

"Those son of swine! Blacksmith's blood!" the boy cried, raising his fists in the air.

Knowing she would get little more useful information from the impassioned youth, Alysson made her way on shaky legs to the tent entrance, where she met a scene of bustling activity. The Berbers were making preparations for the battle to come, outfitting their mounts with weapons and food. Already tall saddles were bristling with arms and other accoutrements, while the horses' caparisoned bridles sported blinders, which would prevent the animals from being distracted by surrounding objects.

Alysson stood watching silently, her heart in her throat. The peaceful Berber camp had instantly become an instrument of war.

Yet how could she blame them? War was the only thing these sons of the desert understood. To them, war was survival. And total loyalty to their lord was a duty. They would live or die for him, as he commanded.

Saful, particularly, was a loyal servant, Alysson knew. Directly in front of her, the blue-eyed equerry was saddling

several mounts, one of which was Jafar's favorite black stallion. It appeared that Saful would accompany the Berbers into battle. Naturally he would be anxious for war. Not just for glory, Alysson suspected, but rather to redeem himself for his failure to guard her.

Just then she saw Jafar striding rapidly across the camp toward his tent. Not wanting to face him, she retreated inside to a far corner.

Her precaution was wasted. Jafar entered the tent, his eyes searching the shadows, and Alysson knew he was looking for her.

Spying her, he came to a halt. His face was taut as he stared at her, his eyes restless.

She thought he meant to say something, but without a word, he crossed the room and went into the bedchamber. In a few moments, he returned, dressed completely in black—full trousers, soft boots, tunic, burnous and turban.

“I will leave twenty of my men here in the camp for your protection, and that of the other women," Jafar said as he finished buckling the scabbard of a jeweled sword around his waist.

Alysson didn't contradict him, though she felt certain his men would not be for her protection, but rather to guard her. Jafar's next words took her aback.