Lord of Desire

He hadn't imagined her concern for her uncle, though. Her distress over the elderly man's injury was palpable. Seeing it, Jafar had found himself fighting a fierce yearning, the wish that she would care that much for him. When he'd seen the tears streaming down her face, all he'd wanted was to take her in his arms and soothe her pain. Pain he had caused.

Those tears had scalded his conscience, a fiercely unwelcome emotion considering how he'd already flayed himself with guilt and disgust for turning his blade aside at the final moment. For not having the will to carry out his plan of vengeance.

Why, why had he abandoned his vow?

There was only one answer. Alysson. That, too, he had done for her sake. Because of her, he had spared the life of the man she loved. Because of her, he had disHonoréd his Berber name, his birthright.

Jafar's fists clenched convulsively. It was what he had always feared, what he had struggled against for years, his English blood taking preeminence over his Berber heritage. Never, though, had he dreamed he would break the blood oath he'd held as dear as his own life.

And now, Jafar thought bitterly, now he was left to face the enormity of his failure. He had betrayed both his vow and his tribe. Most of all he had betrayed his father's memory. And he would have to pay the price.

Despite his current position as his tribe's overlord, he would be required to answer for his actions. His was a democratic society, but Berber warriors followed only a man they respected or feared. It was not his way to inspire through fear, though. He was not some petty despot, to force obedience by might of arms. If he could not command the loyalty of his tribe by merit, then he did not want to rule.

But then, perhaps he did not deserve to rule now, after letting his blood enemy live—

"Jafar?"

His head came up abruptly; he hadn't heard Alysson's soft tread.

When he swung around and locked gazes with her, she was startled by the dark emotion shadowing his features. His lean face bore the marks of suffering.

"What is it?" she asked in alarm, moving quickly across the chamber to his side.

Immediately his expression became shuttered, his eyes lidded, withdrawn, secretive.

Her own eyes bright with concern, Alysson reached up to touch his stubbled cheek, wanting to comfort him.

It was the first spontaneous caress she had ever given him. It was a gesture of simple compassion.

Jafar abruptly drew back, as if her touch might wound him.

Alysson slowly let her hand drop, feeling dread return to curl in her stomach. When she searched Jafar's hard face, she could find no trace of the gentleness she'd once seen there. She knew she should demand at once to be told what had happened to Gervase, but it was a subj

ect she couldn't bring herself to broach. The truth was she was afraid. Afraid to face the possibility that Gervase was dead, that Jafar was responsible. And so cravenly she continued to put off the question.

A tense silence stretched between them . . . Alysson not knowing what to say to the hard, enigmatic man standing before her, Jafar waiting for her to ask about the fate of her fiancé. He could read the unasked question in her eyes: What of Gervase? What have you done to him?

Jafar's fingers slowly clenched into fists as he fought the onslaught of stinging jealousy. He should tell her, of course. He should allay her fears at once and let her know that her beloved Gervase was unharmed. But he couldn't bring himself to say the words, for then he would see her love for his archenemy confirmed in her eyes.

But her question, when it finally came, was not about Gervase de Bourmont.

"Why have you brought my uncle here?" Alysson asked quietly.

It provided only marginal relief to Jafar that she hadn't voiced her fears about Bourmont. He did not want to discuss her uncle, either, or his reason for bringing the elderly Frenchman here. For doing so would be to expose his weakness, his vulnerability. Alysson herself.

Fortunately, as a Berber warlord, he was not compelled to give her his reasons. He was still her captor; she was still his to command.

Jafar turned away abruptly, impatiently striding across the carpets to the bedchamber.

Alysson followed. At the curtain, she paused, watching as he began unbuckling his elaborately embossed sword and scabbard. "Why, Jafar?"

"Because it was my wish." The words were harsh, gritted out between his teeth.

She hesitated, struggling to fathom his anger. "Jafar, please . . . my uncle is an old man . . . and now he's severely wounded. Have you no pity?"

He cursed softly, while his fierce gaze sliced to hers. "I showed him pity, Ehuresh. Would you rather I had left him to die on the battlefield?"

"No . . . of course not."