Lord of Desire

No, he could not send Alysson back to endure that fate among her people. He cared too much. He cared. He wanted to protect her from such viciousness if he could. Perhaps it was possible. He wasn't without influence in her society, thanks to his noble grandfather. If he could manage to find some elderly European matron of unquestionable reputation who would be willing to swear Alysson had been properly chaperoned the entire time, then she might hope to dodge the vicious arrows that would be aimed at her by her hypocritical society. But it would take time and planning. Time that she would have to remain with him.

Of course, the best protection by far would be marriage—

Jafar grimaced as his conscience smote him yet once again. An honorable man would make reparations by marrying a young lady he had compromised. But making Alysson an offer of marriage was out of the question. He'd spent the last seven years of his life trying to rid himself of the taint of his English heritage, to put that part of his past behind him, and wedding an Englishwoman would destroy any hope of succeeding.

But of far greater moment was his duty. As amghar, he was obliged to put the interests of his tribe first. When eventually he did marry, it would be to the noble daughter of a neighboring tribe, in order to strengthen his alliances against his enemies, most particularly the French.

Fulfilling that duty was even more imperative now, after his betrayal on the battlefield. Jafar's jaw hardened at the remembrance. When he arrived home, he would be called to account for his actions before the tribal council. But even if he were somehow vindicated for forsaking his blood oath, he could never forgive himself for his failure. And he would not allow himself to betray his tribe again.

No, he knew where his duty lay. He could never consider taking a foreign wife.

But if Alysson married someone else, immediately upon her return . . .

The thought made his stomach churn, yet Jafar forced himself to consider the possibility. Would his archenemy the colonel still be willing to marry a young woman of sullied reputation? But yes. No man in his right mind would give up Alysson Vickery for so paltry a reason. Certainly he wouldn't. After he killed the bastard who'd defiled her, he would never consider it again.

But then perhaps he was no longer in his right mind—at least not where Alysson was concerned. For her he had broken a sacred vow, had disHonoréd his name and his people. And when the decisive moment had come, he'd behaved just like the savage barbarian Alysson had accused him of being. Look at him now. He was carrying her off to his mountain stronghold, where he meant to keep her until he could make himself give her up.

Even that would not be enough, but it would have to do.

He would use the time wisely. His duty permitting, he would do everything in his power to make her feel at home among his people. More than that, he would spare no effort in making her forget her love for his blood enemy, Gervase de Bourmont.

With grim determination, then, Jafar dismissed his morose contemplations. Still, one cynical question persisted in nagging at the edge of his thoughts.

Was Alysson his captive, or was he hers?

On the second day of the journey, in the afternoon, the caravan entered the mountains. On the far side of the first peak lay a rich plain, then another mountain, then another fertile valley, alternating until the rugged ridges and masses became dominant.

The sun remained just as glaringly bright, but as they climbed in altitude, the desert heat fell away. The low scrub of juniper and brambles was succeeded by a primeval forest of holm oak—evergreens which resembled huge hollies. By

the afternoon of the third day that prickly foliage gave way to venerable cedars.

Staring up at the feathery tops of the ancient giants, Alysson took a deep breath, drinking in the pure clean air of the highlands. Her spirit felt lighter than it had in weeks. Yet how could it be otherwise, with magnificent mountains, jagged and purple, towering around her, with larks and swallows soaring high overhead? She dismissed the danger of the mountain path beneath her horse's hooves; it could hardly be called a road.

An hour later, as they passed through a narrow winding defile bounded on both sides by high precipices, Mahmoud found her.

"The lord bids you ride with him," the boy said.

Alysson's heart skipped several beats. With a glance at the curtained litter where her uncle was sleeping, and an apologetic smile for the now-scowling Chand, she rode to the head of the column.

Jafar, his expression strangely sober, waited for her. She hadn't spoken intimately with him in nearly three days, not since the night of passion they had shared, but he didn't seem inclined to talk now. His silence puzzled her, but even that couldn't spoil Alysson's high spirits. She was content merely to be near to him.

It was late in the day when she forgot herself long enough to comment. At the moment the steep assent snaked along a narrow ridge, while to the left was a sheer drop of some three hundred feet.

"I suppose it's fortunate that I don't suffer a fear of heights," Alysson remarked with a cautious glance beyond Jafar.

"Is there anything from which you do suffer fear, ma belle?"

Her eyes came up quickly at his curious question, but she couldn't read his enigmatic look. "Oh, indeed," she answered lightly. "In the past month, I've learned to treat scorpions with a very healthy respect."

He smiled at that.

"These mountains," Alysson said, wishing he would keep smiling at her like that, as if she were clever and a bit precious, "are barely accessible. I should think it impossible for anyone to get in or out unless he were invited. An enemy wouldn't stand a chance of passing through here unchallenged."

Jafar nodded. "The Biban Range provides a natural defense. In every successive invasion of this province, the Berbers have abandoned the plains but successfully defended their homes in the hills."

"Is that where we are, the Biban mountains?"

"Yes."