Lord of Desire

From dawn to dusk the reception hall where he held audience was always filled with a steady stream of people who demanded his attention. The room was downstairs off the court, and Alysson could observe the constant activity whenever she chose.

The courtyard, she discovered, was the most enjoyable spot in the house. The huge quadrangle boasted several flowing fountains and marble basins, surrounded by oleanders and almond trees. In the afternoons Alysson liked to wrap up warmly against the chill fall air and stroll beneath the trees, or sit in the sun on one of the marble benches.

It was there in the courtyard that she discovered a new friend. Jafar owned several Nubian greyhounds, and one of those tall, slender dogs—a young bitch—began to follow Alysson around.

The courtyard also was where she encountered Zohra a few days after her arrival, and where she learned the necessity of keeping up her guard. The beautiful Berber woman might look harmless with her fair skin and pale blonde hair, but her feminine softness hid the disposition of a scorpion.

Zohra spoke French fairly well, and her tone was pleasant enough when she first addressed Alysson. But after the preliminary flowery greetings, Zohra immediately turned to the subject of Jafar.

"You should be honored by the lord's attention," she said with a sly, even hard edge to her voice. "He looks upon you with favor."

Startled by such frankness, Alysson raised a cool eyebrow.

When she didn't answer, the Berber woman tried another tack. "The saiyid is a magnificent lover, no? Do you not find him pleasing?"

The pain that observation aroused in Alysson was sharp and twisting. Jafar was a magnificent lover, but the confirmation that Zohra had been the lucky recipient of his passion filled Alysson with dismay—a reaction that was absurd and entirely unjustified, considering her own uncertain position in Jafar's life. She had to forcibly refrain from snapping a reply.

"Where I come from," she answered curtly, "ladies do not discuss their lovers in public, or converse on such personal subjects with persons who are virtual strangers."

Zohra shrugged her graceful shoulders, setting her gold chains and bracelets to jingling. Her mouth curved in a sneer. "The women of my country are not so prudish or self-righteous. Nor are we as cold in love. Very young, we learn the art of pleasing a man, how to win his heart."

"The women of my country are too proud to share the heart of a man."

"Too proud? But you have no right to pride any longer. You are only the lord's captive."

Alysson set her teeth. "If you will excuse me, I have more important concerns that require my attention."

Rising, she walked away, her shoulders erect, her head high. But when she had sought the safety of her bedchamber, her shoulders sagged. Her throat was tight with an unwanted ache, while at the same time she felt the most barbaric urge to scratch the beautiful Zohra's blue eyes out.

Realizing the significance of that urge, Alysson mentally flogged herself. Never in her life had she been jealous of another woman, and she was not about to start now. Nor would she demean herself by fighting that blonde witch for Jafar's affections.

Even so, she had no trouble agreeing with Mahmoud's muttered denunciations when he referred to Zohra as “that she-devil" and "the daughter of an obstinate she-camel." Zohra was not in Mahmoud's good graces, it seemed, for quite cruelly she had never let the boy forget his scarred face or his pitiful limp. Alysson found it only a slight consolation when Mahmoud respectfully began to address herself as lallah, which was considered a lady of position in Arabic.

Zohra, Alysson learned from Mahmoud, came from the neighboring Beni Ammer tribe and was a courtesan of the first order, like the dancers of the Ouled Nail whom Alysson had seen in Bou Saada. The blonde woman was evidently plying her trade in Jafar's bed.

That no doubt was the reason he hadn't once come to her own bed, Alysson realized miserably. If he could enjoy the services of such a beautiful, accomplished courtesan, why would he possibly want her? She was merely Jafar's captive, after all. And a foreign one, at that.

That remembrance sent a new wave of despair rushing through Alysson. She had no real place in Jafar's life, and no future either. She must have been mad to let herself forget that reality, to let her heart rule her head. During the long weeks of her captivity, she'd

obviously lost any sense of judgment, any regard for right or wrong. It had been utter folly for her to fall in love with Jafar, and totally wrong of her to surrender her body to him. She should have known better.

Alysson was struggling with those distressing thoughts that same evening before supper as she strolled on the terrace at one end of Jafar's reception hall. She was alone, for the tribal business was finished for the day, and Chand was aiding her uncle in dressing for dinner.

A masterpiece of construction, the terrace was formed by a projecting cliff and sheltered from rain and wind by a granite overhang. Above and beside the terrace, a stream dashed in a foaming torrent to create a lovely waterfall, which could be viewed from stone benches carved from the living rock. Below lay the entire magnificent valley of the Beni Abess, Jafar's tribe.

The sun was setting on the beautiful scene by the time Alysson reluctantly rose to go inside. When she turned, though, it was to find Jafar standing in the doorway, watching her. Her breath caught in her throat at the way his presence immediately filled the terrace and brought it to life.

He wore a lightly flowing white robe of sheer silk that enhanced the lean masculinity of his features, but he had left off any turban. When he stepped onto the terrace, his sunstruck mane seemed ablaze with red-gold light. Gazing at him in near-awe, Alysson felt the insistent sting of her own desire.

It was only when he came closer that she saw the lines of strain on his face, around his eyes and mouth. He was troubled about something, she was certain—though when he came to a halt before her and raised her fingers to his lips, his greeting was pleasant enough.

"I fear I have been neglecting you these past few days, chérie, for my far more onerous duties. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Alysson had indeed been feeling neglected by him, but she would never have admitted it. "Mahmoud has been looking after me," she said instead.

"Zohra will perform tonight for you and your uncle. I hope you will enjoy it. She is an excellent dancer."

Praise of the courtesan was not at all what Alysson wanted to hear just then, and she replied without even intending to. "I seem to recall you told me you had no concubines."