Lord of Desire

Alysson looked away, her throat tight. "I want him. Is that so wrong of me?''

Honoré raised his fist in the air. "Yes and yes and yes! What future is there in it for you?"

"I . . . don't know."

Her uncle shook his head sorrowfully. "You and he are too different. Your ways are too different. It can never be."

For a long moment Alysson didn't answer.

"What a horror this trip has become," Honoré muttered finally. "How I wish we had never come to this heathen country."

Alysson could not wish the same. If she'd never come to Algeria, she never would have met Jafar, never would have fallen in love, never would have known such fulfillment as a woman.

And yet she couldn't simply blithely dismiss her uncle's concern. Could she have a future with Jafar?

It was a question she didn't want to face, but one that occupied her thoughts almost to the exclusion of all else during the next few days. She loved Jafar, but she wasn't at all certain he could ever return her love.

So much stood between them. Even if she were willing to give up her own life—her family, her religion, her entire culture—in order to live with him, would Jafar want her, an Englishwoman, in his life? And if so, in what capacity? He would not want an English wife, most certainly. Not when he'd disavowed his English heritage and turned his back on his mother's people. Not when he blamed her fellow Europeans for the murder of his parents and the rape of his country.

Besides, it was presumptuous of her even to think Jafar might take her for his wife. He had never spoken of marriage or even love. And his duty required him to marry a noblewoman of his own country.

What had he meant by his cryptic remark? Alysson wondered. If you were truly my woman, you would not want to leave here. Was he saying she had a choice? But no, he would not let her decide whether to stay or go. He was the most possessive man she knew. What belonged to him would never be surrendered easily. He had never once made any mention of her release. That afternoon by the waterfall, Jafar had merely jested about playing her slave for a few hours.

And as satisfying as it had been to have him at her mercy during their erotic lovers' games, she hadn't forgotten that any power she enjoyed over him was totally at his discretion, because he allowed it. Nor could she forget that Jafar had vowed she would call him master someday.

That was not the kind of relationship she wanted with him. She wanted them to be equals, not master and slave. But then, her wishes hardly mattered. In fact, she was slowly, painfully, coming to the realization that her happiness belonged to Jafar, whether she wanted it so or not.

And despite her uncle's warning that she had no future here with Jafar, Alysson feared that it no longer mattered. Lamentably, she had little pride left. She might even have remained with Jafar as his mistress, if only he had asked.

But he didn't ask.

The week following their magical afternoon of lovemaking was a time of torment and confusion for Alysson as she struggled with her feelings for Jafar. Self-respect alone kept her from confessing her love for him. How piteous a figure she would cut if she begged him to allow her to stay and he refused. Or if he grew tired of her and turned to another woman. She couldn't bear his pity or his disinterest. And so she remained silent, as did he.

She would have liked to ride off her frustrations and uncertainties on the back of a swift horse, but the weather turned cold and ugly—the bone-chilling slashing rain of late November. More to the point, Jafar had forbidden her to ride without his accompaniment. It seemed that a lion was stalking the hills, preying on livestock, and Jafar did not want her exposed to such danger. Alysson would have argued, but on the subject of her safety, Jafar was adamant. After her near-death from the scorpion's sting, he was not inclined to risk her life again.

It was nearly the end of November, by her calculations, when she was forcibly reminded that not only her future was at stake, but Jafar's as well. Alysson had gone up to the rooftop to be alone when she spied a large crowd of black-robed men gathering in the village arena. Suddenly uneasy, she hurried downstairs and found Mahmoud.

The boy was nearly the only male present in the house.

The tribal council was meeting to vote on Jafar's impeachment, but Mahmoud was too young to attend.

Alysson turned pale when she heard the news, but she squared her shoulders in determination.

"I mean to attend the council meeting, Mahmoud. Will you accompany me?" Even as she spoke, she turned and strode quickly across the courtyard.

"You? But you are a female, lallah!"

"What does that have to say to anything?" she replied impatiently,

walking so fast that Mahmoud had to scurry to catch up.

"It is not permitted for a woman to attend without invitation."

Hearing his shuffling gait, Alysson paused to wait for him. "I mean to speak in your lord's defense, with or without an invitation. But I need you to act as my translator. Now, will you come with me or not?"

The boy's scarred features showed an agony of indecision—whether to defy the lord but act in his best interests. "Oh, lallah, I dare not," he said finally.

"Then I shall go alone."