Alysson smiled through a haze of tears. She wanted to take Mahmoud in her arms and hold him, but any young man who considered himself a warrior, as Mahmoud did, would likely be offended and embarrassed by such womanly displays of affection. She settled for giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Afterward, she returned to her room. She tried to sleep for a few hours, but the sounds of revelry coming from the village and the savage pain in her breast kept her awake.
Beneath the mound of quilts of her sleeping mat, Alysson lay curled in a tight ball. God, how could she bear to leave Jafar? How could she endure the agony that was making her heart bleed? She felt as if it were slowly being ripped in two. And it seemed as if there was nothing in this world she could do to mend the torn pieces.
She went to him that night. She couldn't stay away.
The hour was late—well past midnight—and the household was long asleep as Alysson made her way through the darkness toward the lord's quarters. The guards let her pass. She entered Jafar's rooms quietly, through his library. The door to his sleeping chamber was open, and she could see a faint light issuing from within.
The glow was cast from a single, low-burning hanging lamp, Alysson saw as she paused at the threshold. Jafar's bed was a Berber bed, not Arab, with a wooden frame supporting layers of rugs and cushions. It stood in one corner beside a large carved chest of sandalwood inlaid with ivory. A brazier glowed in another corner, warming the room.
Jafar was not asleep. Rather, he was standing near the
high grilled window, staring down at the floor, at nothing. When Alysson took a step toward him, his head turned swiftly, like that of a wild animal sensing danger, his hand automatically stealing to the dagger at his waist.
Alysson caught her breath in a soft gasp at his action. The low sound lafar made was sharper, harsher, when a moment later she let her burnous fall from her shoulders. She was clad in silk so sheer that the curves and shadows of her body were clearly visible beneath it.
A still, breathless quietude filled the room as they stared at each other.
For a brief instant Alysson thought she'd imagined a look on Jafar's hard features that was almost vulnerable, a vulnerability that sat oddly on that arrogant face. But she was not imagining his fatigue. Seeing Jafar like this, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes weary, Alysson wondered if he might actually be feeling an inkling of the throbbing pain that was savaging her.
There was no indication of it when his voice came softly stealing through the silence. "You shouldn't be here, Ehuresh. ''
"I came . . . to say good-bye . . ." Alysson faltered, hearing the hope and hollowness in her own voice.
He moved toward her then, coming to stand before her. Capturing her face carefully between his palms, he gazed down at her, searching the shadows that made her eyes pools of mystery.
"What is it you want of me?" he asked hoarsely. No longer indifferent, his tone held a note that suggested emotion was crushing each syllable.
Alysson's heart began to pound painfully. What did she want of him? She wanted to love him. She wanted the touch of his mouth so much that she was willing to take the hurt with it. She wanted memories of him to sustain her through the bleak years ahead. She wanted to believe, just for tonight, that things could be right between them.
"I want to remember you . . ." she whispered as she raised her lips for his kiss.
With a harsh groan, Jafar accommodated her. Dragging her into his arms, he brought his mouth crashing down on hers.
It was a kiss of desperation, Alysson realized dimly. She could feel it in the way Ms mouth ground against hers, lit the fierce penetration of his hot tongue, in the thwarted thrust of his hard body—and she could see it in his blazing, searching eyes when abruptly he pulled away.
Those eyes were wild, fierce, naked in intent, as he tore at her diaphanous robes and his own djellaba. They remained wild as he scooped her up and carried her to the bed, then followed her down. Without pause, his hands tangled in her hair as he attacked with his mouth, as he covered her with his body.
There was no gentleness in him. She wanted none.. It was a naked moment of truth between them, a moment when need reigned supreme. His need to stamp her with his ownership, Her need to be taken.
His demanding fierceness sparked an answering wildness in Alysson. Blindly her hands sought his thick hair, while her body reacted with animal passion, straining, arching against bis powerful loins.
And then she was being filled by him, with his desperation. Her head thrashed from side to side at the heated carnality, at the intensity of desire so searing she thought she might perish from it. When the desperation became too much, she clawed at his back, sobbing his name, pleading for him to end her torment. In response, lafar caught her hips and pushed deeper, driving harder, until the frantic woman beneath him was shuddering under his deep thrusts. Her sharp cry of passion shattered his ragged control. Jafar went taut and reared back, letting her name burst from his throat in his own hoarse cry.
Afterward they lay gasping, entwined, the fury of heartbeats settling into a less violent rhythm. Eventually, Jafar drew slowly away, as if separating himself from her was like te
aring his limbs from his body.
Feeling similarly, Alysson turned weakly on her side so she could watch him. lafar lay sprawled on his back among the lush cushions, one arm thrown over his forehead, Ms eyes closed.
Her fearless Berber lover, she thought with mingled anguish and yearning. Slowly, shamelessly, Alysson Jet her eyes roam over him, drinking in the beauty of his body, his sleek muscled length dusted with golden hair, gleaming darkly in the lamplight. He was much like the lion she had hunted in the mountain, though not as savage. A wild and tawny beast, only half-tamed.
Purposely her gaze rose to Jafar's shadowed, sensual face. She wanted the memory of his face engraved in her mind.
She didn't regret coming here to him, Alysson thought silently. She had made love to him because she wanted to, because she needed to, because there were too many years stretching out ahead of her like a barren desert.
Just then Jafar stirred. As if he'd sensed her watching, his hand flexed into a fist, though his eyes remained shut. "So, Ehuresh, now you may remember me as I am . . . a cold, heartless brute . . . a savage heathen."