Lord of Desire

The bitterness in the soft laughter that accompanied his remark raked at Alysson's heart. "No," she whispered.

Abruptly his arm lowered and he turned his head to look directly at her. His eyes contained the fierce rebellion of a caged hawk, she saw, but it was a rebellion that ineffectually hid other, more powerful emotions. Alysson was startled by the torment she saw in his eyes. There was no mistaking it.

This was Jafar as he truly was, Alysson knew. A man torn by conflicts. She could feel the despair in him, the vulnerability, the bitterness.

"No," Alysson said fiercely, defiantly. "You aren't cold and heartless . . . you aren't a savage. You are just a man . . . fighting for what you believe in, against overwhelming odds."

His lips twisted in the semblance of a smile. Ah, Ehuresh, he reflected bleakly. Even in this you defy me. Yet an unwanted ache tightened in Jafar's chest at her passionate defense of him. She did feel something for him after all, he was certain. Perhaps a part of her even found this leavetak- ing a torment as he did—the physical part that he'd taught to feel passion. But what he wanted from Alysson went far deeper than mere possession of her body. He wanted her heart. And that he could never have.

Slowly he reached up to draw a gentle finger along the delicate line of her jaw. Stay with me, he thought silently, hopelessly.

Ask me to stay, Alysson pleaded just as silently, gazing miserably into his eyes.

Will you marry him when you return?

Why are you letting me go?

Jafar saw her eyes fill with questions, questions he knew she was too proud to ask, but at the remembrance of his blood enemy, he had to look away. He was sending Alysson back to her fiancé, back to the arms of the man he should have killed. The despair that had smoldered in his heart during the long weeks just past clawed at him now with savage force.

Despair. It was not an unfamiliar emotion to him, but he hadn't expected this kind of deep wound, this kind of raw agony. He'd never imagined, either, just how completely his defiant young captive would fill his life, his heart. Yet she had. And now he would be alone and empty again when she left. The agony washed over him again as he wondered how would face the years of stark emptiness ahead.

How could he find the strength to let her go?

And yet how could he not? In the long run, she would be far happier with her own kind. He had to remember that. Once she returned to her own people, she would forget him. In time her ordeal as his captive would fade to nothing more than a bad dream.

Against his will, Jafar's bleak gaze found Alysson's. There had been so much anger between them, so much pain and passion, so many things said and unsaid. But there was no changing the past. It was much too late.

And the dawn was coming too soon.

Wordlessly Jafar reached for her again, drawing Alysson into his embrace. All he could do now was see to it that she never forgot him.

"You will remember me," he promised harshly against her Sips. "You'll carry with you the feel of my hands . . . my body on yours . . . the taste of my mouth . . ."

And then there were no more words as Jafar set out to fulfill his vow. Neither he nor Alysson voiced the tormented thoughts that were uppermost in their hearts. But during their fierce lovemaking, they said silently with their bodies what they would not say aloud.

Chapter 25

Alysson was well-protected on the lengthy journey back to Algiers. The khalif himself provided her escort, along with Jafar's chief lieutenant, the red-bearded Farhat il Taib. Jafar would trust no one else with her safety.

The rain fell in torrents as the armed party negotiated the treacherous mountain passes, but Alysson hardly noticed the bone-deep chill. She felt numb all over, except for the awful hollowness where her heart should have been.

The journey took three days, the slow pace in deference to the rain and her Uncle Honoré. Honoré's ribs had not mended well enough for him to ride so he was carried by litter.

The miserable rain had stopped by the time Ben Hamadi left them near the outskirts of Algiers. The bright, cloudless sky once again glowed with a golden clarity particular to the Mediterranean, while the deep verdure of the hills surrounding the city provided a jeweled setting for the dazzling white seaport overlooking the harbor.

In contrast, the steeply sloping streets were dark and narrow. Alysson found it hard to repress a shudder once she had passed through the walled gates and descended into the town. Algiers with its history of treachery and despotism and cruel bondage now seemed oppressed and shut up—far, far different than when shed first laid eager eyes on it.

It was with great weariness that she drew her mount to a halt before the Moorish house she and her uncle had hired for the season. Numbly, she sat waiting for Chand to help her down. Had it only been a few short months ago that she had set out from here for the desert, in search of passion and adventure? She had found both, much to her sorrow.

So wrapped up in her misery was Alysson that she only vaguely heard a familiar voice shouting at her in English,

"Alysson! Where in the name of God have you been?"

Startled, she raised her gaze to the tall man in European dress who had rushed out of the house. "Uncle Oliver!" she breathed.

The next instant she found herself being dragged from her horse and crushed in a bear hug. Laughing and crying both, Alysson returned her Uncle Oliver's smothering embrace with all the strength she could muster.

A moment later, he abruptly held her away, his penetrating blue eyes searching her face. "Are you well, girl?" he demanded. Not giving her time to answer, he turned to Honoré with a scowl. "What do you mean, allowing her to be abducted by an Arab devil?"