Of course he probably was a king in his culture, or close enough. He was a warlord, a chieftain who held the power of life and death over his followers . . . and his captives.
Alysson suffered his scrutiny in simmering silence as she tried to eat. The dates and camel's milk were a welcome change from barley bread and goat's cheese, but she could hardly force them past her dry throat. Her situation was even more dire than she had thought. He didn't want money, if he could be believed, yet he hadn't answered her question about what he intended to do with her. She wanted desperately to know, but after all his talk of concubines and harems, she was afraid of the answer.
Beneath veiling lashes, she eyed Jafar with fresh trepidation. He was a cool, self-possessed man, handsome in a raw, ruthless way. Despite his occasional kindness toward her, his hard mouth held a hint of what might be cruelty, while his hawk-eyes held shrewd intelligence and determination. He was the kind of man who would always manage to get his way, whatever the circumstances. And she very much feared that in this instance, too, he would prove victorious.
"Come, it is time to go."
Jafar's quiet command startled Alysson from her morose thoughts. Seeing that he had risen and was holding out a hand to her, she allowed him to help her to her feet.
"Is it far, to your camp?" she made herself ask.
"A few hours more, only."
Slowly, reluctantly, she followed him over to the horses. She dreaded the upcoming ride, dreaded even more the end of their journey.
Her sickening sense of inevitability only increased the further they traveled, reaching burgeoning proportions when an hour later Alysson found herself truly on the outskirts of the Sahara. All around her stretched a desolate yellow-and- gray expanse, baking beneath a hot azure sky. Summer was long over, and yet the cruel heat was almost unbearable.
Her spirits wilting, Alysson hung her head.
"Not much further," she heard Jafar say. His tone was gently bracing, and for an instant she even thought she saw sympathy in his eyes.
Abruptly she squared her shoulders, determined not to accept any pity from him.
After another hour of riding, though, the hopelessness of her situation began to press down on her like a crushing weight. To the far right she glimpsed the beginning of another high mountain range. To the far left was the same shimmering mirage that looked so much like a lake.
The mirage was bounded to the south by ranges of golden sand hills. Beyond, in the distance, the desert passed into a limitless gloomy waste, broken only now and then by a scraggly clump of broom or thorn.
Some half hour later, they reached what Alysson realized was their destination. When she
shielded her eyes from the glare, she could make out scores of black tents pitched beneath banners that fluttered proudly in the wind.
A camp of war, Alysson thought with dismay. It appeared that her fierce Berber warlord had gathered a small army here at the edge of the world. Wretched, despondent, she glanced at Jafar. He was watching her intently from hooded eyes.
The next moment the air was filled with shouts and cries as a throng of robed horsemen galloped out to greet their leader. Alysson couldn't summon the energy to be alarmed, even when the horde of fierce Berbers surged around them, wildly circling and firing muskets into the air, stirring up clouds of desert sand.
She did feel a welcoming spark of renewed anger, however, when she recognized the red-bearded Berber who had acted as spokesman for the group which had ambushed her uncle's party, making it possible for their chieftain to take her captive.
Had it only been two days ago? It seemed like an eternity.
The bearded Berber did not appear interested in her, though. After only a brief glance at Alysson, he launched into a lengthy conversation with Jafar—probably bringing him up to date on what had occurred during his absence, Alysson surmised.
Jafar listened attentively, only occasionally asking a question or making a comment as he accompanied his lieutenant into the encampment. Not once did he look at Alysson, even though he was still leading her mare.
She wondered hopefully if he had forgotten her presence, but she soon realized the futility of such wishful thinking. The moment he brought the horses to a halt before a large, caparisoned tent, his attention shifted back to her.
"Welcome to my camp, Miss Vickery," he said dispassionately.
When she didn't reply, he dropped gracefully off his stallion's back and strode around to her side, reaching up to help her dismount.
For a moment, Alysson's courage failed her entirely. She stayed where was, staring down into Jafar's golden eyes.
When his fingers tightened about her waist, though, she gave herself a fierce mental shake. Taking a deep breath, she swung her leg over the pommel and let herself slide into his waiting arms. He had promised not to hurt her, hadn't he?
But still she couldn't shake the horrible, sinking feeling that her trials were just beginning.
Chapter 5
Hesitating at the doorway of the tent, Alysson glanced cautiously within, noting double walls of black goatskin and a high roof supported by slender wooden poles. The dwelling was large and spacious as befitted a lord, but sparsely furnished, in the manner of a soldier. The thick carpets that covered the sand floor were scattered with cushions and several small, low tables—the effect practical rather than luxurious.