Lord of Desire

am sorry that you are required to serve me. Perhaps it might help if you remember that I did not ask to be brought here."

He seemed to consider that a moment, but then his scowl returned. "The lord wishes you to eat." Turning abruptly, he left the tent with surprising dignity, dragging his right food behind him.

Alysson suppressed a sigh. Directing her attention to the tray, she saw that Mahmoud had brought her an earthen pitcher of water, a goblet of fruit juice, and a wooden bowl of figs, oranges, and dates.

She carried the pitcher to the inner room, where she quickly made use of the water to wash away the dust. It surprised her that one person had been allowed so much water, but perhaps there was a well nearby.

Returning to the main quarters, she drank the pomegranate juice and ate an orange, finding both refreshing. Still

Jafar did not come, even though it was growing dark outside. Wearily she curled up on one of the cushions and closed her eyes for a moment.

That was how Jafar found her a half hour later, her head partly sliding off the pillow, one slender hand tucked beneath her cheek.

He stood looking down at her for a time, marveling at how sweetly innocent she looked in sleep, with the soft golden lamplight spilling over her. Nothing like the spitting tigress who had challenged him every step of the way here.

An unwanted emotion stirred in his chest. It was guilt, he realized. Guilt for using her in his battle against his mortal enemy. But it was too late now to be harboring doubts about the wisdom of his plan. Events had progressed too far.

Carefully Jafar knelt to wake her. Brushing a wisp of hair back from her face, he resisted the urge to press his lips against the vee where her throat pulsed in tiny waves, and gently squeezed her arm, instead.

Alysson came awake with a start. Seeing Jafar so close, she tried to scurry to her feet, but she made the mistake of gripping the table edge for support. That was how she discovered that the table was merely an unattached platform supported by wooden blocks, so it could easily be assembled for transporting when the Berbers broke camp. The empty goblet went flying, while pieces of fruit rolled across the carpets.

A wry smile curved Jafar's mouth as he watched a date take refuge among his maps. "Leave it," he said when Alysson tried to rectify the damage she had done. "Mahmoud will see to it when he serves supper."

Alysson disobeyed, partly because she disliked putting the young servant to further trouble, partly to give herself something to do, and partly in order to defy her captor.

Shaking his head at her stubbornness, Jafar retreated into the bedchamber in order to wash. He returned to the main room a few minutes later, dressed in a short, white, sleeveless tunic, loose white trousers, and boots of soft crimson leather.

Shortly, Mahmoud limped in, bearing the first courses of the evening meal. With only a sullen glance at Alysson, the boy spread a tablecloth on the carpet at their feet and placed the dishes before them. In the presence of his master, Mahmoud was courteous and deferential toward Alysson, calling her saiyida—madam—in Arabic. Jafar he called lord.

Watching them together, Alysson realized then that her plan to befriend Mahmoud was probably doomed to failure; the boy obviously worshiped the man.

Supper was a more substantial meal than any she'd previously had with Jafar. First they were served small glasses of mint tea, sweet and sticky and hot. Then came bread and cheese and olives, accompanied by beans boiled in oil and vinegar. Alysson observed Jafar eat the beans as the native Arabs did, gracefully, with the fingers of his right hand, but she chose to use the wooden spoon that had been provided her.

She was halfway through the course when it occurred to her that she should not be eating with him. In Eastern cultures women dined separately from the men, afterward. The bite she was swallowing suddenly stuck in Alysson's throat. Why was Jafar was making an exception for her? Did he have some ulterior motive that she had yet to fathom?

"I confess," she said nervously when Mahmoud had withdrawn, "I am surprised to be dining with you. I didn't think the opposite genders ate together in Barbary."

Jafar gave her a considering look that divulged nothing of his thoughts. "I told you once, I am prepared to make allowances for your European upbringing. As long as your behavior remains obedient and circumspect, I will permit you more freedom than I would allow a woman of my own country."

The arrogance of his reply grated on her nerves. "I suppose you think I should be Honoréd by your condescension."

"Indeed you should," he returned with a slight smile.

The boy reappeared just then, bringing with him bowls of rich lentil soup, and dessert, bread with honey. Alysson broke off her interrogation and maintained a frustrated silence for the duration of the meal, waiting for a moment of privacy to ask Jafar what he intended to do with her. Whenever he happened to glance at her, she regarded him with a touch of disdain, matching coolness with coolness, arrogance with arrogance.

The moment finally came. When Mahmoud had served them each a small cup of thick, black coffee and proffered a bowl of water for them to wash their hands, Jafar dismissed the servant with an imperious wave of his fingers.

Alysson suddenly wished she could call the boy back. Now that she was alone with Jafar, her anxiety returned in foil measure. She didn't like what the soft glow of the olive oil lamps did for his features. His hair gleamed like dark burnished gold, while the light reflected the amber of his eyes. His attire, too, was unsettling. His lean, muscular grace was much more obvious without his robes, making her aware of him as a man, and not just as her villainous captor.

Abruptly she decided that going on the offensive was the best course.

"I did not think you would be so willing to waste water on cleanliness here in the desert," she said tersely, thinking of his cruel insistence on making her ask him for a drink. "Yesterday you made me beg for every drop."

Cradling his coffee cup in one hand, Jafar leaned back on a cushion, supporting his weight on one elbow. "Cleanliness is a virtue in my religion. It is our custom to bathe frequently whenever we can spare the water. In this case it is possible, since my camp is supplied by an artesian well." After a short pause, he supplemented with a mocking smile, "Dug by your own Legionnaires, I might add."

The irony was not lost on Alysson. Naturally he would find it amusing that the French military should aid him in his malevolent purposes, however indirectly. The knowledge of a well gave her no comfort, either. He would need a ready source of water if he planned to remain here for any length of time.

"When do you mean to tell me what you intend to do with me?" Alysson demanded.