Lord of Desire

"On when your fiancé comes for you."

Startled, bewildered, she fell silent.

"I expect by now the colonel is searching for you," Jafar said, his expression deliberately impassive.

"How could you possibly know what Gervase would or would not do?"

He shrugged. "I have spies in the French government. I pay them well to keep me informed of the colonel's movements."

Spies? That no doubt was how he had managed to arrange her capture so easily. A hollow, sinking feeling suddenly welled in the pit of Alysson's stomach. "Just . . . just what is it you want with me?"

"I told you. Merely your presence."

"But why? What ever good could my presence do you?"

He was silent for so long that at first she thought he didn't mean to answer. When finally he spoke, his tone was quiet and deadly. "It will afford our troops an engagement with the French army.''

His reply made Alysson shiver. Was that what he wanted? A battle with the French army? Then she remembered something Jafar had said just after he'd taken her captive. I sincerely hope the French army does come for you, the good colonel most of all. Did he mean to lure them into a trap of some kind? If so, then she was the bait. Dear God . . .

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words lodged in her suddenly dry throat. It was a long moment before she could force herself to reply. "You mean to use me to trick the French army into fighting you?"

"I mean to fight the French, yes."

But it doubtless would not be a fair fight. This ruthless Berber warlord would set the terms of the battle to his great advantage. Countless men would die, and it would be her fault.

The thought made her quake.

"What you've planned is despicable, vile," Alysson declared in a hoarse voice. "It's the act of a coward, using a woman to carry out your treacherous plot."

He didn't acknowledge her comment as he groomed the stallion's powerful hindquarters.

"What will you do with me when I've served my purpose? Kill me? Sell me as a slave?"

That made Jafar pause. Glancing over his shoulder, he met her gaze, his own eyes narrowed. "Afterward you will be free to return to your uncle. Unlike the French, we do not not make war on women and children."

"No?" She laughed, a scoffing, incredulous sound. "Then what do you call your abduction of me?"

"You have not been harmed. I've given you no cause to complain of your treatment," he replied, his voice nonchalant yet having a sharp thrust. "You haven't been raped or beaten or tortured."

She wanted to protest. She wanted to shout at him: You kissed me. You assaulted me with your caresses. You promised to take my virginity. You threatened to make me respond to you and want you. He might not have actually hurt her, but his promise of seduction had unnerved her more than any threat of physical torture could have done. And now that she knew what he planned, she was terrified that he would actually succeed in his aims.

Her voice shook when she demanded, "What about your sultan, Abdel Kader? Does he approve of your barbaric methods, using innocent prisoners as bait in your trap?"

"Abdel Kader shows every consideration for this Christian prisoners, especially women. It distresses him greatly that they should become victims of our Holy War."

"Holy War!" Alysson's voice throbbed with outrage and dread. "There is nothing in the least 'holy' about your war! How can you possibly commit countless atrocities and then claim you do so in the name of your god?"

"By Allah—" The soft curse rent the air as abruptly Jafar whirled. In four strides he reached Alysson's side, his fingers closing over her shoulders as he pulled her to her feet.

Alysson stood frozen, shocked by the swiftness of his assault, frightened by the fury she saw in his burning amber eyes. She had finally moved him to anger.

She flinched and tried to take a step backward, to break away, but his fingers gripped her like steel talons as his words struck her. "All you rich, pampered Europeans, living in your protected world . . . you know nothing of real atrocities! You should ask the boy who serves you about barbaric methods. Mahmoud was tortured by the French and barely escaped with his life."

Alysson quivered. Jafar's fierce gaze bored into her, giving no quarter, while his voice dropped to a savage murmur. "Shall I tell you about other atrocities committed by the French? About the custom your Legionnaires have adopted? They make tobacco pouches from the breasts of murdered Muslim women and then boast of how fine and soft the leather is."

To emphasize his point, his hand rose to cup her breast. There was nothing remotely sensual in his touch; it was a threatening gesture, purely hostile.

Her heart pounding, Alysson stared up at him, alarmed by his burning intensity. At the moment this fierce Berber chieftain seemed hard and unforgiving enough to retaliate in kind. When suddenly he released her, she exhaled in relief. Her knees sagging, she sank to the carpet. Jafar turned back to the stallion and picked up the cloth he had thrown to the ground.