Lord of Desire

It was his unwavering determination to exact revenge that tormented her. She couldn't bear to think that she might be the instrument of Gervase's death, or that of her beloved uncle.

She had to stop Jafar somehow.

But how? His tribe's loyalty to their lord was unquestionable. It would be nearly impossible to bribe any of them, or persuade them to aid her.

After her disheartening discussion with Mahmoud, Alysson began to think she might never succeed in preventing Jafar from carrying out his vile plan. Quite against her normal optimistic nature, she found herself fighting an overwhelming sense of despair.

That, however, was before she stole the dagger.

It was the following afternoon, during her daily walk around the camp. She had spent the morning asking Mahmoud about the Berber language, and convincing him to teach her a few words. If she could learn enough to understand, Alysson hoped, she might be able to overhear some scrap of information that would be of use to her.

An apt pupil, she caught on quickly. By the time her blue- eyed Berber guard came to collect her for her walk, Alysson was able to surprise him by greeting him in his own language. And when during her tour she visited the camp's cooking tent where Tahar was busy with the other woman, she used the opportunity to practice her new skills. Tahar had called on her twice in the past few days, apparently on Jafar's orders, but with his threat against Gervase preying on her mind, Alysson had been too distracted to enjoy her budding friendship with the Berber woman.

Accepting the handful of parched chickpeas Tahar offered her to eat, Alysson asked questions as the women worked, determined to learn the Berber names for various objects. Her efforts at pronunciation earned both good-natured laughter and respect from the ladies, but after a time she could see Saful growing impatient as he waited by the entrance to the tent.

She was just about to leave when she spied the dagger— a small curved blade that had been used to carve the meat- lying on a platter. Her heartbeat burst into a savage rhythm. Was this the chance she had been waiting for?

Pretending to admire a dish, Alysson surreptitiously scooped up the knife and concealed it in a fold of her robe. Her heart still pounding, she shot a glance at her blue-eyed guard. He hadn't seen her.

Masking both her triumph and trepidation, she said farewell to Tahar, then continued her tour of the camp. By the time she returned to Jafar's tent, she was having difficulty controlling her nervousness, an agitation that only increased when Jafar didn't join her for the midday meal. She had managed to arm herself, but had yet to decide how to exploit her advantage.

The dagger could mean her freedom. She could use it to overpower her guard and steal a horse—but her escape no doubt would be immediately detected. No, she would be better off w

aiting till the camp was asleep for the night. Jafar would be the only one guarding her then.

And then what?

As she sat staring out at the Berber encampment, considering the answer to that question, a dark shadow suddenly spread over the camp. Glancing up uneasily, Alysson realized the sun had disappeared behind a stormcloud.

A few moments later she received her first taste of rain in the desert, a fierce deluge that threatened to wash away the camp. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the downpour abated and the sun came out again, drawing the dampness in heavy steam-clouds from the reeking sand. In half an hour the streams and rivulets created by the storm had vanished, and the coating of desert mud was dry. After the earlier heat, though, the afternoon now seemed winter-cold.

Shivering, Alysson absently fingered the sharp blade hidden in her robes.

The real question was, could she bring herself to use it on another human being?

Could she kill Jafar?

Her opportunity came that evening, when Jafar returned. By that time, Alysson's nerves were worn to a fine edge, yet she still had not come to a decision.

She watched Jafar surreptitiously as he read one of his French journals before supper, her mouth tightening with annoyance and dismay at the picture he made. He looked even more attractive than usual tonight. Wearing a sky-blue djellaba—a long robe of fine wool—Jafar reclined on the cushions with assured masculine grace, his eyes firelighted with amber, his tawny hair gleaming in the lamplight.

Alysson studied him without wanting to, noting his lean features . . . the high cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw and mouth. They seemed faintly arrogant and savagely noble, and filled with determination. Jafar was quite capable of carrying out his diabolical plan for revenge, unless she could prevent him.

Her hand trembled as she touched the knife hidden in her robe, but she left her fingers lying against the blade, needing the reassurance the cold steel gave her. Could she do it? Could she use the knife to stop him? Could she kill Jafar?

She was grateful when Mahmoud appeared to serve the evening meal, but the cold knot of tension in her stomach destroyed her appetite entirely. She merely toyed with her supper, all the while conscious of Jafar's intent gaze on her.

"It disturbs me that you are not eating, ma belle," he said finally. "You cannot afford to lose much weight."

Alysson was in no mood to suffer his amused taunting. "Why don't you go to the devil and leave me alone?"

He eyed her with calm self-control. "Finish your food. It might improve your disposition."

The food didn't help, however. She managed to choke down a few bites, but they only churned in her stomach.

When she pushed away her plate, Jafar gestured to the servant to clear away the dishes. Mahmoud, salaaming deeply, obeyed and then left for the evening.

"I understand Mahmoud neglected his duties this morning in order to entertain you," Jafar said, sipping his coffee.