Lord of Desire (19 page)

While she silently fumed, his eyes dropped lower to scrutinize her breasts and hips. He was still speculating on her value as a slave—merely to provoke her, Alysson was sure.

"With rich food to fill out your curves, you might command a high price indeed. That is, if you could ever learn to be docile."

Her fulminating glare was hot enough to boil the camel's milk he was drinking. "You are insane if you think I could ever be as subservient as your Eastern women."

"I expect service as a slave would curb your rebellious nature soon enough. A day's work in a harem would render you more submissive, and would show you what real life is about.''

The measured tones of his voice frightened her. "Is that what you intend to do with me? Am I to be imprisoned in your harem?"

"Hareern
is also an Arab word."

"Don't debate semantics with me!" she cried, trying to quell her rising panic. "Am I or am I not to become
your
. . . your concubine?''

"Would you like to become my concubine?"

Alysson stared at him, anguish and confusion warring for expression on her face.

"If I took you into my harem, I would use you for my own pleasure, and show you pleasure in return."

"W-what . . . what do you mean?"

"Surely you have some idea of what goes on between a man and a woman?"

Alysson nervously wet her lips.

"Perhaps you would like me to teach you." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "You challenged me to instruct you in the art of kissing, did you not?"

His fingers gripped her chin lightly. He was staring intently at her mouth now. Alysson felt the savagery of his kiss, though he had not yet claimed it.

It was all she could do to force a reply past the tightness in her throat. "Do you always terrify your prisoners this way? Does it give you some perverse satisfaction to mistreat me so?"

She saw his topaz eyes narrow in warning. "I have not mistreated you, nor will I, if you obey my commands
. "

Mustering all the courage she possessed, Alysson returned his fierce gaze. "I may be your captive," she said steadily, "but I am not your slave. And I will never be your concubine."

The pressure of his fingers on her chin increased the slightest degree. "Even so, you will call me master."

His voice was so soft that it was scarcely a whisper, yet the lack of volume made it no less dangerous. Alysson felt herself trembling.

His hard expression softened then, and he released her chin. "I have had my fill of the food. Now you may eat."

Alysson bit back the fierce retort that sprang to her lips. At the moment she didn't have the nerve to defy him further, even though his condescension, his air of superiority, his incredible arrogance, made her want to scream. He was acting like he was some kind of grand seigneur, some high and mighty king—

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

H
esitating 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.

The slight pressure of Jafar's hand at the small of her back made Alysson step inside. As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she could make out the unlit olive oil lamps hanging from the ridgepole overhead. The tall support poles also boasted numerous hooks, upon which hung saddlery and other accoutrements of war.

Spying movement, Alysson came to an abrupt halt. A tall, turbaned Berber had turned to face them, his arms full of swords and daggers, pistols and rifles. The young man managed a graceful salaam to Jafar, despite the armload of weapons he was holding, and when Jafar issued a command in a low voice, he obediently withdrew. Yet Alysson saw a brief flash of curiosity in his blue eyes as he passed.

She was curious about him as well. Watching him carry
the weapons from the tent, she guessed that hed been ordered to prepare the place for her residency. The thought made her shiver. Was this to be her prison?

She turned to eye Jafar with a quizzical look, but his hard face gave no clue as to his thoughts, or his intentions.

Not meeting her gaze, he strode across the chamber and drew aside a woolen curtain, revealing an inner room. "If you will excuse me, mademoiselle, there are affairs I must attend to," he told her evenly. "You may rest here."

Alysson followed him with great reluctance. Was this Jafar's bedchamber? Here, items of clothing hung on the pole hooks while a striped woolen blanket lay neatly folded upon the woven-straw pallet.

"I will send a servant to see to your needs," he said, turning away.