Lord of Desire (20 page)

Torn between pique at being dismissed so summarily, and the shameful desire to plead with him not to leave her here alone in these unfamiliar surroundings, Alysson couldn't manage to reply before Jafar strode from the tent.

Alone, she glanced around the bedchamber uncertainly. In one corner sat an unlit charcoal brazier. In another, on a small table, was a pitcher and washbowl.
Beneath the table, to her surprise, rested a glazed, lidded receptacle that was apparently a chamber pot.
Was that for her use? Did Jafar intend to keep her here for the duration of her captivity?

Her gaze stole again to the pallet. She was too keyed up to rest as he had suggested, but even if she hadn't been, she couldn't stay here. Not in
his
bed.

Abruptly Alysson retreated to the large front chamber which no doubt served as a reception room and living quarters. Hearing a horse's whinny, she went to the doorway of the tent. There were several horses tethered directly outside, including her gray mare and Jafar's black Barb. But her hope of claiming one and making an escape was dashed at once. The blue-eyed Berber stood guarding both the doorway and the horses.

When he spied Alysson he came immediately to attention and with his musket blocked her way.
"Eskana,"
he said, motioning for her to turn back.

With a sinking heart, she did so. She needed no interpreter to understand that it was forbidden for her to leave the tent.

She spent the next few minutes wandering around the large room, exploring her surroundings, looking for a weapon the Berber guard might have missed. There was none, though in the far corner she discovered Jafar's library. The knee-high table was strewn with maps and a few leather- bound volumes written in Arabic, and, to her surprise, several French journals.

Wondering what use he had for them, wondering also what he intended to do with her, Alysson sank down upon one of the cushions to await Jafar's return. With effort she even managed to rally her flagging spirits. She should have expected Jafar to see that she was well guarded, of course, but she needn't despair just yet. If she used her wits, she might still contrive an escape. And there was also the chance that she could bribe someone to carry a message to Gervase in Algiers. By now, with luck, her Uncle Honors would have returned safely to Algiers, and Gervase would be searching for her. He would find her before too long. She had to believe that.

Her worried musings were interrupted just then when a boy of perhaps ten limped into the tent, bearing a tray. Alysson gave a start when she looked at him directly. Not only was the child lame, but one side of his face was horribly scarred beneath his turban, the flesh red and puckered.

The boy was glaring at her fiercely, as if daring her to pity him. Realizing her staring had given offense, Alysson schooled her features into a semblance of equanimity, but he continued to glower as he bent and placed the copper tray on the table nearest her.

"My lord bade me serve you," the boy said with undisguised hatred.

His words took her aback, not because of his hostility, but rather because of the language he had used; he had spoken in clear, fluent French.

"The master orders you to eat," the boy added, before he turned awkwardly and busied himself lighting the lamps.

Alysson barely glanced at the contents of the tray, for her thoughts were whirling. If this boy could converse with
her, then perhaps she could befriend him and eventually persuade him to carry a message to Gervase.

Wondering how to begin, Alysson watched the young servant. He certainly showed no inclination to talk. When he had completed his task without saying another word, he turned to leave.

"Wait!" Alysson called after him. "How is it that you speak French?"

"In Algiers I was forced into the employ of the enemy." The boy nearly spat the words. "Brother of vermin," he muttered under his breath in Arabic, a term Alysson recognized as a curse in any language. She had no doubt he was speaking of the French. "They did this to me." He pointed to his face and his crippled right foot.

The compassion she felt must have shown on her face, for he squared his slender shoulders and straightened to his full, unintimidating height. She wished there were something she could say to console the child.

"What is your name?" she
asked,
her tone gentle.

He eyed her warily. "I am called Mahmoud."

"I am Alysson Vickery. I am an Englishwoman."

Mahmoud looked rather surprised that she had offered her name, yet still unforgiving. "Even so, it is not befitting for a Muslim to serve infidels."

"I 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.