Lord of Desire (21 page)

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.

He hesitated a moment, his gaze contemplating her. "You may consider yourself my guest."

"Your
guest?"
Alysson gave him an incredulous look. "And for how long am I to remain your
guest?"

"Until I no longer have need of you."

“And just how long is that?''

Jafar shrugged, keeping his expression deliberately impassive. Alysson pressed her lips together to refrain from shouting at him in frustration. "You won't even tell me what it is you want with me?"

"Simply your presence."

Unnerved by his quiet tone, she stared at him. She wanted to demand precisely
why
he required her presence, but it was obvious he didn't intend to give her any complete answers. "Then would you mind telling me just what I am to do here in the meantime?"

"You may enjoy the freedom of my tent." He gestured with his cup, indicating their surroundings. "I apologize for my humble dwelling, and for the meager fare. It is not what a pampered heiress like you is accustomed to, perhaps. But you will not be uncomfortable here. You will have ample servants to see to your needs."

Alysson stiffened. She admitted to being spoiled and pampered, but she was not about to listen to him telling her so. "Your generosity overwhelms me. However, I find the accommodations hardly up to my usual exacting standards. I'm afraid I must respectfully decline your hospitality."

"I'm afraid," he said softly, "it is not your choice, my proud ingrate."

"Ingrate!"
Alysson raised her chin, her cheeks tingeing with the rosy blush of anger. "You think I should be grateful that you attacked my uncle's party, forcibly abducted me, dragged me to this godforsaken place, and mean to keep me prisoner from some unspecified time for some unspecified purpose? What kind of man
are
you? Only a coward and a thief would treat a woman in such a despicable fashion!"

For a moment Alysson thought she might have gone too far, calling him a coward. Jafar made no reply, and no movement—indeed, he remained quite still—but there was an animal alertness behind the indolent pose, and he was watching her with a hooded look that warned her she was treading dangerous ground.

"You would do well to remember one thing, mademoiselle," he said evenly. "Here, I am master, and you will do my bidding."

Her palm itched to strike his hard, handsome face, but she didn't quite have the courage. Instead, Alysson sent him a scathing look. "I don't recognize your authority." Her antagonism was not wise, she knew, but it was better than meek subservience. "I won't feed you again, and I won't see to your wound! You can perish from your injury, for all I care."

“Wounds seldom putrefy in the desert, so I am unlikely to perish."

"How lamentable!"

His eyes narrowed, but there was a sudden glitter in the golden depths that looked suspiciously like amusement. "You should count yourself fortunate that I do not require you to wash my feet as Bedouin women do for their men."

"If you think for one minute—" Leaping up, Alysson stood, hands on hips, glaring down at him. Wash his feet, indeed!

Jafar, watching, thought she looked magnificent in her scorn. A half-smile curved his mouth. "Most men of my race prefer sweetness and docility in a female, but I enjoy a woman with spirit."

When she realized he was deliberately provoking her, Alysson nearly sputtered in her outrage. Oh, how she wished she had a weapon to use on this barbarian!

With royal disregard for her fury, Jafar drained the remaining coffee in his cup. Rising then, he went to stand at the doorway to the tent, his back to her as he looked out over his camp.
A
lord surveying his realm, Alysson thought with derision, silently cursing the arrogance that categorized everything the man did.

Jafar's thoughts were running along similar lines, though his curses concerned Alysson's passionate spirit. He almost would have preferred the weeping and tears or the cries for pity that was expected of a woman. How much easier he would find it then to resist her appeal. As it was, he was entirely too aware of the angry young beauty behind him. He actually felt himself wanting to soothe and comfort her, to yield to her demands that he release her.

Silently he shook his head, knowing himself for a fool.
All
he needed was to remember four nights ago when he'd stood outside the reception, watching Alysson Vickery sur
rounded by her personal entourage of admirers. Every male there, young or old, had been drawn to her like a fly to honey. Her uncle particularly doted on her, while Bourmont . . . that devil-spawned gallant had become so enamored of his lovely fiancée that hed allowed her to oppose his direct wishes, against every instinct that warned of danger.

A muscle in Jafar's jaw tightened. He would not allow himself to follow the same path as those other witless fools. He would not become a fawning slave to the young lady's whims.

"It is time to retire," he said in a low voice, determined to ignore her anger. "I suggest you prepare yourself for bed." Behind him, he felt Alysson tense.

"You can't possibly
mean . . ."

Glancing over his shoulder, Jafar met her gaze. She was staring at him, her gray eyes smoldering. He could read every emotion on her expressive face as she came to the realization that he meant for her to share his bed: fury, frustration, defiancé, distress.

Jafar raised an eyebrow and waited. They had been through this before, and the outcome would again be the same.

To his surprise, she capitulated without a word. Her fingers curling into fists, she turned abruptly and stalked into the other room.

Jafar sighed. If there had been another alternative, he would have taken it. If Alysson were a more biddable female, he could have put her with the few unmarried serving women in his camp. But he couldn't trust her not to try and escape. She would have to be guarded day and night, and keeping a close eye on her
himself
was the most practical solution.

Bending, Jafar secured the front flap of the tent for the night. He was not looking forward to the next few weeks. He'd never had a reluctant woman in his bed before, and Miss Vickery, at the moment, was highly reluctant. Sleeping with her was certain to prove an extraordinary exercise in restraint.

He heard no sounds of movement in his sleeping quarters, so he entered. She was standing stock-still, completely dressed, staring at the brazier. During the meal, Mahmoud
had prepared the room for the night, lighting the oil lamp and kindling a few coals in the brazier to ward off the chill of the desert night. For Jafar the fire was not necessary, since he had spent a good deal of his life in this harsh climate, but hed thought his lovely guest would prefer the warmth of the brazier to the warmth of his arms. He had done his best to provide the amenities to which she was accustomed, though she would probably never appreciate the fact.

Alysson stiffened when he entered, turning to look up at him, her eyes shadowed and opaque, like smoke from a wildfire.

"My little tigress," Jafar said gently, "your time here will go easier if you accept your fate."

Alysson felt the familiar panic curling within her. What
would
be her fate? Was this the moment he would ravish her?

He meant for her to remove her clothing, she knew. His eyes were holding hers, issuing a silent command. Silently she screamed in mortification and fury, but she obeyed, slowly removing her jacket, boots, stockings, and breeches.

"Get into bed," he said then.

With great reluctance, she lay down on the pallet and pulled the blanket up to her chin, watching him apprehensively over the edge, vowing he would not make her beg or cry.

To her relief he snuffed the lantern before he undressed. The coals glowing in the brazier, however, betrayed the oudine of his masculine form, red-gold light glinting off his bare back and shoulders, highlighting the solid play of muscle.

When he was naked but for his trousers, he came toward her, his body lithe, sleek and menacing in the darkness.
Alysson went rigid, watching him with trembling anticipation. She would fight him to the death if he dared touch her . . .

He sat beside her then, reaching down to bare her ankle beneath the blanket. With a gasp, Alysson sat up abruptly.

But he was merely securing her leg to his, as hed done all the other nights of her captivity, she realized as relief flooded through her. This time the bond was not wool but
silk. She could feel the rough-sleek texture of it against her skin.

When he was done, Jafar glanced up at her. His golden eyes captured the firelight, glinting in the darkness. Alysson held her breath, her heart pounding. His hands, which she imagined were so accustomed to violence, were oddly gentle as they gripped her shoulders and pushed her back down onto the pillows.

Oh, God, what did he mean to do?
She bit her lip hard, to keep from crying out. She would not plead for her virtue, or for her life.