Lord of Desire (29 page)

Alysson returned her smile with genuine pleasure and watched as the women prepared the main meal. They were cooking over fires fueled by dried camel's dung, delicately roasting desert partridges which Tahar called
ketaa,
and making the customary couscous, the national dish of Barbary. This was not sweet like the couscous at breakfast, however. The steamed wheat semolina was served with pieces of lamb and vegetables.

Alysson was reluctant to leave the women, but later that day, after she had returned to her tent, she was able to ask Mahmoud about his people. Grudgingly he told her something of Jafar's tribe.

There were Arabised Berbers, she learned, who normally lived in the mountains. All of the men and many of the women spoke fluent Arabic. When in the desert they adopted the ways of the Bedouins, but Mahmoud clearly considered
himself
and his people better than the Bedouins,

"Berbers are
men,"
he said proudly, puffing out his skinny chest so far that Alysson was hard-pressed not to laugh.

Yet she had heard the same thing said admiringly by a French Legionnaire who despised most Arabs. And Gervase had said the Berbers were a proud and fiercely inde
pendent people, who enjoyed fighting and who in battle showed magnificent bravery and spirit.

When she pressed Mahmoud to tell her about the women in the camp, she learned that Tahar was second wife to one of the warriors, but served Jafar as chief cook since he had no wives of his own.

"He has no wives?" Alysson repeated curiously, though why that fact should interest her, she would not allow herself to reflect on. She also discovered something else that surprised her.

"The lord has no slaves in his household," the boy told her.

"None?
But I thought the chieftains in Barbary usually kept slaves."

"He does not permit it."

"Why not?"

Mahmoud shrugged but could not explain.

But even without slaves, Alysson learned, Jafar had ample followers to serve him. Here, like in other Berber tribes, the members were divided into vassals who did all the manual work, and nobles who were required to do none.

Jafar was very definitely a noble, and yet he was not averse to physical labor, Alysson had to conclude. That very evening, after he had sent his equerry on some errand, he saw to the feeding of his horses himself. She could see him through the open door of the tent, his body a dark, lean silhouette against the lavender sky.

Despite her best intentions, Alysson was drawn to the doorway. Settling herself on the carpet, she wrapped her arms around her knees and pretended interest in the desert.

Eventually darkness fell and a crescent moon came out. The scene was beautiful, she thought, gazing out beyond the
douar
at the silvered landscape. Moonlight rippled over the pale desert sands, pooling in hollows and making the black shadows of ridges stand out in stark relief.

Yet her gaze kept straying from the distant sands to the man who had brought her here against her will, who had turned her life upside-down and stirred her feelings into
a turmoil
of nervousness and confusion. The night surrounded him, but lamplight from within the tent cast a faint glow over him as he tended to the horses.

Not for the first time since being taken captive, Alysson found herself wondering what kind of man Jafar truly was.

He was a
leader, that
much she knew. A hard man, certainly. But whether he was cruel and vindictive, she wasn't yet sure. Although he was often surrounded by others, he seemed to hold himself apart. She had never seen him laugh with any of his men. In fact the closest thing to friendship she'd seen him exhibit had been with his horses. He seemed, if not lonely, then alone. But he was a warlord. Perhaps he couldn't allow any of his men to become too close for fear of losing their respect—although that explanation didn't seem to fit. She believed Jafar el-Saleh would command respect, no matter how intimate or distant he became.

At the moment he seemed more approachable than usual, for he was treating his big black stallion like a pet hound. He'd removed the nose bag of barley, and was hand-feeding the noble beast dried dates, one at a time. The stallion apparently was accustomed to this ritual, for it chewed each one before skillfully spitting out the pit.

Alysson watched for a moment,
then
surprised herself by speaking. "Thank
you . . .
for allowing me to walk around the camp this morning."

Jafar looked over his shoulder, holding her glance. "I gave you my trust because you had earned it."

His reply stirred both anger and guilt in her. Anger because he'd apparently been giving her another of his "lessons in obedience."
Guilt because she hadn't earned his trust.
She'd spent much of the time searching, memorizing,
plotting
her escape.

Lowering her gaze, Alysson restlessly plucked at the skirt of her russet-colored robe. After a while, though, she found herself watching Jafar and the stallion again.

The noble animal obviously had a great fondness for Jafar, playfully nuzzling its intelligent head against him and nibbling at his fingers. The sight was almost amusing, Alysson thought, for the black beast most certainly had been trained as a war-horse. Its lean and vigorous lines were pure Barb, a breed noted throughout the world for speed and endurance.

This animal was rawboned and powerful, with a flowing tail and long thick mane that fell to the right side because

Arabs mounted on the right. The Barb stallion was not, Alysson decided, as handsome as her Arab mare, which possessed a refined head and silky mane. Bet in this savage land, beaaty was
relative,
Here a man's liis often depended on the ability of his mount. The swiftness to pursue or elude an enemy, the stamina to gallop across miles of desert or mountain range, die courage to charge as enemy in battle, all would be considered far more important than mere beauty, and valued far more highly.

She watched in spite of herself as Jafer began grooming the stallion, rubbing its sleek black coat with a woolen cloth.

"Y
our horse," she said after a while. ''What is he called?"

"Sherrar.
It means 'warrior' ia ary language."

Alysson nearly smiled. "Warrior" didn't fit a creature with such a gentle disposition, "just now he doesn't seem to be living up to his name."

"He is a fine warrior," Jafar said softly, with pride. "I bred him myself.
"

Jafar's youthful
reply made Alysson wonder
curiously just how old he was. He seemed fairly young, in his late twenties perhaps, but there was no hint of boyishness about him.

"
I've heard thai your desert horses are the swiftest in the world."

He sodded, "'Here in Barbary tfes horse is called
chareb- er-rehh—
'drinker of the wind.' "

"How beautiful."

"Yes." He murmured something to the stallion, who flicked its ears attentively. "The best horses are found in the mountains of the Sahara, not the plains," Jafer added after a moment.

His voice was low, muted, and sleekly velvet as the night. Alysson felt it reaching out to stroke her. She stirred uncomfortably. "You treat Sherrar so much like a son, I wonder you didn't name him after you, or someone in your family."

"Muslim horses are -lever named after people. If would be a sacrilege to give a possession a name used by one of our saints."

"A possession?
Does that include slaves, too?"

He slanted a glance at her. "Yes, slaves, too."

"So Arabs give the same names to their slaves as their horses."
Her tone was dry.

"In part.
Only the best horses are given names, whereas every slave has one."

"What an honor."

Jafar flashed
her a
smile of amusement. Touched by its warmth, Alysson was never more aware of the contradictory feelings he produced in her. When he looked at her so intently, so intimately, she wanted to flee. For it was when her captor was treating her with gentleness and admiration that he was the most dangerous.

You will call me lover. You will respond to me with passion.

Disconcerted by the intrusive memory, Alysson forced herself to maintain her wry tone. "I suppose infidels are not allowed names of people, either.''

"Naturally not."

"So to you I am
an
nonentity. I always knew it."

"You are hardly that." He looked up from his grooming to consider her. "I think if I were to name you, I would call you
Temellal.
It means 'beauty.' "

"But I am not beautiful."

He gave her an odd look.

"I'm not!"

Seeing her startled gray eyes, Jafar realized she actually believed his words were empty flattery. But he'd spoken only the truth. Perhaps she didn't possess the classic beauty that sculptors raved about, or the insipid looks that the English gentry considered fashionable. But there was a fire and intensity about her, a vibrant, restless energy that was indeed beautiful. Such spirit was to be prized in a woman— although some of his countrymen might not agree, Jafar was aware.