Lord of Desire (58 page)

"Where I come from," she answered curtly, "ladies do not discuss their lovers in public, or converse on such personal subjects with persons who are virtual strangers."

Zohra shrugged her graceful shoulders, setting her gold chains and bracelets to jingling. Her mouth curved in a sneer. "The women of my country are not so prudish or self-righteous. Nor are we as cold in love. Very young, we learn the art of pleasing a man, how to win his heart."

"The women of
my
country are too proud to share the heart of a man."

"Too proud?
But you have no right to pride any longer. You are only the lord's captive."

Alysson set her teeth. "If you will excuse me, I have more important concerns that require my attention."

Rising, she walked away, her shoulders erect, her head high. But when she had sought the safety of her bedchamber, her shoulders sagged. Her throat was tight with an unwanted ache, while at the same time she felt the most barbaric urge to scratch the beautiful Zohra's blue eyes out.

Realizing the significance of that urge, Alysson mentally flogged herself. Never in her life had she been jealous of another woman, and she was not about to start now. Nor would she demean herself by fighting that blonde witch for Jafar's affections.

Even so, she had no trouble agreeing with Mahmoud's muttered denunciations when he referred to Zohra as “that she-devil" and "the daughter of an obstinate she-camel." Zohra was not in Mahmoud's good graces, it seemed, for quite cruelly she had never let the boy forget his scarred face or his pitiful limp. Alysson found it only a slight consolation when Mahmoud respectfully began to address herself as
lallah,
which was considered a lady of position in Arabic.

Zohra, Alysson learned from Mahmoud, came from the neighboring Beni Ammer tribe and was a courtesan of the first order, like the dancers of the Ouled Nail whom Alysson had seen in Bou Saada. The blonde woman was evidently plying her trade in Jafar's bed.

That no doubt was the reason he hadn't once come to her own bed, Alysson realized miserably. If he could enjoy the services of such a beautiful, accomplished courtesan, why would he possibly want
her?
She was merely Jafar's captive, after all.
And a foreign one, at that.

That remembrance sent a new wave of despair rushing through Alysson. She had no real place in Jafar's
life,
and no future either. She must have been mad to let herself forget that reality, to let her heart rule her head. During the long weeks of her captivity, she'd obviously lost any sense of judgment, any regard for right or wrong. It had been utter folly for her to fall in love with Jafar, and totally wrong of her to surrender her body to him. She should have known better.

Alysson was struggling with those distressing thoughts that same evening before supper as she strolled on the terrace at one end of Jafar's reception hall. She was alone, for the tribal business was finished for the day, and Chand was aiding her uncle in dressing for dinner.

A masterpiece of construction, the terrace was formed by a projecting cliff and sheltered from rain and wind by a granite overhang. Above and beside the terrace, a stream dashed in a foaming torrent to create a lovely waterfall, which could be viewed from stone benches carved from the living rock. Below lay the entire magnificent valley of the Beni Abess, Jafar's tribe.

The sun was setting on the beautiful scene by the time Alysson reluctantly rose to go inside. When she turned, though, it was to find Jafar standing in the doorway, watching her. Her breath caught in her throat at the way his presence immediately filled the terrace and brought it to life.

He wore a lightly flowing white robe of sheer silk that enhanced the lean masculinity of his features, but he had left off any turban. When he stepped onto the terrace, his sunstruck mane seemed ablaze with red-gold light. Gazing at him in near-awe, Alysson felt the insistent sting of her own desire.

It was only when he came closer that she saw the lines of strain on his face, around his eyes and mouth. He was troubled about something, she was certain—though when he came to a halt before her and raised her fingers to his lips, his greeting was pleasant enough.

"I fear I have been neglecting you these past few days,
chérie,
for my far more onerous duties. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Alysson had indeed been feeling neglected by him, but she would never have admitted it. "Mahmoud has been looking after me," she said instead.

"Zohra will perform tonight for you and your uncle. I hope you will enjoy it. She is an excellent dancer."

Praise of the courtesan was not at all what Alysson wanted to hear just then, and she replied without even intending to. "I seem to recall you told me you had no concubines."

"So I did." Jafar smiled briefly, his amber eyes holding hers. "Are you jealous of Zohra, my defiant tigress? Shall I send her away?"

There was amusement, even satisfaction, in his voice that grated fiercely on Alysson's nerves. It irked her that he could read her thoughts so easily, and that he could tease her about such a subject. "Are you sleeping with her?" she demanded, unable to bite back the question even though she dreaded the answer.

"No,
Ehuresh."
His response was swift and unequivocal.

"But you have done so before this."

Gently, to Alysson's consternation, Jafar raised a hand to her cheek. With a long lean finger he stroked the delicate line of her jaw, while his eyes took on a glint of passion. "Would it matter?"

The question was a mere breath of a murmur, a quiet, sensual whisper that sent Alysson's pulse rate soaring. Furious at herself for her uncontrollable reaction, she pulled back with an abrupt "No, of course not!" Less violently, then, she turned to look out over the valley. "It is a matter of supreme indifference to me what you do with her. I was simply curious, that is all."

Yet she wasn't simply curious, that was precisely the problem. She craved Jafar's touch, his possession—she who cherished freedom and independence. It frightened her at times, this powerful need she felt for him.

Even as the thought formed, she sensed his presence behind her, felt his warmth at her back as his hard arms caressingly encircled her waist. When he pressed a gentle kiss against her temple, the simple act of desire drove the breath from Alysson's lungs.

"I have missed having you in my arms at night,
ma belle,
sharing my bed."

She wet her suddenly dry lips. She had missed sleeping with him, too, more than she would ever have imagined.

“Come to me tonight,
Ehuresh.''

"You . . ."
She stopped to clear her throat. "You want me to come to your apartments?"

"
Consider,
chérie.
If we mean to observe the proprieties, I cannot go to you. Not with your uncle so
near,
and your servant acting the valiant watchdog."

He was inviting her to his rooms, to his bed? Summoning her for his pleasure, the way he might summon one of his concubines?
The way he would summon Zohra?

Riddled with agonizing fresh doubt, Alysson shut her eyes. Did Jafar see her only as another of his concubines? Did she mean nothing to him but physical gratification? The painful thought rekindled a fierce debate within her. How could she desire a man who kept her here against her will? How could she love a savage warlord who despised all foreigners? A man who had nearly caused Gervase's death, who still held him prisoner?

The remembrance sent a cold chill racing over her heated senses. How could she surrender to the ecstasy of Jafar's embrace when Gervase's fate was still so uncertain? And how could she leave herself so vulnerable? Jafar was a highly sensual man who found delight and gratification in a woman's body. He would take his pleasure of her and give her rapture in return—and leave her with more heartache than she could bear.

She had to put an end to their intimacy now, before she succumbed entirely to the hollow promise of passion.
Before she totally lost the will to resist him.
Before her heart became his captive, just as her physical self was.

"Have you forgotten that I have a fiancé?'' she whispered, almost as much to herself as to him.

She felt Jafar stiffen as if he'd been struck. Slowly, then, his arms fell away. He took a careful step back, releasing her.

Alysson could sense from the dangerous silence that he was struggling for control. By the time she found the courage to turn and glance up at him, a hard mask had descended over his features. And yet she knew she had to drive the knife deeper, if she was to have any hope of maintain her resolve.

"How much longer," she forced herself to ask, "
will
my uncle and I be your guests? Do you mean to keep us here indefinitely?"

She thought she must have imagined the dark flash of pain in Jafar's eyes, for a muscle worked violently in his jaw before he moved to the stone parapet, to stand looking out over his valley.

"I cannot release you just yet," Jafar said finally, in a voice that was barely audible over the rush of the waterfall.

"Why . . .
why not?"

He gave a short, weary sigh.
"Because at present I am engaged in negotiations with the French government for an exchange of war prisoners.
Your being here allows me to deal from a greater position of strength. If I surrender that advantage, it could cost lives."

It was Alysson's turn to feel the knife. Jafar was using her, just as he had from the very first. Hed used her to lure the French army into battle, and now he was using her to strengthen his bargaining power with his enemies. That was all she meant to him, an advantage to be exploited.

Alysson dug her nails into her palms, till the pain in her hands overshadowed the pain she felt in her heart. She had made the right decision in refusing Jafar's invitation to share his bed. She might be wretchedly in love with him, but she was not yet so far gone as to allow him the use of her body in addition to everything else.

"Is Gervase one of the prisoners to be exchanged?" she asked finally.

There was a long pause before he nodded.

"Well then," Alysson said with an attempt at a smile, "I suppose I can endure being your 'guest' for a while longer. May we go in to dinner now?"

Zohra
was
an excellent dancer, just as Jafar claimed; her performance that evening for his guests was exquisite.

A Frenchman to the core, Honord Larousse greatly appreciated the display of flashing blue eyes, swirling golden hair, and an enticing, full-breasted figure. Alysson, however, watched the exhibition of sensual agility and provocative grace with little enthusiasm, and more than a little distress. The thought of Jafar making love to this wild Berber beauty made her heart ache.