Lord of Desire (70 page)

Purposely her gaze rose to Jafar's shadowed, sensual face. She wanted the memory of his face engraved in her mind.

She didn't regret coming here to him, Alysson thought silently. She had made love to him because she wanted to, because she needed to, because there were too many years stretching out ahead of her like a barren desert.

Just then Jafar stirred. As if he'd sensed her watching, his hand flexed into a fist, though his eyes remained shut. "So,
Ehuresh,
now you may remember me as I
am . . . a
cold, heartless
brute . . .
a savage heathen."

The bitterness in the soft laughter that accompanied his remark raked at Alysson's heart. "No," she whispered.

Abruptly his arm lowered and he turned his head to look directly at her. His eyes contained the fierce rebellion of a caged hawk, she saw, but it was a rebellion that ineffectually hid other, more powerful emotions. Alysson was startled by the torment she saw in his eyes. There was no mistaking it.

This was Jafar as he truly was, Alysson knew.
A man torn by conflicts.
She could feel the despair in him, the vulnerability,
the
bitterness.

"No," Alysson said fiercely, defiantly. "You aren't cold and heartless . . . you aren't a savage. You are just a man . . . fighting for what you believe in, against overwhelming odds."

His lips twisted in the semblance of a smile.
Ah, Ehuresh,
he reflected bleakly.
Even in this you defy me.
Yet an unwanted ache tightened in Jafar's chest at her passionate defense of him. She did feel something for him after all, he was certain. Perhaps a part of her even found this leavetak- ing a torment as he did—the physical part that he'd taught to feel passion. But what he wanted from Alysson went far deeper than mere possession of her body. He wanted her heart. And that he could never have.

Slowly he reached up to draw a gentle finger along the delicate line of her jaw.
Stay with me,
he thought silently, hopelessly.

Ask me to stay,
Alysson pleaded just as silently, gazing miserably into his eyes.

Will you marry him when you return?

Why are you letting me go?

Jafar saw her eyes fill with questions, questions he knew she was too proud to ask, but at the remembrance of his blood enemy, he had to look away. He was sending Alysson back to her fiancé, back to the arms of the man he should have killed. The despair that had smoldered in his heart during the long
weeks
just past clawed at him now with savage force.

Despair. It was not an unfamiliar emotion to him, but he hadn't expected this kind of deep wound, this kind of raw agony. He'd never imagined, either, just how completely his defiant young captive would fill his life, his heart. Yet she had. And now he would be alone and empty again when she left. The agony washed over him again as he wondered how would face the years of stark emptiness ahead.

How could he find the strength to let her go?

And yet how could he not? In the long run, she would be far happier with her own kind. He had to remember that. Once she returned to her own people, she would forget him. In time her ordeal as his captive would fade to nothing more than a bad dream.

Against his will, Jafar's bleak gaze found Alysson's. There had been so much anger between them, so much pain and passion, so many things said and unsaid. But there was no changing the past. It was much too late.

And the dawn was coming too soon.

Wordlessly Jafar reached for her again, drawing Alysson into his embrace. All he could do now was see to it that she never forgot him.

"You will remember me," he promised harshly against her Sips. "You'll carry with you the feel of my hands . . . my body on
yours . . .
the taste of my
mouth . . ."

And then there were no more words as Jafar set out to fulfill his vow. Neither he nor Alysson voiced the tormented thoughts that were uppermost in their hearts. But during their fierce lovemaking, they said silently with their bodies what they would not say aloud.

Chapter 25

A
lysson was well-protected on the lengthy journey back to Algiers. The khalif himself provided her escort, along with Jafar's chief lieutenant, the red-bearded Farhat
il
Taib. Jafar would trust no one else with her safety.

The rain fell in torrents as the armed party negotiated the treacherous mountain passes, but Alysson hardly noticed the bone-deep chill. She felt numb all over, except for the awful hollowness where her heart should have been.

The journey took three days, the slow pace in deference to the rain and her Uncle Honoré. Honoré's ribs had not mended well enough for him to ride so he was carried by litter.

The miserable rain had stopped by the time Ben Hamadi left them near the outskirts of Algiers. The bright, cloudless sky once again glowed with a golden clarity particular to the Mediterranean, while the deep verdure of the hills surrounding the city provided a jeweled setting for the dazzling white seaport overlooking the harbor.

In contrast, the steeply sloping streets were dark and narrow. Alysson found it hard to repress a shudder once she had passed through the walled gates and descended into the town. Algiers with its history of treachery and despotism and cruel bondage now seemed oppressed and shut up—far, far different than when shed first laid eager eyes on it.

It was with great weariness that she drew her mount to a halt before the Moorish house she and her uncle had hired for the season. Numbly, she sat waiting for Chand to help her down. Had it only been a few short months ago that she had set out from here for the desert, in search of passion and adventure? She had found both, much to her sorrow.

So wrapped up in her misery was Alysson that she only vaguely heard a familiar voice shouting at her in English,

"Alysson!
Where in the name of God have you been?
"

Startled, she raised her gaze to the tall man in European dress who had rushed out of the house. "Uncle Oliver!" she breathed.

The next instant she found herself being dragged from her horse and crushed in a bear hug. Laughing and crying both, Alysson returned her Uncle Oliver's smothering embrace with all the strength she could muster.

A moment later, he abruptly held her away, his penetrating blue eyes searching her face. "Are you well, girl?" he demanded. Not giving her time to answer, he turned to Honoré with a scowl. "What do you mean, allowing her to be abducted by an Arab devil?"

There had never been any love lost between her British and French uncles, Alysson knew
,
bat never had their subtle enmity been less welcome. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she came to Honoréd- defense. "It wasn't his fault, Uncle Oliver! He tried to talk me out of going, but I wouldn't listen—just the way you never listen when your mind is set on an expedition."

“It never would have happened if I had been with you, by God."

Honoré, his face flushed, meekly accepted this scolding as he tried to climb out of his litter. Seeing him wince with pain and clutch his ribs, Alysson moved quickly to
bis
side, at the same time throwing a furious glance over her shoulder at Oliver.

"I'm entirely aware of your vaunted skills, Uncle, but the outcome would have been no different had you been there, except that you would likely have gotten yourself killed! As it was, Uncle Honoré did everything in his power to save me—in fact, he was wounded trying to rescue me. The least you could do is
help
him, instead of ringing a peal over his head.''

Oliver's fierce expression relaxed the slightest degree, though he made no apology as he went to Honoréd assistance. "Well, come inside then, you deuced old wine- maker, Cedric will want to examine you."

"Uncle Cedric is here, too?" Alysson asked in amazement, her temper cooling.

"Yes, yes, come inside and you can tell us everything."

In short order, Alysson and Honoré were swept into the house, to be greeted by her third uncle, the physician from London. Cedric's embrace was a bit less violent and more reserved than his brother's, but just as loving. Alysson was surprised and humbled that he'd been so worried for her that he traveled all this distance for her sake. Until now nothing could drag him away from his precious hospital.

The new arrivals were given time to wash and refresh themselves before being subjected to an interrogation. An hour later found them all gathered in the long reception chamber—Uncle Honoré
lying
on a divan, the other two uncles sprawled on cushions. Too agitated to sit down, Alysson remained standing.

As was his commanding nature, Oliver at once took charge of the conversation, asking all the questions. Alysson's answers were evasive, however, providing only the sketchiest details of her captivity and her subsequent visit to her captor's mountain home. Of Jafar, she divulged absolutely nothing.

It was that hole in her story that Oliver attacked first.

"You mean to tell me you learned nothing about this man who abducted you?
His name, his appearance?"

"I'm afraid not, Uncle."

"Then tell me where you were taken. I shall go after the devil at once and put a bullet through his black heart."

Alysson went pale. "I don't know where I was taken. Somewhere in the desert, I think."

By now Oliver was staring at her with incredulity. "That won't wash, girl. I myself taught you how to judge distances and recognize landmarks. You must have some idea where you were held . . . how far from here, what direction."

"I'm sorry, Uncle, but I don't."

Apparently deciding to try a more profitable tack, he turned a look of frustration on her French uncle.
"
Honoré
?"