Lord of Desire (17 page)

"I hate you," Alysson declared in an adamant tone.

"So you have said."

Knowing he would not back down, Alysson took a deep breath and slowly, reluctantly, complied. She took off her boots first, then her jacket and finally her breeches.

At that point she faltered. Her cheeks flaming scarlet, she stood before him, dressed only in her chemisette and drawers, while his gaze dropped the length of her body in a slow but dispassionate appraisal. She tried to hold her head high, to look scornful and proud, but her knees felt like water.

To her amazement, though, Jafar took pity on her and turned away. Alysson quivered in relief as he disappeared around the thicket. Turning, she quickly stripped off her underwear and knelt in the stream, then used his soap to scrub herself all over. The water was cold, while the evening breeze dancing over her wet body chilled her flesh. Yet not knowing when she would have another opportunity for a bath, she removed the pins from her hair and washed that, too.

On the other side of the thicket, Jafar busied himself sharpening the blade of his dagger. It was all he could do to keep his mind off the young woman behind him. Visions of Alysson at her bath, her slender, wet body glistening in the rosy light, kept intruding into his consciousness. He wondered if she would take advantage of his generosity and attempt to escape, but he forcibly prevented himself from checking on her. If she did try, he would find her soon
enough,
and he had promised to give her privacy—

Jafar shook his head in disgust. Twice now he had given in to her, against his better judgment. He was growing too soft with her. If he wasn't careful, he would be doing
her
bidding.

Already he'd found himself forgetting the circumstances between them; at least once he'd had to stop himself from speaking to her in English. And that could prove disastrous. If his fiery captive discovered his British background, it would be too easy for her to make the connection between himself and his other identity, Nicholas Sterling—and that knowledge could lead the French army straight to his tribe. As it was, he was fortunate she didn't remember meeting him that long-ago day in England.

When he had allowed her more than enough time to finish, Jafar returned to the camp. He found Alysson dressed again in her meager undergarments, kneeling beside the stream, combing her wet, tangled tresses with her fingers. Falling only partway down her back, her hair was not nearly as long as that of Algerine women.

He stood silently watching her for a moment. Seeing her shiver as an evening breeze blew over her damp skin, he had the fierce urge to warm her—with his body, with his hands and mouth.

"Are you quite finished, ma'amselle?" His voice was low and gruff and husky, not what he intended.

Alysson gave a start. Turning, she looked up at him with wary eyes.

Imperiously, Jafar held down his hand. "Come, it is time to sleep."

She stared at him. "Don't you mean to wear a shirt?" When Jafar raised an eyebrow, she stammered, "I m-mean, you might get cold."

His smile was soft, amused. "How, when I have you to keep me warm?''

The faint blush that rose to her cheeks was charming, Jafar thought, despite the way her narrowed gray eyes were flashing sparks at him. Meeting her defiant gaze, Jafar felt his will clash with hers. "Are you afraid of me?"

That challenge made Alysson lift her chin obstinately. "No, of course not!" she declared.

But she was afraid. She didn't want to sleep with a half- naked savage, especially when she was so meagerly dressed herself. He hadn't returned even her breeches. She felt exposed and altogether too vulnerable as Jafar drew her down beside him on the burnous. Yet her temper rose when, like before, he tied their ankles together. Alysson stiffened in silent resistance as he gathered her in his arms and settled her with her back to him, her head resting on his uninjured arm.

To her surprise, he spread her damp tresses out so they would dry more quickly. The gesture was gentle and considerate, but Alysson lay there tense and rigid, held in the warm curve of his body, her cheek pressed against naked flesh. How she hated this! The man-smell of his skin, clean and pleasantly soap-scented, was highly unnerving.

Still, his embrace was warm and somehow comforting. At her back she could feel his heart beating in slow steady strokes.

Alysson gave a drowsy sigh. She was more fatigued than she thought . . .

It was early the next morning when she opened her eyes to find a pair of topaz ones gazing down into hers. Jafar, she thought groggily, a strange sense of peace and contentment filling her. For a moment, before her mind began to function, she could only wonder at that strange sensation. It was the same feeling of warmth and security that sometimes came to her in her dreams. How very odd. Odder still was the fragmented memory that teased at her brain. She couldn't shake the feeling of having met him before. He looked so familiar, except for the soft light of desire in his eyes. That was new-

Shock and dismay suddenly flooded through Alysson. Jafar was stretched out beside her, his head supported by his elbow as he gazed down at her. Apparently he'd been watching her sleep.

Before she could open her mouth to speak, he lifted a tress of her chestnut hair, now dry and silky, from her breast. "You should let it fall free, instead of pinning it up."

Faster than a frightened rabbit, Alysson pushed aside the edge of his burnous and scrambled to her feet. "I do
not
require your advice on how to arrange my hair!" Flustered, mortified, she stalked over to the stream, searching for the pins she had left there the previous evening.

"At least you don't torture it into ringlets."

"It is too difficult to arrange in ringlets," Alysson said through gritted teeth, trying to regain her composure. "I am frequently without a maid."

He lay there, lazily watching her. His appraisal acutely disturbed Alysson. To her disgust and dismay, her fingers were less than steady as she used them to comb out the tangles in her hair.

"When we reach my camp," Jafar said after a moment, "I will see that you are provided with combs."

Alysson gave him a cautious glance. His generosity didn't interest her as much as where he might be talking her. "Where is your camp?"

"Another day's ride from here, on the fringes of the desert."
When she was silent, he raised an eyebrow at her. "You wanted to see the desert, did you not?"

"Not in your company!"

She saw his mouth tighten, but he didn't reply. Apparently the hostilities had resumed between them. Which was perfectly fine with her, Alysson reflected. She didn't like it when he was treating her with gentleness or tender concern. It was far easier to remember how she despised him when he was acting the uncivilized heathen.

To the best of her ability, Alysson finished combing her hair before repinning it into a knot at her nape. Then she went over to the pile of equipment and clothing. Searching for her own garments, she found her jacket and one of her boots.

She started to put them on but was startled when Jafar's hand suddenly closed over her wrist in a grip that was firm but not painful. She hadn't heard him move. Flinching, Alysson stared up at him in bewilderment. Did he mean to refuse to allow her to dress?

"In this country," Jafar said in a warning tone, "you must be more careful. We will soon reach the desert, and you will have to remain alert if you mean to survive. Check your clothing for scorpions and vipers each morning before you dress."

He didn't mean to keep her half-naked, Alysson thought as a trembling sense of relief surged through her. She would rather face an army of poisonous creatures than be subjected to his hard golden gaze when she was so very vulnerable.

Her relief was short-lived. Despite his generosity in allowing her to keep her clothes and the haik to shield her head and face, Alysson's feeling of vulnerability, of helplessness, only increased the further they traveled.

Shortly the grassy steppes changed to uneven, broken country of sand and stones dotted with camel-thorn and an occasional shrub. Any civilized person would call this barren land the desert, Alysson reflected, yet she knew it was only the forerunner of the Sahara.

A few hours later, when Jafar slowed the horses to a walk, she made herself pay attention to her surroundings. If she could discover where she was, she might be able to determine where he was taking her.

With more curiosity then she'd felt in two days, Alysson glanced around her. In the distance ahead were clumps of rocky plateaus overhanging the arid
flats.
"Where are we?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual.

Jafar didn't answer, preferring not to divulge that this was the Jebel Selat. He didn't want her to have any information that she might use to her advantage. "Why do you wish to know?"

She understood quite well the reason for his caution, and the knowledge made her snap an unwise reply. "When the French army rescues me, I want to be able to tell them where to find you."

A muscle in his jaw tightened as he shot her a penetrating look.

Alysson sighed wearily, wishing she had kept silent, wishing it wasn't so hot,
wishing
she had never decided to come to this godforsaken land in the first place.

At least her savage Berber captor was soon forced by the terrain to keep the pace slow. Carefully he led her mare through barren hills topped with flat tablelike peaks, and down into gullies that had forgotten the taste of rain. Yet Alysson's discomfort only rose as the morning progressed. The glaring sun beat down on her mercilessly, and the rising heat only frayed her already raw temper.

"This is not what I had in mind," Alysson muttered, "when I planned this expedition. I never expected this land would be so unattractive."

Jafar glanced over at her. "You will find it beautiful after the rains, when the desert blooms."

"I won't," she replied adamantly, shaking her head. "I will never again find anything the least appealing about Algeria. It is too hot."

In response, he unstoppered the goatskin and poured a trickle of water over a scrap of cloth. "Wipe your face with this," he commanded, handing her the cloth.

It felt cool and soothing to Alysson's sweating brow, but it didn't mollify her in the least. "If I had to be abducted," she said in a morose undertone, "why couldn't it have been during the rainy season?"

The sudden smile he gave her bordered on beautiful itself. "This
is
the rainy season,
ma belle
. "

Alysson returned a scowl that would have been lethal, could she had made it so.

After that the country grew
more fierce
, if that were possible. They wound their way through inhospitable hills of red and gray sandstone and negotiated deep gorges studded with dwarfed Aleppo pines. The wind picked up then, bearing a dust that was coarse and gritty.

"Do we never get to stop and rest?" Alysson complained.