Lord of Desire (25 page)

That first night after his devastating kiss and outrageous prediction, Alysson had felt herself quaking. They'd retired to the bedchamber to sleep, and Jafar had stretched out on the pallet, reclining on the pillows as regally as some Eastern potentate as he observed her every movement.

"Do you need help removing your clothes?" he asked when she hesitated. His tone was light and teasing, but the flames warming the depths of his eyes told her he would relish the opportunity to undress her.

Unfortunately, his taunt provoked Alysson into breaking her vow to ignore him.

"I wish you had sold me to those Arabs slavers," she retorted through gritted teeth. "Then at least I wouldn't have to endure you watching me."

He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed her. "This is precisely how it would be if you were sold as a slave- except that all your clothing would be forcibly removed, and your naked body would be subjected to many more pairs of eyes. Here you have only to endure mine."

Alysson clenched her teeth, willing herself not to respond, not to curse him or scream at him like she yearned to do.

When she remained silent, Jafar softened his voice to a murmur. "I would never allow any other man to view you. Your charms are meant for my eyes only."

She managed to keep her oath from his hearing, but it gave her no comfort that only he had the privilege to inspect her.

It gave her no comfort, either, when early the following morning, she awoke. To her acute dismay, she found herself curled against Jafar's warm, lean body, one hand resting on his hard chest, her relaxed fingers tangled in his chest hair. To her further dismay, he stirred in his sleep. Rolling to
ward her, he draped his arm possessively across her rib cage, pressing against the undercurves of her breasts. At the same time he drew his leg up to cover hers, till his knee rode intimately between her thighs. The masculine hardness was a sensual shock against her softness.

Deathly afraid to disturb him, Alysson lay there unmoving. Embarrassed heat flooded through her, along with another, more scandalous sensation.
Desire.
Against every inclination of common sense or reason, her body felt a shameful longing.
For Jafar.

Desire.

She recognized the feeling, for he had aroused it in her the previous day when hed kissed and caressed her and shown her body how to respond. The result was the same now. Her nipples were taut and aching, her skin sensitive and shivery, her breath shallow and much too fast. And the hidden recesses between her thighs throbbed with a need she couldn't explain.

Lying here remembering the feel of his hot mouth on her breasts only made the throbbing worse. She wanted him to touch her there, now, and ease the urgent ache.

Unable to banish the fierce sensations, Alysson groaned silently. For the first time in her life, she was confronted with the depth of her own sexuality, and she deplored the wicked, helpless way her body was reacting. These wanton, abandoned feelings were startling to her, and quite, quite, humiliating. How could she feel this way toward such a man? How could she so easily dismiss her obligation toward Gervase, her longtime friend and suitor? She owed Gervase her loyalty, at the very least. The treacherous response of her body was a betrayal of him, as well as of herself.

With an effort, Alysson pretended sleep until Jafar stirred awake. It was all she could do not to flinch when he pressed a light kiss on her temple before he rose for the day.

Two mornings afterward, she woke a bit later. When her eyes fluttered open, she was totally unprepared for the shock she received. Jafar stood there naked, with his back toward her.

He seemed unaware of her as he finished his morning ablutions. He had a beautiful body, she thought, dazed, seeing the golden skin marred only by the scars of battle and
the healing flesh wound on his arm made by her bullet. His powerful shoulders tapered to lean hips, with tight hard buttocks and a horseman's strong muscular thighs. His long legs were made of well-honed muscle, dusted with gilded hair. Then he turned.

Even as her gaze swept slowly downward, it faltered. Startled, Alysson stared at the shadowy triangle between his naked thighs. His manhood was fully aroused, jutting out proud and hard, startling in its size and power.

As if he sensed her scrutiny, he glanced down at her. Meeting her shocked eyes, he smiled.

"Sleeping with you has its unwanted effects," he said, his tone laced with wry humor.

Alysson wanted to hide her burning face in the pillows, but for the life of her, she couldn't look away. His compelling gaze demanded her attention.

Casually then, without haste, he reached for his tunic and pulled it on. But he was still watching her. Alysson could see the dark light of desire in the sensual, predatory eyes. And though he didn't touch her, she could feel the promise of his touch down the entire length of her body.

Finally managing to pry her gaze away, she gave him her back. She would not surrender to such a man, she vowed again silently.
And yet seeing his nakedness made her even more disturbingly aware of the strange, incomprehensible stirrings of her own desire.

The constant state of tension she felt reached a breaking point later that morning. She was trying for the dozenth time to read one of the French journals that had been placed at her disposal, but images of Jafar's nakedness kept returning to haunt her, totally destroying any attempt at concentration. Finally despairing, Alysson lunged to her feet with a soft curse and threw the hapless newspaper across the tent—at the very same moment that Mahmoud came limping through the doorway.

With a frightened whimper, the young boy dropped the water jug he was holding and cringed, his arm raised as if to ward off a blow.

The paper had missed him by a good five feet, but immediately Alysson was all contrition. "Oh, Mahmoud, forgive me! I didn't realize you were there. I'm sorry—"

She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched in apology, but the servant fell to the floor, prostrating his small form on the carpet, his hands covering his turbaned head. Alysson halted in her tracks; his skinny body was actually quaking.

Horrified, she knelt on the carpet beside him and hesitantly touched his shoulder. "Mahmoud, I'm sorry. Do get up, please. I'm sorry I frightened you. I never intended to throw that journal at you, please believe me."

It was a long moment before the boy cautiously lifted his head to look up at her. His complexion was pale in contrast to the savage red scar covering the right side of his face, and Alysson could see fear in his dark eyes, along with wary regard.

"You . . .
do not mean to beat me?"

"No, of course not.
Why would you think so?"

"But I dropped the
jug . . ."

"Only because I startled you."
She bent to pick up the clay vessel and held it up for inspection. "See, no damage was done. And even if there had been
,
the fault would have been entirely mine. I had no right to take my ill humor out on you, even unwittingly. If I do so again, I hope you will take me to task."

Mahmoud's wary look turned to mild shock as slowly he raised himself to his knees. "Never would I dare such a thing, lady. The lord would be severely displeased should I presume to say a word against you."

Alysson gave a smile that held more than a touch of wry- ness. "You should meet my servant Chand, then. He speaks against me regularly. If he isn't contradicting me, then he's scolding me like a mother hen."

"And you do not beat him?"

"Good heavens, no. Why ever should I?"

"Because it is your right.
A master may strike a servant whenever it pleases him, or even kill him if he wishes."

"That may be the custom in your country, but I assure you it isn't in mine. I wouldn't dream of striking Chand."

Mahmoud looked puzzled. "But my French mistress beat me many times."

That sobered Alysson at once. "Not all Europeans are alike, I'm relieved to say. I would not beat you, Mahmoud.
Ever.
Not if you broke a hundred water jugs. There is no reason for you to be afraid of me."

"I am not afraid!" At this siur on his honor, the boy bravely puffed out his meager chest and scowled up at her.

"No . . . of course not," she said soothingly, realizing her error.

His scowl easing, Mahmoud climbed to his feet and abruptly lost his balance, nearly falling. When Alysson grasped his bony arm to steady him, he shot her a self- conscious glance,
then
ducked his head. He was embarrassed by his handicap, she realized, feeling a wave of compassion surge through her.

Pretending unconcern about the incident, Alysson handed him the jug. Mahmoud averted his face as he accepted it with a mumbled word of thanks, then turned and limped toward the rear room.

Following him with her gaze, Alysson rose slowly to her feet. She had never noticed it until now, but whenever he could, Mahmoud kept the scarred side of his face turned away from her. But then how could she have noticed? Ever since her arrival in the Berber camp four days ago, her concern had only been for herself, her every thought focused on either escape or the threat that Jafar presented her.

Wishing she could make amends for her insensitivity, she followed Mahmoud into the bedchamber and found him filling the pitcher with wash water.

"What of your master?" she asked more casually than her interest warranted. "Does Jafar ever beat you?"

Mahmoud gave her a look of disdain before he shook his head vigorously. "No, never has the lord raised his hand to me. Indeed, he saved me from the French when they would have tortured me again.''

"Oh, Mahmoud . . ." Alysson felt a tight ache in her throat at the thought of how much this child had suffered in his short life. She wanted very much to console him, to wrap her arms around his skinny body and promise that he would never have to endure such pain again. But even if he would have accepted such a show of concern from a foreign infidel—which was highly doubtful—any promises she made him would be empty. Mahmoud's fate, like her own at present, was entirely beyond her power to control.