Lord of Desire (69 page)

She lifted her anguished gaze to him. It would take only a single word from him and she would have remained here, under any terms he cared to name. But he had said nothing.

Was it because he was convinced, as she was, of the futility of their future together? Or that her continued presence here would prove a further detriment to him?

Did he feel nothing for her at all? Did he
want
her to leave?

"Are you able to ride? We should return."

At Jafar's quiet, dispassionate question Alysson felt the crushing weight of despair settle over her. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in some dark corner and find relief for her aching heart in the oblivion of sleep, but she nodded wearily and accepted Jafar's help in mounting—and tried to keep her agonizing thoughts at bay during the long ride back.

The moon rose shortly, blanketing the rugged mountains in a cold light, allowing them to see their way. A few hours later, they returned home in triumph, bearing the blanketed corpse of the lion. They were greeted by gleeful shouts and bursts of gunfire, by exclamations of universal joy that the tyrant was dead, that young men and maidens need not tremble as they went forth at night.

Neither Alysson nor Jafar shared in that joy. Neither could banish the terrible feeling of despair that assailed them at the thought of the bleak future.

It had never happened before in the memory of Jafar's tribe. A woman had killed a lion!

How brave the infidel woman was! How courageous! How remarkable! She had killed the
ezirn
and saved the life of the lord!

The entire next day was spent in celebration and feasting, to honor Alysson's skill and daring, to sing her praises. The woman being honored, however, missed much of the celebration, for she was making preparations to leave with her uncle and her Indian servant on the morrow. The
khalifa
himself was to escort them part of the way to Algiers.

In actuality, there were few preparations to make. Alysson had only her clothing to pack, and most of that was accomplished by an ecstatic Chand. She spent the time, however, seeking out the people who had served her and cared for her during her captivity, those who had come to mean a great deal to her in the past two months . . . Tahar, the gentle young woman who had shared advice and kindness. Saful, her faithful guard.
Gastar, the old healing woman who had saved her life.
Mahmoud, the crippled, proud young boy whose emotional scars ran deeper than the scars on his poor face.

Of them, all, Mahmoud had become most dear to her. Despite his hatred for the European race, Mahmoud had accepted her and made her captivity easier to endure, albeit grudgingly at first. He had been her link to both to the world and to the strange culture into which she'd been thrown. He'd answered her curious questions about his people and volunteered stories on his own. More importantly, he'd fulfilled her longing to hear about his master. He had even tried to protect her from the spells of a Berber sorceress. How could she not feel tenderness toward a child who had come to her defense in the face of threats from a witch?

Or was her fondness for Mahmoud because she saw something of Jafar in him, something of the bitter, angry boy that Jafar once must have been?

Standing before Mahmoud, Alysson could hardly get the words to say good-bye past the ache in her throat. "I would like to thank you for your excellent care of me these past weeks," she told him in an unsteady voice.

Mahmoud wouldn't meet her gaze. "It was nothing. It was my duty to serve you as my lord commanded."

Despite his sullen, muted response, Alysson believed

Mahmoud might miss her almost as much as she would miss him. She held out the lion's paw that Saful had retrieved for her. "Perhaps you would accept this as a token of my appreciation."

The boy stared at the gift with distrust, before his scarred face suddenly came alight with an expression of awe. "Oh,
lallah . . ."

Almost fearfully, he accepted the amulet and stood regarding it with reverence. Then clutching it to his skinny chest, he gazed up at her. "You do me great honor."

Alysson smiled through a haze of tears. She wanted to take Mahmoud in her arms and hold him, but any young man who considered himself a warrior, as Mahmoud did, would likely be offended and embarrassed by such womanly displays of affection. She settled for giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Afterward, she returned to her room. She tried to sleep for a few hours, but the sounds of revelry coming from the village and the savage pain in her breast kept her awake.

Beneath the mound of quilts of her sleeping mat, Alysson lay curled in a tight ball. God, how could she bear to leave Jafar? How could she endure the agony that was making her heart bleed? She felt as if it were slowly being ripped in two. And it seemed as if there was nothing in this world she could do to mend the torn pieces.

She went to him that night. She couldn't stay away.

The hour was late—well past midnight—and the household was long asleep as Alysson made her way through the darkness toward the lord's quarters. The guards let her pass. She entered Jafar's rooms quietly, through his library. The door to his sleeping chamber was open, and she could see a faint light issuing from within.

The glow was cast from a single, low-burning hanging lamp, Alysson saw as she paused at the threshold. Jafar's bed was a Berber bed, not Arab, with a wooden frame supporting layers of rugs and cushions. It stood in one corner beside a large carved chest of sandalwood inlaid with ivory. A brazier glowed in another corner, warming the room.

Jafar was not asleep. Rather, he was standing near the

high
grilled window, staring down at the floor, at nothing. When Alysson took a step toward him, his head turned swiftly, like that of a wild animal sensing danger, his hand automatically stealing to the dagger at his waist.

Alysson caught her breath in a soft gasp at his action. The low sound lafar made was sharper, harsher, when a moment later she let her burnous fall from her shoulders. She was clad in silk so sheer that the curves and shadows of her body were clearly visible beneath it.

A still, breathless quietude filled the room as they stared at each other.

For a brief instant Alysson thought she'd imagined a look on Jafar's hard features that was almost vulnerable, a vulnerability that sat oddly on that arrogant face. But she was not imagining his fatigue. Seeing Jafar like this, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes weary, Alysson wondered if he might actually be feeling an inkling of the throbbing pain that was savaging her.

There was no indication of it when his voice came softly stealing through the silence. "You shouldn't be here,
Ehuresh. ''

"I came . . .
to say
good-bye . . ."
Alysson faltered, hearing the hope and hollowness in her own voice.

He moved toward her then, coming to stand before her. Capturing her face carefully between his palms, he gazed down at her, searching the shadows that made her eyes pools of mystery.

"What is it you want of me?" he asked hoarsely. No longer indifferent, his tone held a note that suggested emotion was crushing each syllable.

Alysson's heart began to pound painfully. What did she want of him? She wanted to love him. She wanted the touch of his mouth so much that she was willing to take the hurt with it. She wanted memories of him to sustain her through the bleak years ahead. She wanted to believe, just for tonight, that things could be right between them.

"I want to remember
you . . ."
she whispered as she raised her lips for his kiss.

With a harsh groan, Jafar accommodated her. Dragging her into his arms, he brought his mouth crashing down on hers.

It was a kiss of desperation, Alysson realized dimly. She could feel it in the way Ms mouth ground against hers, lit the fierce penetration of his hot tongue, in the thwarted thrust of his hard body—and she could see it in his blazing, searching eyes when abruptly he pulled away.

Those eyes were wild, fierce, naked in intent, as he tore at her diaphanous robes and his own djellaba. They remained wild as he scooped her up and carried her to the bed,
then
followed her down. Without pause, his hands tangled in her hair as he attacked with his mouth, as he covered her with his body.

There was no gentleness in him. She wanted none
..
It was a naked moment of truth between them, a moment when need reigned supreme. His need to stamp her with his ownership,
Her
need to be taken.

His demanding fierceness sparked an answering wildness in Alysson. Blindly her hands sought his thick hair, while her body reacted with animal passion, straining, arching against bis powerful loins.

And then she was being filled by him, with his desperation. Her head thrashed from side to side at the heated carnality, at the intensity of desire so searing
she
thought she might perish from it. When the desperation became too much, she clawed at his back, sobbing his name, pleading for him to end her torment. In response, lafar caught her hips and pushed deeper, driving harder, until the frantic woman beneath him was shuddering under his deep thrusts. Her sharp cry of passion shattered his ragged control. Jafar went taut and reared back, letting her name burst from his throat in his own hoarse cry.

Afterward they lay gasping, entwined, the fury of heartbeats settling into a less violent rhythm. Eventually, Jafar drew slowly away, as if separating himself from her was like tearing his limbs from his body.

Feeling similarly, Alysson turned weakly on her side so she could watch him.
lafar
lay sprawled on his back among the lush cushions, one arm thrown over his forehead, Ms eyes closed.

Her fearless Berber lover, she thought with mingled anguish and yearning. Slowly, shamelessly, Alysson Jet her eyes roam over him, drinking in the beauty of his body, his
sleek muscled length dusted with golden hair, gleaming darkly in the lamplight. He was much like the lion she had hunted in the mountain, though not as savage.
A wild and tawny beast, only half-tamed.