Lord of Desire (49 page)

But she wasn't his. That was the hell of it. Because he had let his mortal enemy live, the young woman standing so anxiously before him could never belong to him.

Fury and despair welled up inside Jafar, making him want to lash out at her, to punish her for causing such weakness in him. "Are you so anxious to share my bed that you would
sell
yourself to me?" he demanded caustically.

Her chin came up abruptly at that. Her gaze was direct, defiant, in direct contradiction to the promise she had just made about no longer defying him. "I am anxious to spare my uncle any more hardship. If that means selling
myself
, then yes, I am willing."

Willing.
That was what he had wanted, Jafar reflected. He had wanted her complete surrender, and now she was offering it to him.
Her body for her uncle's freedom.

What kind of man accepted terms like that? What kind of man could walk away from such an offer? He didn't know if he had the strength of will to resist what she proposed.

Dragging in a deep breath, he managed to maintain a semblance of control as he forced a reply. “The fate of your uncle does not rest in your hands."

"Jafar, please—"

"No! I will not discuss it! I won't bargain with you this way."

She was silent for a long moment. Jafar stared down at her pale, beautiful face, feeling the pain in her questioning, pleading gaze, yet unable, unwilling, to end it.

"You wouldn't . . . hurt them, would you?" she asked finally.

The tremble in her voice smote Jafar with guilt. "No," he answered gruffly. "Of course I wouldn't hurt them."

"But you won't let them go?"

"No."

“Why?
Because you need them here?
Because you need
me
here?
Do you still require my presence here to have your revenge?"

It had nothing to do with
revenge,
Jafar thought with vehemence—and was surprised by his conviction. When had he stopped thinking of using Alysson in terms of revenge? The moment she had threatened to take her own life with a Berber rifle? When she'd lain so near death from the venomous
scorpion's
bite?

He stared down at her, recalling with agonized clarity the lament of a Berber love poem he had heard years ago, about how terrible it was to desire and not possess. He had scoffed at such sentiments then. But that was before he knew Alysson, before he knew this burning need to take her and make her his, to brand her with his possession.

Alysson watched his silent struggle, trying to comprehend what it meant. "Will you at least tell me what you intend to do with us?"

Taking a step back, Jafar abruptly turned away. "You will accompany me to my home, where you will remain until your uncle's wounds heal."

"I . . .
I don't understand."

"Your uncle will recuperate more comfortably in the coolness of the mountains. And there I can provide the amenities he and you are accustomed to." He hesitated before adding, "You will be my Honoréd guests."

Alysson shook her head bitterly. How like Jafar to couch his command in terms of a polite invitation. "We will be your prisoners, you mean."

"As you wish."

She bit her lip. "You said when this was
over,
you would allow me to return to Algiers. You said when you accomplished your
mission,
you would let me go free."

At her quiet words she saw his entire body tense. "I have not accomplished my mission."

Alysson's heart suddenly seemed to stop beating. "What
. . .
did you say?"

The glance Jafar threw over his shoulder at her was filled with savage fury.
"I said, I
ha
ve failed.
I did not kill your precious fiancé."

Stunned, Alysson stared at him. "Gervase is alive?" she whispered hoarsely.

Jafar didn't answer; he only stood there, violently clenching his fists.

Abruptly, Alysson's legs folded beneath her and she sank to her knees. She could hardly credit what he'd said. Dear heaven! Gervase was alive?

"
What.
. . happened?" she managed to ask. "Was Gervase injured? Did you take him prisoner?"

The brilliance of Jafar's gold eyes impaled her. "I did not kill him. You will have to be satisfied with that."

"Jafar . . . please."
Her tear-filled eyes begged him. "I have to know."

Jafar clenched his teeth at her beseeching look. He could have told her that by now Colonel Bourmont and the other French officers would be safely interned in Ben Hamadi's camp; although he'd spared his enemy's life, he had no intention of allowing Bourmont anywhere near Alysson Vickery. Nor did he intend ever to let her know just how much power she had over him.

Yet he could not deny her the simple reassurance she was pleading for. "He is my prisoner," Jafar said finally, "but he is unharmed."

Alysson closed her eyes. Gervase was a prisoner, but he was alive. He was
alive!

A joyous feeling of deliverance welled in her heart, lightening the burden of despair she'd carried with her for so many days. Jafar had spared his blood enemy. He was not the cruel barbarian she'd feared. He was not a coldhearted murderer. He was noble and merciful and wonderful . . .

She buried her face in her hands, savoring the sensation.

Jafar cursed.

Such profound relief for his enemy was something he couldn't bear to see from her. In two strides he was across the room, grasping Alysson's arms and dragging her to her feet. "You will not weep for him!"

Only then did Alysson become aware of the scalding tears streaming down her face. They were tears of joy, of exultation. She gazed at Jafar mutely, her throat too clogged to speak.

When she didn't answer, his fingers tightened painfully on her arms, as if he might shake her. "Stop this, do you hear me?"

She swallowed hard, trying to control her emotions.
"And now?
What will become of Gervase?"

Jafar's grip only tightened further. "Enough! I forbid you to speak his name in my hearing, do you understand?"

Slowly Alysson nodded. Even Jafar's unreasonable demands could not dim the joy she was feeling at this moment. She was free, free of the dark, insidious fear that had haunted her during the past terrible weeks, free of the crushing guilt.

Through fading tears, she looked up at him without speaking. His eyes blazed with a savage fury that should have frightened her, yet strangely, that burning gaze only reassured her.

More than that, it brought back memories of a night not so long ago, a night sensual and dark with desire, when Jafar had taught her what it meant to be a woman. She had tried desperately to forget that night, to forget the wicked, erotic things he had done to her and with her, the way he'd dominated her senses and made her body shake with passion. But now her pulse, nerves, skin, heart suddenly remembered everything he'd made her feel then.

Inexplicably, uncontrollably, she found herself trembling. She wanted to touch him—with such primal urgency that it gave her the courage to raise her hand and twine her fingers around his nape.

Jafar stiffened abruptly, as if he couldn't bear the contact, but he didn't draw away.

Alysson stepped closer, pressing her body against his. He wanted her, she knew it. Jafar himself had stripped her of her innocence and taught her to recognize the signs of a man's passion. She could not mistake his tenseness, could not doubt the way his body had heated and hardened against hers, the swelling of his masculinity. He was as aroused as a man could be.

And she wanted him in return. She wanted to know the exquisite promise of his body; she wanted the hot pressure of his mouth on hers.

Staring into his burnt-honey eyes, she raised her mouth for his kiss.

"Alysson, don't!" It was a savage growl, a command, a plea. But she didn't obey.

Powerless to move away, Jafar closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of her beautiftil face. Yet the first velvet caress of her warm breath on his lips demolished his tenuous control.

His hard mouth came down hers, hungry and hurtful, a raw act of possession as an instinct stronger than reason drove him. He wanted to mark Alysson as his. He wanted to drive all thought of Gervase de Bourmont from her head, from her heart. He wanted to hear her whisper
his
name, to plead in incoherent words against his lips, to cry out in joy as she reached incredible heights of pleasure with him.

The cruel fierceness of his kiss startled Alysson, not because of the unrelenting anger she tasted in his mouth, in his thrusting tongue, but because within that brutal kiss there was pain.
His pain.
An aching vulnerability that touched her soul in a way nothing else ever had. She made a soft, answering whimper of need deep in her throat and opened to him.

At her surrender, Jafar sank his fingers roughly into her hair, anger and arousal making his blood surge hot.
Anger at himself for betraying his blood oath; anger at Alysson for being the cause.
Fury that she should love another man.
Rage that she was responding now because she was grateful to him for sparing her fiancé's life.

It was gratitude, only that.

The terrible realization was like salt on a raw wound, dragging Jafar suddenly, painfully, back to his senses. He could not,
would
not, allow her to give herself to him out of gratitude. Nor could he take her with the ghost of Bour-
mont
in his bed, lying between them. He would never be able to stomach himself afterward.

Bitterly, with a superhuman effort at control, he tore his mouth from hers, his fingers digging painfully into her arms as he held Alysson away from him.

Startled, she gazed at him in incomprehension. His face was shadowed, his jaw clenched with determination, though his breath came unnaturally fast.

"I won't have you this way,
Ehuresh."

His harsh rasp was like a dash of icewater on her burning skin. All she could do was
stare
at him.