Lord of Desire (7 page)

"Have no fear, mademoiselle," he murmured. "Your reputation is safe with me."

The soft mockery in his voice set her nerves on edge. She whirled again to face him. She couldn't see how her reputation or her conduct was any of his business. Not that she had much of a reputation to lose. She'd been called eccentric, scandalous, wild, even fast by stalwart arbiters of society—more critical judges than this presumptuous Frenchman. She should have grown inured to such comments by now, yet this time she was piqued into defending herself.

"In certain circumstances," Alysson said with exaggerated civility, "I believe the young lady may be excused.
When she is engaged to be married, for instance.
If the gentleman she is kissing is her fianc6, there can be no harm in sharing a simple display of affection."

"So the colonel truly is your fiancé."

It was an odd statement to make, Alysson thought. Even more odd was his quiet tone; it held both satisfaction and a hardness that inexplicably made her want to shiver.

Unable to define why this elegant stranger should suddenly seem dangerous to her, she gave him a quelling stare. "I cannot conceive how our engagement is any of your concern."

"The colonel's father was an old acquaintance of mine. I have since come to know his son."

"You cannot know Gervase well, or he would have presented you to me in the reception line."

"I arrived late."

"And then hid out in the garden?" Alysson asked skeptically.

He
shrugged,
a casual, eloquent gesture that was as arrogant as his low-pitched voice. "Like you, I wanted to escape the heat." Pushing away from the tree then, he took a step toward her. "But in fact, I was anxious to meet you. I had heard the colonel had offered for the hand of a beautiful heiress."

Beautiful?
She wondered where that rumor had started.
Servants' gossip, no doubt.
Or officers' talk.
Wealth often gave the aura of beauty to those who possessed it. But the thought fled as the stranger came nearer. He moved toward her purposefully, as if he intended to inspect her, to judge her beauty—or lack thereof—for himself.

Alysson began seriously to doubt the wisdom of being alone with a man she couldn't identify. Involuntarily, she glanced back at the house, finding it farther than she expected, yet she stood her ground, determined not to be intimidated by this arrogant stranger. As he emerged from the shadows, into the glow of torchlight, she could see that his hair
gleamed
a dark gold beneath his chapeau. Then the blur of his face became focused. His bronzed features were angular and lean . . . proud, she would have to say.
Noble, even.
And hard.
Alysson experienced a vague feeling of unease at the hawklike expression that dominated his countenance.

He came to a halt directly in front of her, looking down at her critically. She had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. He had long-lashed, hooded eyes, she saw . . . predatory eyes.
Eyes that were a dark and disturbing gold, the color of brandy in firelight.

Then suddenly his sharp gaze narrowed. He became very still, staring down at her as if in surprise, as if she was not what he had expected.

His strangeness disturbed her enough to make her demand, "Is something wrong?"

He seemed to recover himself. "No. You remind me of someone I once knew."

He, too, looked oddly familiar, Alysson thought, but she couldn't place where she had seen him. Not recently, that was certain. She would have remembered someone so . . . compelling. He was nothing like the Frenchmen of her acquaintance, with his athletic height and lean, ascetic features. Indeed, the overall effect was almost
savage . . .
the lean hollows beneath angled cheekbones, the narrow aquiline nose that suggested patrician fineness, the hard, sensual mouth. Together with those hawklike eyes, they gave the impression of ruthlessness, of fearless determination. Alysson couldn't drag her gaze away.

"You should heed the colonel," he said softly.

"I beg your pardon?" His swift change of subject bewildering her, she stared at him in puzzlement.

"Your journey into the interior tomorrow.
You should fear the dangers. Bourmont was right. Christian foreigners will never be safe in Algeria as long as there are Arabs who refuse to abandon the Holy War."

Rigid with annoyance, both at the reminder of this man's eavesdropping, and that he, a perfect stranger, would have the audacity to question her judgment, Alysson had difficulty managing a cool reply. "If you overheard my discussion with Gervase, then you also heard my answer. Our party will be well armed . . . and the leader of the Arabs has fled to Morocco."

"Ah, but his lieutenants have not forsaken him. Emir Abdel Kader might lack a regular army, but his followers stand ready to foment the spirit of insurrection at the slightest opportunity."

Her gray eyes narrowed. She had assumed this gentleman was French, since they were conversing in that language, and since he spoke with a fluency that excelled her own. But his comment made her
wonder,
for it suggested that on this issue he didn't side entirely with the French. And again, there was something in his tone that gave her pause. It sounded almost as if he was issuing a
warning . . . or a
threat.

Controlling the urge to moisten her lips nervously, she raised her chin to stare him out of countenance. Unyielding, his gaze captured hers in a long glance.

The air suddenly became charged with inexplicable tension, a tension which Alysson was hard-pressed to understand. He made her feel as though she couldn't take a deep breath.

"I am not afraid," she finally said, her anger returning at allowing herself to be daunted by this disquieting man.

"Then you are either very
brave . . .
or very foolish."

Alysson clamped her lips together to keep from retorting with an epithet that was quite unladylike, but her simmering silence, her indignant glare, indeed her very posture, conveyed her vexation.

Her ire apparently had no effect on him. "It would seem," he remarked in that same casual tone, "that the colonel is far too indulgent of you."

What effrontery the man had! "I repeat," Alysson said through gritted teeth, "I fail to see how it can be any concern of yours."

He merely continued to stare down at her, those keen golden eyes regarding her with speculation. "That was not much of a kiss the colonel gave you. You didn't appear to be enjoying yourself."

Her expression turned incredulous. "Don't tell me you consider yourself qualified to give me instruction on the art of kissing! What an elevated opinion you hold of yourself."

"Oh no,
ma belle.
I would never have the patience." A corner of his mouth turned up in faint amusement. "Nor, if I were to instruct you, would I be satisfied with so lukewarm a response from you."

She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Alysson felt a perverse desire to shatter a little of his arrogant self- assurance. Swallowing her outrage, she summoned laughter instead. "Well then, if you think you can do better, you are welcome to try."

There, that would call his bluff. No man with even marginal good sense would want to risk Gervase's anger by stealing a kiss, even an invited one. And even should this stranger dare, he wouldn't be able to make her respond to him, any more than Gervase had. His claim was mere boast.

From his expression, she could see that her challenge had taken him aback. "It would
seem,
m'sieur, that
you
are the one who is afraid," Alysson said sweetly, her dulcet tone a taunt. "But have no
fear,
your reputation is quite safe with me.

He raised an eyebrow, staring at her in disbelief.

She laughed again, this time in real amusement. She had succeeded in rendering him speechless.

Her enjoyment was short-lived; a strange, unfathomable smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I am tempted, I admit."

His voice had dropped to a mere murmur, and the low sound, velvet-smooth and husky, made her breath catch and her heartbeat quicken.

He moved then, silently, eliminating the distance between them. "If I were to instruct
you,"
was his quiet comment, "I would take you in my arms, like so . . ." Suiting action to words, he slipped an arm about her waist and drew her fully against his body.

The wealth of emotions that swept over Alysson startled her nearly as much as his unforeseen move. He had been right; he was nothing like Gervase—and neither was her response to him. She was shocked by his boldness, incensed by his insolence, unnerved by his gentle attack, flustered by the unexpected hardness of a masculine body that was all muscle. Yet at the same time, to her great dismay, a part of her felt thrilled and challenged. She had always admired men of action, and she was vaguely curious to see if he would take his arousing embrace further. Some irrational segment of her mind wondered what it would feel like to have that hard mouth on hers . . .

Fortunately, sense won out. She forced her hands up between them, to press furiously against his chest.

But he refused to let her go. He held her thus, with consummate ease, one arm around her waist, while his other hand lifted to brush the vulnerable column of her throat.

Her heart began to race. She could feel his breath whisper intimately over her lips. Against her will Alysson found herself actually, incredibly, wanting his kiss . .
.

Then his fingers closed warm and threatening over the fragile, pulsing hollow of her throat.

She went rigid in his arms. Was he going to kiss her or strangle her? Her own fingers tightened around her fan as a shivering fear ran through her.

"You would be making a mistake," he murmured gently, almost inaudibly, "if you married the
colonel . . .
a man with the tainted blood of a murderer in his veins."

The delicate fan snapped under the pressure of her fingers. The very softness of his tone frightened her.
Murderer?
What was he talking about? Was she being held by a madman?

Frantically, Alysson pushed against the hard wall of his chest. When he suddenly released her, she took a stumbling step backward.

She stood there staring at him, her heart pounding, her breath ragged. He remained motionless, observing her
silently,
his hard face a savage mask in the dim light.

Slowly, with herculean effort, Alysson edged away from him. Three steps back and she managed to break the seemingly paralyzing force of his deadly gaze.