By gritting her teeth, Alysson managed to repress a retort. But she was none too gentle as she washed away the dried blood that covered the gash on his left arm.
To her regret, the wound did not look as if it were in any danger of becoming putrid. It had already begun to heal, the edges starting to pucker with fresh pink skin. The wound would leave a scar, certainly, yet one mark more on his torso would hardly be noticeable. His upper body was branded with scars of various shapes and lengths that made Alysson certain she was dealing with a Berber warrior, a warrior who apparently had participated in countless battles.
Both his amusement and his naked chest making her keenly uncomfortable, she hastened to finish her task and bind the wound with a clean length of cloth. As soon as she was able, she retreated to the relative safety of his burnous, which he had again spread on the ground.
There she waited impatiently for Jafar to finish washing and shaving, using the small mirror and razor he had retrieved from his saddlebag. At least his barbaric traits didn't extend to his personal habits, she thought, stealing a glance at her captor.
Looking at him was a mistake. The rays cast by the setting sun lent his half-naked form a rare beauty that she had only seen captured on canvas by masters like Rembrandt. Against her will Alysson found herself watching the play of golden light on Jafar's muscled shoulders and lean torso.
Only when he turned toward her, wiping his smooth- shaven face with a cloth, was the spell broken. Only then did Alysson manage to drag her gaze away. Pretending indifference, she kept her eyes carefully averted from his half- naked form.
"I should like the chance to bathe," she said with more belligerence than she intended. "In private," she added in case he hadn't understood.
To her surprise, he nodded his consent. It was his next words that took Alysson aback. "But I will keep your clothing."
She gave him an incredulous stare. "If you expect me to undress in front of you, you are incredibly misguided!"
"If you wish to bathe, you will do as I say. I won't have you trying to escape the moment my back is turned."
"Will you turn your back?" Alysson asked hopefully, latching on to the possibility.
He hesitated. "Yes, if you are so determined to preserve your modesty." He held out his hand. "Your clothing, mademoiselle."
This was not her idea of how to preserve modesty. Alysson bit her lip, gazing at him in impotent frustration. "You are certainly no gentleman."
"Not the kind of gentleman you admire, no. But then, I have no desire to be considered in the same class as your fiancé, the colonel."
"You could not possibly be considered in the same class as Gervase. He is an honorable man."
"Obviously we disagree on our definitions of honor. But I do not intend to debate the point with you. Come, chérie, I am waiting."
"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."