Jafar caught her arm and forced her to her knees. None too soon, either, for just then a short, full-bearded Arab broke away from the caravan and strode toward Jafar. With effusive greetings of welcome, the Arab made a deep salaam, bowing so low that his nose nearly pressed the ground, before touching his forehead to the hem of Jafar's black burnous.
Alysson stared. Jafar replied in Arabic, but she could make out only a word or two.
Their exchange was brief, musically fluid and low. Finally rising, the Arab clapped his hands and immediately three young boys came running at his command, one bearing a bowl of camel's milk, another a golden-ripe cluster of dates resting on a palm leaf, the third a woven rush mat on which to sit. Laying down their offerings before Jafar, the youths prostrated themselves at this feet.
Such obsequious subservience made Alysson give Jafar a sharp glance. He was obviously someone of importance in the Arab world.
"Are you some kind of sheik?" she asked him when the Arabs had withdrawn.
"Shaykh is an Arab word," Jafar said, settling himself on the mat, cross-legged, and gesturing for her to join him.
"Well, Berber, then."
"I am a chieftain, yes."
"And just how did you explain my presence to those men?"
An amused smile curved his mouth as he looked over the food. "A Berber warlord is not required to explain his actions except to his sultan."
Warlord? His confirmation of her suspicions gave Alysson pause.
He took the opportunity to press a handful of dates into her hand. "Now you may feed me," Jafar said, watching her carefully.
Alysson's gray eyes widened as she stared at him. "Feed you? Why in heaven's name should I?"
"Because I wish it, and because it is expected by our Arab friends."
She cast a glance beyond his shoulder; they were indeed being watched by the Arabs. "Their expectations aren't of the least concern to me.''
"They should be. Those men are slavers. They would as soon sell you into bondage as look at you."
"Slavers! Then that makes your suggestion all the more absurd. I will not debase myself simply to indulge the whims of a group of savages who deal in the sale of human flesh."
"Your compliance will not be considered debasement. Here in Barbary dominance of the strongest is a simple fact of nature. You are my captive. I am your master. You will obey me in all things."
"You can go to the devil!" Alysson declared, rising to her knees.
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"Sit down!"
"I won't!"
His gaze captured hers. "It seems you have forgotten your lesson in obedience," he said softly.
Her cheeks flushed with indignation. Provoked beyond endurance by his arrogant superiority, Alysson raised a hand to strike him. He caught it easily and pressed it flat against his chest. "That was not wise, chérie," he said in a tone that made her shiver.
He did not remove his hand, nor did he release her from the power of his eyes. She was mesmerized by the intense heat of his unfathomable gaze, by the glittering gold flecks that floated in the brightness of his honey-colored irises.
His voice dropped even lower, but was no less threatening because of its soft intensity. "Take care, captive, before I decide to sell you to them as a slave."
Alysson regarded him with loathing. He was cold and unfeeling, and no doubt capable of unspeakable acts of brutality. Still, she would prefer to take her chances with the devil she knew. But she would not give him the satisfaction of a complete surrender. She raised her chin with a touch of bravado. "I am no man's slave."
"No," he said after a moment. "I think not. But you will do as I say. I am the only thing standing in the way of your being imprisoned for life in an Eastern harem."
A long, quiet silence ensued before Alysson finally nodded.
When Jafar released her hand, she tore a date from the cluster and held it up for him to eat. He waited, however, until she carried it all the way to his lips.