Alysson twisted her fingers together in agitation. She was immensely grateful for the care Jafar had shown her uncle, but that couldn't ease her fears about how Honoré would fare as his prisoner.
She took a deep breath. She would not plead for herself, but she would pay any price to spare her uncle the ordeal of captivity. Yet she had only one thing to offer that Jafar might want. She swallowed hard. Could she humble herself to become the consort, the concubine of this vengeful Berber lord, a man she didn't know—But she did know Jafar. She knew that sometimes he could be tender and caring. She knew he could be fierce and unforgiving. She hoped he could be merciful . . .
"You once wanted me in your bed," she whispered, her voice so low he could barely hear. "You said you wanted me to submit to you. Very well, then. I will yield to you. I will call you master, whatever you wish . . . if you will only let my uncle go free."
Even in the faint light, she could tell she had struck a nerve, for Jafar's jaw suddenly hardened. But although he turned to stare at her, he still remained silent.
Alysson's gaze probed his anxiously, trying to read his granite expression. Did he no longer want her as his lover? The hardships of the past weeks could not have enhanced her physical charms, but Jafar's sexual desire for her once had seemed ardent enough to overlook her recent loss of weight now.
"Do you want me to beg, is that it?" Moving closer, Alysson came to stand directly before him. "Should I go down on my knees? I am not above begging you for my uncle's freedom, or that of my servant."
Startled by her offer, furious that she would consider humbling herself so, Jafar gazed down at her with glittering eyes. "My answer is no."
His face had darkened ominously, in a way that was almost frightening, but she wouldn't give up.
“Don't you understand? I am willing to bargain with you. Their freedom in return for mine. Release them and I will surrender to you of my own accord."
"A Berber warlord does not bargain with women!" he ground out, taking refuge in his position.
"In your culture, perhaps women have no power to bargain, but in mine it is done all the time! I mean it, I swear to you. It will be just as you wanted. I'll bow to your will. I won't defy you any longer."
His expression was no longer shuttered now. There was raw emotion in his eyes; his stance was rigid, his face drawn as though in pain.
And it was pain. Pain and guilt. He should release her, Jafar knew. An honorable man would have done so at once. Yet he couldn't bring himself to let Alysson go—for reasons he didn't want to admit even to himself.
Certainly, he had ample justification for continuing to hold her captive. Keeping Alysson and her uncle in his power would strengthen his bargaining position with the French. Yesterday at the battle's end, he'd taken the defeated Bourmont prisoner, to be exchanged later for Arab prisoners of war. But until the negotiations were final, he couldn't afford to give up the slightest advantage. Moreover, his tribe would never sanction setting his European captives free without recompense. Not now. Not after his failure to carry out his blood oath.
They were flimsy rationalizations, Jafar knew, but they were preferable to acknowledging another, far more damning reason he had to keep Alysson here.
He couldn't bear to let her return to the arms of another man.
Especially one man, his blood enemy.
Jafar closed his eyes, his lips twisting at the bitter irony. He wanted to laugh at this trap he had devised for himself, but he couldn't find the remotest humor in his present circumstance. It was a situation he himself had made possible—by betraying his oath of vengeance. If he had carried out his vow as he should have, he would not now be facing this bitter dilemma.
Yet there was really no decision to be made. The one thing he was not capable of doing was letting Alysson leave him. She was his, by Allah, his.
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."