Lovers.
Her smile softened with remembered pleasure. She had taken a lover. An incredibly sensual man who had carried her to the heights of fulfillment she'd never dreamed possible. A vitally masculine man who had made her feel richer as a woman than she'd ever felt in her life. The knowledge brought no shame, only contentment. She was a woman now; Jafar had made her one. All during the long night he
had shown her what it was like for a woman to be properly loved by a man.
He wasn't a gentle lover, except for the first time. He was fiercely tender, exotic, wildly exciting, as ruthless in his lovemaking as he was in war. He had possessed her thoroughly, asserting a mastery that had claimed her heart as well as her body.
Her smile abruptly faded. She could no longer doubt she was in love with Jafar, but those feelings were too new and fragile to bear full examination just yet. And the guilt that accompanied those feelings was too disturbing to dwell on. She had betrayed Gervase. Willingly, by her own choice. With the barbarian who had taken him prisoner, who had taken her prisoner, who had the power of life and death over them both. It was not something she could be proud of.
Suddenly restless, Alysson flung off the covers and promptly winced at the tender ache between her thighs. More carefully, she rose from the pallet and hurried to wash and dress, then helped Mahmoud pack up the furnishings and tent in preparation for the long journey ahead. All the while, she tried to discipline her thoughts, but vivid recollections of the warm pulsing rapture that Jafar had created with her last night were never far from her awareness. And when she went to find her uncle and Chand, there was a fresh sparkle in her eyes that belied the dark smudges beneath them.
Still, she managed to act normally until the caravan was nearly ready to depart and Jafar rode up on his black stallion. She hadn't counted on what the sight of him would do to her.
His eyes were like heated golden velvet as they gazed down at her, while the tender curve of his lips, as he smiled softly at her in greeting, made her suddenly remember the taste of his mouth and skin. Her pulse went wild.
Jafar had to be conscious of it, she thought breathlessly. The sexual awareness that arced between them was so powerful, so tangible, that Alysson had the impression the very air crackled around them. When his gaze riveted on her own mouth that was a soft bruised red, she knew without a doubt Jafar was contemplating very seriously kissing her right then and there. She found herself experiencing a flutter of emotions so new, so strong, so upsetting to her usual self- possession that she could hardly think.
"Good morning, Mademoiselle Vickery," he said evenly.
Only the hint of a husky rasp in his voice made his proper, conventional greeting at all palatable. How could he sound so formal when she could almost feel again the bold thrust of him between her thighs?
She must have answered, but she hardly heard his polite inquiry about her uncle's comfort. And when he asked about her own health, she murmured some vague reply that she only hoped was coherent.
"Are you able to ride?" Jafar finally said in a voice too low to be overheard by her uncle or servant.
Alysson gave him a blank look. "Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I be?"
His answering smile was both wry and intimate as his gaze slowly dropped to peruse her body. "I would imagine that mounting a horse just now could only add to any discomfort you might be feeling."
Comprehending at last, Alysson felt a scarlet blush rise to her cheeks. "N-no, I'm quite all right," she stammered, much to her chagrin.
"Very well. But you have only to ask and I will make other arrangements."
"Yes . . . of course . . . thank you."
He didn't kiss her, to her immense regret. When finally he rode away, toward the head of the column, Alysson stood there watching him, feeling wanton longing and a fierce disappointment, her body throbbing with unfulfilled desire.
She mounted her horse gingerly, with those same overwhelming feelings hammering at her thoughts, at her senses. She should be pondering what fate had in store for her, she knew—or more precisely, what Jafar had in store for her. But as she set out on the long journey, her mind was filled to the exclusion of all else with the memories of passion and the sensual, magical prowess of her savage Berber lover.
It took three full days of hard riding to reach Jafar's mountain home. To Alysson's surprise they traveled north and east, almost retracing their steps to the place where she'd spent the first weeks of her captivity. Leaving the desert behind, they entered the arid wastes of the High Plateau and passed the salt lake she had seen during her near-fatal attempt at escape. They were headed, it seemed, toward the distant blue mountains dotted with scrub. The first night they camped near the range of foothills.
Alysson slept alone, which only increased her frustration and longing. She was a jumble of nerves, being so near to Jafar without being able to touch him or kiss him or feel his hard body moving against hers. And yet she didn't dare show such interest in him, not with her uncle so near and with Chand hovering at her side like a mother hen. Chand had taken to scowling at her in silent disapproval, as if he somehow suspected her of harboring unchaste proclivities toward their Berber host.
The journey was just as tortuous for Jafar. He thought of her a hundred times a day; he wanted to touch her no less often.
For the sake of appearances, he kept his distance; he would not shame her before her uncle. Yet he watched Alysson from afar. Seeing her with the elderly Frenchman and her Indian servant, Jafar found himself envious of the easy playfulness in her manner, the loving familiarity betw
een them.
He wanted that same familiarity for himself. Merely possessing her sweet body had not been enough. Even her willing surrender had not been enough. For while taking her body had satisfied him completely, it had only left him craving more. He wanted Alysson with a single-mindedness that was nearly obsession.
And he would have her, for a time. He would keep her by his side until her uncle's wounds healed. Then he would force himself to let her go.
His selfishness was not honorable, certainly. Nor was it something he could justify to her. He'd seen the shimmering questions in her eyes, questions that he couldn't, wouldn't answer truthfully. The excuse of her uncle's health would have to suffice.
Yet that wasn't entirely spurious as excuses went, Jafar thought defiantly. He did care about what happened to the elderly gentleman, if only because he didn't want to cause Alysson further pain.
And delaying her release at least would give him time to try and protect her name. He owed her that much. He knew quite well what her prudish, privileged English race would think of an unmarried young female who had spent the better part of a month as the captive of a Berber sheik. A fallen woman. A whore. Despite her wealth, she would be shunned and despised, the way his mother had been. The hypocrisy galled Jafar, even now.