Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  "Gervase . . ." Alysson started to protest. The desire in his eyes disturbed her, and so did his declaration. She was fearless about most things, but avowals of love had the power to disquiet her, arousing painful memories she would sooner forget. She'd learned from bitter experience to be wary of hucksters and fortune hunters who plied her with sweet words.

  Gervase was no fortune hunter, certainly; she was convinced he truly loved her. But she couldn't understand what he saw in her. She wasn't a beauty, admittedly, and her independent nature was hardly a quality a man looked for in a wife. Indeed, she had grave doubts that she could ever make Gervase a good wife.

  He was still looking at her ardently, Alysson realized. Still gazing at her with that hot desire that made her feel flustered and unworthy of his adoration. "Gervase . . ." Alysson said uncomfortably. "You promised to give me time . . ."

  He sighed softly. "I suppose I am in good company. Honoré tells me you once refhsed the hand of a rajah."

  Relieved that Gervase didn't mean to insist on an answer, she let her mouth curve ruefully. "That isn't quite what happened. A rajah once offered to purchase me as his third wife. Uncle Oliver was inclined to haggle over the price, but I didn't relish being relegated to third place."

  Gervase's answering smile warmed her. "No, you, my shameless minx, would insist on being first. And as usual you would get your way. No doubt when we are married, you will be able to wrap me around your finger as you do your uncles. Alysson . . ." His voice dropped to a gentle murmur as slowly he drew her into his arms. "Will you kiss me so that I may endure the coming weeks without you?"

  She couldn't deny such an earnest plea. Mutely she nodded, wishing with all her heart that she could respond to Gervase the way he wished her to.

  At her acquiescence, he tightened his arms around her and bent his head. His lips were warm and loving—but careful, exhibiting the self-restraint expected of a gentleman toward a young lady. His consideration, rather than flattering her, though, left Alysson with a vague sense of frustration. She longed for Gervase to embrace her more purposefully, to sweep her off her feet, to inspire in her the kind of passion and desire that the poets raved about. But it had never happened. Gervase's kisses were always persuasive and skilled, but she felt no thrill in his arms, no rush of excitement that set her heart to pounding, no spark of fire between them. Instead, his caresses always left her feeling somehow . . . disappointed.

  Like now. There seemed to be something vital missing in his kiss. Her own lips parted in anticipation as she felt his tongue slowly delve into her mouth, but Gervase's gentle coaxing roused in her only a nameless, unfulfilled longing. His accomplished embrace kindled in her nothing more than a feeling of sadness . . . that he wasn't the man she wished him to be. That she wasn't the woman he needed and deserved.

  Gervase seemed to be satisfied with her response, though, for when finally he raised his head, it was to gaze longingly at her. "Go quickly, my love," he said in a husky whisper. "Make your journey short, so that we may be married as soon as you return."

  Alysson started to protest, but Gervase silenced her by pressing his fingers to her mouth.

  Finally releasing her then, he stepped back. "Do you mean to stay here for the rest of the evening? My guests will soon miss you."

  "A moment longer only."

  "Very well, but only a moment, or you might catch a chill."

  Alysson refrained from responding that she had never caught a chill in her life. Instead, she watched silently as Gervase went back inside the house.

  Turning then, she gazed down at the shadowed garden. Her conversation with Gervase and his kiss afterward had only renewed her restlessness. Anxious again for the morning to come, Alysson descended the long flight of stone steps into the garden and began wandering along the torch- lit path.

  She had only taken a few steps, though, when she came to a startled halt; a gentleman in evening clothes stood there in the shadows, one shoulder negligently propped against the thick trunk of a palm tree. Her hand flew to her throat, while she barely managed to stifle a gasp.

  He made no move toward her as he spoke in a low voice, in fluent French. "Pardon me for frightening you, mademoiselle."

  Alysson willed her heart to settle down as she peered at him in the dim light. His face was half-hidden by the dancing shadows so she couldn't make out his features, but he didn't appear dangerous. He was a tall, lean man, a striking figure in black evening attire. Imposing perhaps, but not frightening.

  "Did no one ever tell you," he continued in French as she stared at him, "that it does a young lady's reputation no good to be seen unchaperoned in a darkened garden, kissing a man?"

  His tone was amused, yet with a curt edge that sounded almost like scorn. It took her aback.

  Hot with embarrassment over being caught kissing Gervase, Alysson couldn't help the blush that rose to her cheeks. To think that this stranger had been watching her . . . "Did no one ever tell you, m'sieur," she retorted with irritation, "that it is impolite to eavesdrop on an intimate conversation? You should have made yourself known at once."

  "You gave me no opportunity."

  That was such a patent falsehood that Alysson didn't deign to reply. Grasping the fan dangling from her wrist, she flicked it open, using the rapid feminine movement to show her displeasure. "I trust you were pleasantly diverted," she said finally, the sweetness of her tone scarcely veiling her own scorn.

  "Oh, indeed. It was quite . . . entertaining."

  She thought the darkness fortunate, for it hid her heightening color. Vexed by her unaccustomed discomposure— and unwilling to allow this provoking stranger to prolong the moment any longer—Alysson gave him her back as she prepared to follow a different path.

  "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 grou
nd, 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.

  Lifting the hem of her filmy skirts, Alysson turned and ran along the path and up the stairs, seeking the safety of Gervase's house. When she reached the curtained doorway, she thre
w an agitated glance over her shoulder, searching the garden below.

  He still stood there, watching her, a sleek shadow in the night.

  Quivering, Alysson made her escape. She, who feared nothing and no one, fled as if a real murderer were on her trail.

  The man she left behind in the garden court stood there a long while, shifting through the inchoate emotions assailing him.

  First, the unwanted attraction. He'd thought he had shed any lingering penchant for things European—clothes, horses, women. When he'd returned home to Barbary and resumed his name of Jafar el-Saleh, he had eschewed any trappings not of his own culture. Relentlessly he'd rooted out all traces of his old life, crushing even the desires he had learned during his banishment in England, in an effort to purify his thoughts and deeds and actions, to make himself worthy to lead his tribe. But that determination had wavered a short while ago as he'd stood outside the reception hall, watching Alysson Vickery through the filmy curtains. And later, when she'd made her way down toward him in the courtyard, the sight had taken his breath away. The pale gossamer of her gown shimmered as she floated down the steps, her bare throat and shoulders gleaming in the faint light. She was a natural temptress, alluring and provocative. He had felt the quickening of a raw flame leaping in his loins.