Lord of Desire Read online

  THE ART OF KISSING

  "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."

  Alysson felt a perverse desire to shatter a little of his arrogant self-assurance. "Well then, you are welcome to try."

  He raised an eyebrow, staring at her in disbelief.

  She laughed. 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. If I were to instruct you, I would take you in my arms, like so . . ." Suiting action to his words, he slipped an arm about her waist and drew her fully against his body. He held her thus, with consummate ease, one arm about her waist, while his other hand lifted to brush the vulnerable column of her throat.

  Against her will Alysson found herself actually, incredibly, wanting his kiss . . .

  «««««

  "Lord of Desire is a wonderful love story

  with a spellbinding essence . . . Alysson and Jafar have my hands-down vote for outstanding hero and heroine of the year.''

  Affaire de Coeur

  LORD OF DESIRE is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before appeared in book form. This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  1350 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright ® 1992 by Anne Bushyhead Published by arrangement with the author Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-92083

  ISBN: 0-380-76621-3

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U. S. Copyright Law. For information address Irene Goodman Literary Agency, 521 Fifth Avenue, 17th floor, New York, New York 10017.

  First Avon Books Printing: January 1992

  AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Ann, Sandra, and Irene—for having the immense good taste to fall in love with my valiant desert sheik, and the skill to help me give him life.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Two

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part Three

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part Four

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  When love has pitched his tent in someone's breast,

  That man despairs of life and knows no rest.

  Love's pain will murder him, then blandly ask

  A surgeon's fee for managing the task—

  The water that he drinks brings pain, his bread

  is turned to blood immediately shed;

  Though he is weak, faint, feebler than an ant,

  Love forces him to be her combatant;

  He cannot take one mouthful unaware

  That he is floundering in a sea of care.

  Farid ud-din Attar

  Twelfth Century

  Prologue

  Kent, England 1840

  The rawboned Barbary stallion looked out of place standing before the Duke of Moreland's family estate. The august mansion, golden-hued and "boasting magnificent proportions, was the epitome of grace and elegance, while the sweeping lawns and topiary yews had been clipped and manicured and cultivated within an inch of their civilized existence.

  In contrast, die fiery Barb with its sinewed haunches esq over- long mane seemed almost swage. Indeed, it bore scant resemblance to the sleek thoroughbreds in the fabulous ducal stables. This animal had been bred for endura ice and speed in the harsh desert climate of the Sahara, and trained for war. Held by a wary, liveried groom, the bay stallion snorted defiancé and pawed the ground while awaiting its master.

  The horseman who at last cams bounding down me wida stone steps of the ducal mansion aiscs contrasted with his noble surroundings—despite his tailored frock coat and si&reiisc. cravat of black silk, despite even hi? claim to noble birth. The young gsntlemajj was the duke's grandson, but his bronzed skin and hawklike gaze lent him a hard, ruthless air that the refined British gentleman of his class would never attain. There was nothing refined, either, about the way he leapt oa. the stallion's bach or wheeled his mount as if he'd been born in the saddle.

  Muscles quivering in response to its rider's innate restlessness, the horse strained eagerly at the bit, in anticipation of freedom.

  Yet Nicholas Sterling kept the Barb tightly reined as they traversed the smooth graveled drive between two rows of stately oaks; for once he checked his impatience to be away. He could afford this last mark of obeisance, this final show of respect for his grandfather. His interview with the duke successfully concluded, he was at last free to pursue his own life. Ten years. Ten long years in this foreign land, enduring what had felt like captivity. But at last he could shed the trappings of his civilized English upbringing, as well as the English name that had been thrust upon him.

  The taste of freedom was sharp on his tongue, as sweet as the spice of fall in the air, as vivid as the oaks turning the colors of autumn. The stallion seemed to sense his mood, for the animal began a spirited dance, nostrils flaring, ears pricked forward, as they passed beneath the canopy of the giant oaks.

  The horse never flinched as an acorn whistled over its head and fell to earth, a credit to the stallion's training. Nicholas absently murmured a word of praise, his thoughts occupied by his impending departure from England.

  The next instant he heard another faint whistling . . . then a small, dull thud as his silk top hat went flying off his head to land in the drive. Scattering gravel as he spun the stallion around, Nicholas reached for the curved dagger at his waist—a habit learned in youth—before remembering he had no reason to carry a weapon in this tame country. He had not expected danger to be lurking in a British tree.

  Or a female, either.

  But that was precisely what met his astounded gaze as he stared overhead. She was hard to see. If not for the acorns he would have passed her by; her black gown was nearly hidden in the dappled shadows. Even as he peered up at her through branches and leaves, she defiantly flung another acorn at his fallen chapeau, missing it by mere inches.

  The bay stallion, taking exception to this aggression, thrust its forehooves squarely on the ground, tossing its proud head and snorting in challenge. Soothingly Nicholas laid a gloved hand on his mount's neck, but his mouth tightened in anger.

  "The first acorn," he said softly, "I mistook as an act of nature. Even the second, when you targeted my hat, I excused as an accident. But not the third. Would you care to know the consequences of a fourth?"

  When she didn't reply, Nicholas's gaze narrowed. By now his vision had grown accustomed to the shadows, and he could see that the perpetrator perched on the limb overhead was a young girl of perhaps thirteen, with chestnut hair, several shades darker than his own dark gold, styled in ringlets. The hem of her gown was a scant
four feet from his head, giving him a glimpse of lace-edged pantalettes. The quality of the material was unmistakable, bespeaking wealth if not current fashion.

  Even as he fixed her with a hard stare, the girl tossed her head defiantly, much like his stallion had just done. "Tuppence for your consequences! You don't frighten me in the least."

  The novelty of her reply gave him pause. He was not accustomed to being challenged by a female, certainly not by a child. Staring at her, Nicholas was torn between amusement and the urge to turn her over his knee. Not that he had ever raised his hand to a woman. But he didn't intend to divulge that particular fact just now. Repressing amusement, he schooled his features into suitable fierceness.

  "If you decide to throw another acorn," he warned, "I shall be persuaded to give you the thrashing such willful misbehavior deserves."

  In response, the girl raised her chin another notch. "You will have to catch me first."

  "Oh, I shall. And I guarantee you won't like it if you put me to the trouble of climbing after you." His tone was pleasant, yet carried a hint of something soft and deadly. "Now, do I disarm you, or will you surrender your weapons without a fight?''

  She must have believed his threat. After a moment's hesitation, she let the fistful of acorns drop harmlessly to the ground.

  Nicholas was satisfied that she wouldn't again dare hurl one of her missiles at him, but he couldn't leave her to pelt other unsuspecting travelers with acorns. "You should have considered what might have happened," he added more casually. "Had my horse been any less well-trained, he might have bolted, perhaps even sustained an injury or delivered one to me."

  "I wasn't aiming at your horse, only your hat. I would never hit an animal. Besides, he didn't bolt. You didn't have any trouble holding him, for all that he looks so savage."

  "You presume to be a judge of horseflesh? I assure you, this beast is far more valuable to me than any of the pampered animals in the duke's possession."

  "Will you sell him to me?"

  The sudden question, delivered in such a hopeful tone, took him aback.

  "I can afford his price," she said quickly when he hesitated. "My papa was exceedingly wealthy."

  Several answers immediately came to mind. That his horse was not for sale. That a stallion was not a suitable mount for a young lady. But his curiosity was aroused. "What would you want with him?" Nicholas asked instead.

  ''I shall need a horse when I run away.''

  He raised an eyebrow at her. The rebellion was back in her tone, echoing a sentiment that was familiar to him. "Where do you intend to go?"

  "India, of course."

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm afraid you cannot ride a horse to India."

  "I know that! But if I am to find a ship to take me, I must first travel to a seaport. And I cannot steal a horse, you see."

  "Ah . . . no, I fear I don't see."

  "I am not a thief!" She sounded indignant. "And if I were to steal one, they would discover it missing and come after me sooner. Well," she demanded as he silently pondered her logic, "will you sell him to me or not?"

  "This particular horse is not for sale," Nicholas said, managing to keep the laughter from his voice. "And in any case, I expect your parents would be rather concerned if you were to run away."

  He expected her to be disappointed, but to his surprise, the girl suddenly swung down from the tree limb with a flurry of skirts to land on the low stone wall beside the drive. There she stood for an instant, staring back at him.

  She was an intriguing child, with huge storm-gray eyes that seemed too big for the rest of her plain features. Eyes that were angry, defiant . . . anguished. He caught the reflection of tears in those haunted eyes, before her defiancé crumbled. "I don't have any parents," she whispered in a grief-stricken voice.

  The next moment, she leapt down from the wall and fled across the manicured lawn, to the shelter of a copse of willows.

  So strong was the impression of a wild young creature in pain that Nicholas had to follow. Reining back his mount, he urged the stallion over the low wall, then cantered across the lawn and skirted the willows. He found her lying facedown on the grass beside an ornamental lake, sobbing as if her world had shattered. Unexpectedly, he felt guilt. Had he caused her tears?

  Dismounting, Nicholas sank down beside her and waited. Not moving, not touching her, merely letting her feel his nearness, the way he would one of his horses. She didn't acknowledge his presence in words, yet he knew by the stiffness of her shaking young body that she was aware of him. And after a while, her sobs lessened enough for her to speak.

  She didn't want to answer his probing questions, though. Her first reply, when he asked her what was troubling her, was a husky "Go 'way."

  "What kind of gentleman would I be if I left a young lady in distress?"

  "I am n-not in distress!"

  "Then why are you filling the lake with your tears?"

  She didn't reply; she only curled her knees up more tightly and buried her face in her arms, in an effort to shut him out.

  "Tell me what the trouble is and I will go away." Again no answer. "I can be very patient," Nicholas warned quietly as he settled back for a long wait. "Why do you not have any parents?"

  He heard a watery sniffle. "They . . . they died."

  "I'm sorry. Was it recent?"

  After a moment the girl gave a faint nod.

  "And you miss then?"

  Her nod was a bit more vigorous this time, but still she didn't volunteer any answers.

  "Why don't you tell me about it?" Nicholas prodded. "I would like to hear what happened. Was it an accident?"

  It took some time, but by gentle persuasion, he learned the cause of her grief: her parents had died from cholera in India, and she had just been sent back home to England to attend boarding school. That was why she was dressed in mourning. That was why she was sobbing so bitterly.

  Nicholas remained silent, understanding now. He had once felt the same anguish, a grief so deep it seemed fathomless. Grief and a fierce hatred. He knew what it was like to be orphaned without warning. To have childhood abruptly ended in one brutal, mind-branding moment.

  "I should have died, too!" she cried in a voice muffled by her arms. "Why was I spared? It should have been me. God should have taken me."

  Her desolate plea brought the memories crowding in on him. Her death wish was something Nicholas also understood. Guilt for having lived, for having cheated death when loved ones had not escaped. He had seen his father struck down by a French bayonet, his mother brutalized and murdered by soldiers who were no better than ravening jackals.

  ''I hate England!'' the girl exclaimed suddenly, fervently. "I despise everything about it! It's so cold here . . ."

  Cold and wet and alien, he thought. The constant chill had bothered him, too, when, against his wishes, he had been sent to live among his mother's people ten years ago. England was so very different from his native country—the vast deserts and rugged mountains of North Africa. Watching the girl shiver, he wanted to console her. He fished in his pocket and found a monogrammed handkerchief, which he pressed into her hand.

  "You will grow accustomed to the cold," he said with quiet assurance. "You've only been here . . . what did you say? Two days?"

  Ignoring his handkerchief, she sniffed. "I like hot better." Lifting her head then, she turned those huge, gray, glistening eyes on him. "I shall run away. They shan't keep me here."

  Seeing her mutinous expression, he was struck again by the passionate nature of her defiancé. She was a strong- willed, rebellious child . . . Not so much a child, really. Rather a young girl on the brink of womanhood, a bud beginning to unfold. And just as intriguing as he had first thought. Hers was a plain little face, true. Plain and piquant and rather incongruous. Nothing matched, and yet it was arresting on the whole. Given a few years she might be fascinating. Her heavy, straight brows gave an exotic, almost sultry look to those haunted eyes, while her sharp litt
le chin indicated a stubbornness that boded ill for anyone who tried to control her.

  He felt a strange kinship with her, this young English girl who wanted to return to India where she had been raised. He understood her compelling need to defy authority, to lash out at even those who had her best interests at heart.

  He knew; he had been there. Leaning back on his hands, Nicholas recalled the half-wild boy that he'd been. He had run away twice before he'd agreed to his grandfather's bargain: he would remain in England to be educated, until he reached his majority. Then if he was still of a mind to return to Barbary, the duke would fund his passage.

  Had the bargain been worth it? For ten years he had chafed to return to his homeland, while his grandfather had nearly despaired of turning "a savage little Arab" into a civilized English gentleman.