Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  The transformation, though ultimately successful, had been painful. He was only half English, born to a woman enslaved by a Berber warlord after her ship had been captured by Barbary pirates. He couldn't deny his warlike Berber blood—though his noble English grandfather would have preferred to ignore it altogether. He was considered by some to be a dangerous rebel, by others an infidel. Even though his parents had eventually married, his father had been of a different faith.

  But he had mastered to perfection the fine art of acting the aristocrat: boredom, cynicism, hypocrisy, seduction. Not only was he accepted by the fashionable world, he was sought after by the opposite sex with fascination. Despite his mixed blood and questionable legitimacy. Or perhaps because of it. The ladies of his grandfather's class who were first to profess themselves shocked at his background were willing, even eager to invite him to their beds, curious to find out if he was the dangerous savage they conjured up in their ignorant imaginations.

  Nicholas's gaze shifted to the young girl beside him. His term in England was ending, while hers was just beginning. She would have to endure the lonely existence, just as he had endured.

  His probing gaze surveyed her damp face. Though the flood of warm tears had abated, she was still grieving; her trembling lower lip lent her a vulnerability that was heartrending. Nicholas longed to comfort her.

  "Have you any family here?" he asked gently. "Did your parents have relatives?"

  Her young face clouded with pain before she looked away, her fingers clutching the handkerchief he had given her. "I have two uncles . . . three if you count the one in France. But they don't want me. I would just be a burden to them."

  At the mention of France, Nicholas felt his stomach muscles tighten, yet he forced himself to reply lightly. "Then I suggest you convince them differently. Perhaps you should contrive to become indispensable to your uncles—give them good reason to want you."

  When she turned to stare at him, the thoughtful expression that crept into her eyes almost made him smile. "Wipe your face," he said gently. "You have tearstains on your cheeks."

  She obeyed him almost absently. When she was done applying his handkerchief to her damp face, she held it out to him. "I should give this back . . . thank you."

  The handkerchief bore the initials of his English name. "You may keep it," Nicholas replied. "I won't be needing it any longer where I am going."

  She eyed him quizzically. "Where are you going?"

  "Away. To another country."

  Sudden hope lit her face as she scrambled to her knees. "Will you take me with you? Please? Please? I won't be any trouble to you. I can be a model of decorum if I truly put my mind to it. Truly I can."

  The impropriety of asking a perfect stranger to escort her to a foreign land obviously hadn't occurred to her. Yet Nicholas hesitated to correct her. The plea in her voice, in those huge gray eyes, made him suddenly wish he could do what she asked.

  Slowly he lifted his hand to her face. Tenderly, with his thumb, he wiped away a tear she had missed. "I'm afraid I can't," he said softly.

  Just then the bay stallion which had been standing obediently lifted its head to sniff the wind. Nicholas turned to watch as a small, dark-skinned man appeared from behind the willows. He wore the native dress of India, a white cotton tunic and loose trousers, and a plain turban wrapped around his head.

  Seeing him, the girl sat down abruptly, smoothing her rumpled skirts and wiping at her red eyes again with the handkerchief.

  The small man approached with a soft tread and bowed low before the girl, his dark forehead nearly touching his knees. "You gave me great fright, missy-sahib. You should not have strayed so far in this strange place. The Erwin Sahib will say I do not take care of you. He will beat me and cast me out—may Allah protect me."

  Nicholas expected the giri to take exception to the servant's scolding, but instead her tone was one of fond exasperation, not defiancé.

  "Uncle Oliver will not beat you, Chand. He never blames you when I misbehave."

  "You have been hiding yourself from me again." The Indian raised his eyes heavenward. "What have I done to deserve such ingratitude?"

  She actually looked contrite. "I am sorry. But you needn't have worried, Chand. I've come to no harm. This gentleman—" She gave Nicholas a quick glance that carried a hint of shyness, "—has been kind enough to lend me his handkerchief."

  Protectively, the servant scrutinized Nicholas and his manner of dress, but the dark little man must have been reassured, for he tendered another bow before addressing the girl again. "The Erwin Sahib has requested your presence. May I say you will come, yes?"

  She sighed. "Yes, Chand, tell my uncle I shall be there in a moment.''

  The servant did not appear pleased with her response, but he bowed again and withdrew, muttering under his breath. Nicholas was left alone with the girl.

  "My Uncle Oliver," she said by way of explanation. "He is paying a call on the duke. Uncle Oliver brought me here to England because he feels responsible for me, but I know he will be happy to wash his hands of me."

  Nicholas smiled, gently. "Then you had best begin at once to change his mind."

  The faint smile she gave in return was tentative, shy, but a smile nonetheless. "Thank you for not telling Chand . . . about the acorns. He would have been ashamed of me." She hesitated, twisting the handkerchief in her fingers. "I owe him my life, you see. In India, when I was a child, he pushed me from the path of a rogue elephant and saved me from being trampled. That was why my papa engaged him— to watch over me and keep me out of mischief."

  "Is he ever successful?"

  Her eyes widening, she stared at Nicholas a moment before apparently realizing he was teasing her. The rueful smile she gave him this time was genuine. "I suppose I am a sore trial to him sometimes."

  Nicholas could well believe it. "Just promise me you won't throw any more acorns. You are dangerous with those things."

  "Well . . . all right, I promise."

  He rose then, dusting off his buff trousers. Looking down at the girl, he felt strangely lighthearted; she had quit weeping, and the grief had faded from her eyes.

  Without another word, he mounted the Barb. But as he rode away, he gave a final glance over his shoulder. The girl was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared at the lake—contemplating her future, he guessed.

  Satisfied, Nicholas turned his attention to his own future, to the bitter score that needed settling. Today he had turned twenty-one. He was celebrating not his birthday, but his freedom; today he had received the duke's reluctant blessing to return to his country, the land the French had named Algeria.

  Freedom! For himself and his father's people. He would return, with but two purposes filling his heart: to drive the French from his homeland, and to seek vengeance against the man who so brutally had claimed the lives of his beloved parents.

  Freedom! How sweet it would feel to set foot once more in his native land. To gallop across the hot desert plains, to slake his thirst at a well, to find refuge from the heat in the rugged mountains. How glad he would be to give his back to this cold, damp country with its hypocritical morals and twisted notions of civilization.

  A moment later, when he passed his silk hat where it had fallen, he left it lying in the dust. No longer would he have need for that or any other English thing. Not his fashionable clothing, not his name of Nicholas Sterling.

  Henceforth he would resume the noble Berber name he had been given at birth. Henceforth he would be known as Jafar el-Saleh.

  Part One

  Her passion is quite African; her desires are like a tornado in the desert—the desert, whose burning vastness is mirrored in her eyes—the desert, all azure and love, with its unchanging sky and its fresh, starry nights.

  HonorÉ de Balzac

  Chapter 1

  Algiers, North Africa

  1847

  Vengeance had been a long time in coming.

  Jafar stood on the
darkened terrace outside the brightly lit chamber, calmly watching the man he planned to kill. The arched doors of the reception room, though open to the night, were curtained with a silken gauze. The sheer draperies lent a hazy glow to the glittering soiree within, muting the sounds of gay laughter and conversation. They also served a useful function, letting him see inside while preventing him from being observed by either the crowd of wealthy Europeans or their host, Colonel Gervase de Bourmont.

  With one finger, Jafar held the curtain slightly parted. His face was set with cold determination as he silently studied his enemy. The colonel was a tall, dark-haired gentleman in his mid-thirties, a military man of striking good looks and a keen intelligence. Jafar had never met the Frenchman face-to-face, but the name of Bourmont had been branded on his mind for seventeen years.

  And now, finally, the moment for revenge was at hand.

  During the past few months, since Bourmont's arrival in Algiers, Jafar had become well-acquainted with the colonel's every movement. His spies had been unfailingly thorough. He knew down to the smallest detail every aspect of both the colonel's official and personal habits. What he ate for breakfast. Which route he took to his offices each morning through the narrow, twisting streets of Algiers. What horses he preferred. Which prostitutes he patronized.

  The colonel's taste in women ran to full-blown, lusty beauties with generous curves and sultry looks. Which was why his choice of a bride was surprising.

  Mar's eyes narrowed as again he shifted his gaze to the young woman standing beside the colonel. She was scarcely average height, with a slender waist that a man could span with his hands. Very definitely a lady, and most likely a virgin.

  The moment he'd learned of Alysson Vickery's existence, Jafar had known she would become his means of revenge. Grim excitement filled him as he coolly appraised his quarry. Soon Miss Vickery would be in his power. Very soon. Her innocence would only work to his advantage, he thought with harsh satisfaction. The colonel would be that much more willing to protect her, to preserve her honor.

  Tonight's events had merely confirmed the rumors of her impending engagement to Bourmont. The reception this evening had been given in her honor, and during the entire time, the colonel had paid court to her most assiduously, scarcely leaving her side.

  Jafar could see how the colonel might be smitten with her. The young lady was obviously wealthy. She wore a gown of shimmering pale silk, delicate and Ml-skirted, the sculpted bodice encrusted with seed pearls. More lustrous pearls gleamed at her throat and in the rich chestnut hair that was arranged in a loose knot—a style unusual for its lack of ringlets. But it was not her jewels or unconventional coiffure or fashionable Parisian gown that commanded attention.

  What drew the eye was her vividness, her restrained energy that he could feel even at a distance. She stood there radiating vitality and life, much like an oasis in the desert. And despite her graceful slenderness, her figure was as enticing as water to a thirsty man.

  Unwilling admiration shone in Jafar's eyes as he took in the lush curve of her bare shoulders and firm, high bosom. The gown's decolletage was modest by European standards, allowing little more than a glimpse of pale, silken breasts. But the effect was tantalizing.

  His gaze caught by the alluring sight, he wondered how those soft, ripe swells would feel beneath his palms, would taste against his lips.

  A faint smile curled his mouth.

  Perhaps before long he would know.

  Alysson no longer had any doubt. Her Uncle Honoré was hiding from her.

  Her suspicions had been aroused the moment Honoré disappeared from the reception line, leaving her to face the guests at Gervase's side. But only now, when she finally had a moment to herself, had she been afforded the opportunity to look around for her uncle.

  There was no sign of the fainthearted, elderly Frenchman.

  "You cannot escape the inevitable, mon oncle," Alysson murmured to herself, torn between amusement and exasperation. She would find her cowardly relative presently and wring an answer from him. He had postponed the decision as long as possible. Tomorrow would be too late.

  Alysson unfurled her painted-silk fan to ply it against the heat, an occupation which helped hide her restlessness, while her searching gaze lingered on the throng of guests. She had arrived in Algiers nearly a full week ago, and as yet she'd seen little of the city that had been the refuge of pirates and a stronghold of Turks. Of the country, she'd seen nothing at all—and she could scarcely contain her impatience.

  Not that her staid Uncle Honoré would ever understand her attitude. Her uncle had no conception of what drove her. A heart thirsting for passion, for adventure, was entirely foreign to him. He would never comprehend that this elegant gathering was not what she wanted out of life. This was not why she had come to Algeria.

  By conventional standards, she should have been pleased with the soiree given in her honor. This evening she had been presented to royalty, a glittering triumph for a merchant's daughter. But for Alysson, an empty triumph.

  With effort she maintained a polite smile as she surveyed the crowd of elegant Europeans. All pomp and glitter and triviality. Odd to think how desperately she had once longed to be a part of all this. There was laughter, but it was the shallow amusement of bored wives and cunning politicians. There was music, but it was the formal refrains of a French orchestra, not the strange, exotic rhythms of the East. The conversation, too, was conducted in French, consisting of meaningless chatter and spiteful gossip. Even the furniture was French, reducing the huge chamber with its Moorish arches and fretted work, delicate as lace, to the appearance of any other European ballroom.

  Only the turquoise and scarlet tiles covering the floor in a floral mosaic looked appropriately Eastern. Alysson longed to slip off her elegant shoes and feel the cool tiles against her silk-stockinged feet. But she had promised her uncle to be on her very best behavior. And indeed, she'd kept her word. She had done nothing scandalous or wild in well over a month.

  But enough was enough.

  Furling her fan, Alysson circled the room in search of her uncle. She found him half-concealed by a potted palm, engaged in conversation with a French couple who had settled here in the new colony. Nearing sixty, Honoré was short of stature and inclined to portliness, with a head of thinning, silver hair, the top of which barely reached Alysson's ear.

  Honoré gave a guilty start when he spied his niece.

  Her suspicions confirmed, Alysson favored the elderly gentleman with an accusing smile. Actually her great-uncle, Honoré Larousse was the brother of her late French grandmother who, as an emigr6, had fled the terror of the French revolution. Of her three uncles, he was her favorite.

  "Will you forgive me," Alysson inquired politely of the other guests, "for stealing my uncle away?" Slipping her arm through Honor's, she drew him aside. "You have been hiding from me, haven't you?"

  Blustering a denial, he tried to change the subject. "How can it be that you are all alone?" Honorf asked in French. "A moment ago there were a dozen young bucks vying for your attention. Never tell me Gervase has abandoned you."

  "I've only been alone for a moment, Uncle," Alysson replied in the same language. Her schoolgirl French had progressively improved over the years, due to the summers she'd spent with Honoré in France, and she found it easy now to respond fluently. "The prince required Gervase's attention on some matter, and his officers went with them. But you know that isn't what I wanted to discuss with you. You promised to give me your answer tonight, remember?"

  "So I did." His heavy white brows drew together in a scowl as he tried unsuccessfully to stare her down. Alysson met his gaze calmly, trying not to laugh. It was obvious her uncle wanted to avoid a scolding.

  "You look in need of refreshment," he stated, avoiding giving her an answer. Hastily, he retrieved two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and pressed one on his niece. Lifting his own glass to his lips, Honoré took a swallow and grimaced. "Merde!"

&nb
sp; Alysson had expected his reaction. A vintner of the highest reputation, her uncle deplored wine that was not of the first quality. And this was both bitter and slightly flat.

  "Take heart, Uncle," she soothed. "In only a few years you will be able to savor your own vintages." Honoré meant to expand his Bordeaux vineyards by purchasing property in the French colonial province. Land here was plentiful and cheap, now that the war with the Arabs was virtually over. Later he hoped to build a winery to carry on the tradition of his forebearers.

  "If I can survive on this pap till then," he complained.

  "The sooner you begin, the sooner your plans will come to fruition."

  "Tomorrow is soon enough."

  "Ah, yes . . . tomorrow. Shall we discuss our expedition, then?"

  Tomorrow they would set out for the fertile coastal plain where her uncle meant to establish his new vineyards. A practical businessman, Honoré insisted on viewing the land before making the final commitment to buy.