Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  The second unexpected sentiment was surprise. He'd been startled to recognize her, to realize the vision of loveliness was the little ruffian who had once pelted him with acorns, the same girl he had comforted years ago. But it was she, Jafar had no doubt. He could never have forgotten those huge, rebellious gray eyes. Here in the garden, they were no longer filled with pain. Instead, they held pride and a sharp intelligence that was unusual in a woman. There was an open, forthright quality about her gaze that contrasted keenly with the submissive deference of Eastern women.

  Yet she still possessed the same defiant spirit he remembered. A defiancé that was both intriguing and infuriating. In one stroke, she had managed to rouse both his passion and his male pique. He had never before been treated so dismissively by a woman, but tonight not only had she challenged him to kiss her, she had laughed at him as well. How he had wanted to respond to that challenge! He'd found himself fighting down the insane impulse to bend his head and slowly, endlessly kiss the irreverent laughter from her soft, inviting lips.

  Next in his surfeit of unwanted emotions was unease. It disturbed him to realize that she was the fiancée of the man he intended to kill. It disturbed him more that she would be his means, the instrument of his revenge. He had done his best to warn her, as had the colonel, but she'd scoffed at the dangers. She meant to go forward with her plans to explore his country, despite the risks. In bemusement, Jafar shook his head. Not only was the young lady courageous but strong-willed. It had been written in every line of her slender body, in the lift of her arrogant, yet surprisingly delicate chin.

  And last, regret. He regretted having to involve her in his personal vengeance.

  But not enough to forsake his purpose.

  A muscle tightened in his jaw as he renewed his resolve. No, he would not change his plans because of her. He had waited too long for this moment.

  Quelling his misgivings with ruthless determination, he turned and disappeared into the night shadows.

  Chapter 2

  Chand was ill.

  The second morning of their journey, Alysson's Indian servant was stricken by a mysterious malady that resulted in an ailing stomach and a low fever. The lieutenant in charge of their escort, too, suffered the same complaint. The cause of their illness no one knew, but conjecture was that they'd eaten something that disagreed with them. No one else in their party took sick. Not Alysson, nor her uncle, nor their Arab guides, nor any other of the French troops sent to guard them.

  Alysson wanted to cancel the expedition entirely, knowing any enjoyment for her would be spoiled as long as Chand was ailing. But for once Uncle Honoré overruled her. As long they had come this far, Honors declared, they might as well visit his prospective property before returning to Algiers.

  It was decided that Chand and the lieutenant would remain there at the campsite, with an Arab servant to care for their needs. If they recovered quickly, they could catch up to the party; if not, they would all return to Algiers together, and scotch the lengthy trek to the desert.

  Alysson had to be content with the new plan. But still she worried about Chand who, like her, normally was never ill. His unexpected affliction filled her with a vague foreboding, coming as it did on the heels of that absurd warning by the savage stranger in Gervase's garden two nights ago. She managed to repress a shiver at the memory, but as she said farewell to her faithful servant, she wondered what more would go wrong during their journey.

  Chand clearly shared the same concern, for his strangely pallid face was contorted more in woe than in pain. "Allah, forgive me," he breathed. "I have failed you, memsahib."

  "Goodness, Chand, you are not to blame for becoming sick."

  "You will take care?"

  "Of course I will—if you promise to do the same."

  It was nearly noon by the time they broke camp and started on their way. Alysson rode beside her uncle. The day had already grown hot, although yesterday morning when they'd ascended the steep green hills behind Algiers, it had been quite chilly. They'd made good time then, considering the number of horses and pack mules in their party; by noon yesterday their procession had descended from the high, hilly coastal region where evergreen trees predominated, to the broad and fertile valley that the French colonists had settled.

  The Plain of Algiers was precisely what Alysson had been lead to expect—miles of graceful undulating farmland, hemmed in by mountains. Here trees of wild fig and olive grew in abundance. Today, like yesterday, they passed acre after acre of orange groves and well-cultivated fields sown with barley and wheat and millet. Watching the harvest ripening under the African sun, Alysson felt her mood lift somewhat. Her Uncle Honoré's vineyards would prosper here.

  As for herself, she would never be content to settle in such a tame region. Her gaze traveled farther south across the rolling landscape. In the distance, she could see the lower slopes of the mountain range known as the Tell Atlas. It was there that she longed to explore. There, and beyond, where the wild country lay, the remote steppes of the High Plateaux, and the barren desert.

  She had dressed appropriately for such rugged terrain, in a severely tailored jacket of blue serge, short blue pantaloons, and a stout pair of boots. A wide-brimmed felt hat protected her face from the burning sun and her eyes from the dazzling glare. Her masculine attire was less a matter of convenience than of necessity. In the thick woods and mountain heights she would eventually encounter, the long skirts of a riding habit would be sadly in the way.

  Likewise, she rode astride, eschewing a sidesaddle for both comfort and safety. Her mount, a gray Arab mare, had proved a delight—spirited but manageable.

  They had been riding only a short while when she first noticed the horseman. He was some distance off the road they traveled, half-hidden by the shadows of a tamarind tree. He wore native dress—black robes and turban—and sat un- moving upon a powerful black horse, watching them. Alysson couldn't help but glance over her shoulder as they passed.

  And hour later, her attention was again riveted by the horseman. This time he was poised on the crest of the hill above them, making a dark silhouette against the azure sky.

  Both rider and horse were as still and silent as the desert.

  Alysson felt a prickle of alarm as she noticed the long- barreled rifle slung over the horseman's shoulder. Her apprehension was absurd, of course; Arabs always carried such weapons. Still, her hand surreptitiously sought the double- shot pistol in her saddlebag.

  The next instant proved her caution well-founded, for the horseman suddenly unslung his gun. Instinctively her fingers clenched around the pearl handle of her own weapon.

  Yet she was given no cause to use it. Whirling, the dark figure set his horse to a gallop, the skirts of his black burnous flying straight out in the wind as he disappeared over the crest of the hill.

  A moment later she heard the sharp report of the gun.

  When her French escort immediately reached for their rifles, her Arab guide raised a soothing hand. "He hunts for boar," the guide informed them.

  The French soldiers relaxed. Alysson did, too, somewhat, while her elderly uncle muttered a Gallic invective, directed at inconsiderate savages who had nothing better to do than frighten peaceful citizens.

  It was late afternoon when the road threaded between two high hills covered with a wild tangle of Barbary fig. With her thoughts centered on Chand and his strange, sudden illness, Alysson was unprepared when a volley of rifle shots exploded all around them.

  The next moment, a horde of black-robed Arabs burst from the shelter of the trees, galloping in a wild path around them, brandishing swords and muskets.

  The chaos was instantaneous, the attack so sudden that the French troops had time only to form a protective circle around Alysson and her uncle. She herself was occupied controlling her mount and imploring Uncle Honoré to keep his head down, trying to make her voice heard over the shouts and gunfire.

  It was a moment before the clamor quieted. When the haze of d
ust and heat finally settled, Alysson found herself, her uncle, and their French escort surrounded, with three dozen Arab muskets pointed at them.

  None of her party seemed to be hurt, she saw with relief. Her uncle's face was red with anger and her own breath was too ragged, but they were both unharmed. Assured of Honoréd safety, she focused her attention on her attackers.

  They all wore black robes, while their heads and faces were wound in long black scarves. Their eyes glinted through the slits, as did the blades of their long curved swords thrust without scabbards in their belts. Alysson was quite glad she had the protection of the French soldiers. Because of them, she wasn't afraid . . . yet.

  Then she spied the dark horseman, the same man she'd seen twice earlier that day. Her heartbeat took on a erratic rhythm. Had he been following them?

  He rode a great black beast with a high curved neck and long flowing tail, and like the others, his features were hidden in the wrappings of his scarf.

  When he issued an order in a low commanding tone, she couldn't recognize a word. It wasn't Arabic, she was certain. Perhaps it was the Berber language, which she didn't speak at all.

  Indeed, these had to be Berbers, Alysson concluded, eyeing the faces of three men who weren't wearing scarves. Unlike her Arab guides who were swarthy Bedouins, these men surrounding her were fair-skinned, with hard, lean, proud features. And they were much taller, their carriages athletic and noble. She had been told about this fierce warrior race that populated the mountains. The Berbers had lived here for centuries before the conquering Arabs had swept over the face of Africa.

  She would have inquired as to their intent, but her uncle spoke before her, demanding in French to be told the meaning of this outrage. Alysson had thought the dark horseman was their leader, but it was one of the other Berbers, a red- bearded man, who responded to her uncle.

  He smiled benignly, pressing his hands to his mouth. "Salaam aleikum," he greeted them courteously in Arabic, then repeated in French, "May peace be with you."

  "What the devil do you mean, accosting us in this manner?" Honoré exclaimed, ignoring Eastern etiquette entirely.

  It seemed rather absurd to be exchanging polite salutations while the acrid smoke of the Berbers' musket fire still hung in the air and their horses stamped and blew, but Alysson was both more familiar with and more accepting of other cultures' customs than her uncle.

  "Aleikum es-salaam," she replied, repressing her trepidation. "Perhaps you will forgive my uncle," she added in French, "if he is anxious to learn your intent. Your actions just now do not argue for peace—"

  The dark horseman interrupted her with another order in that strange tongue.

  "Abandon your weapons," the bearded man advised, "and you will not be harmed."

  The automatic refusal that sprang to Alysson's lips died unspoken when she glanced around her. All the Arabs in her party looked appropriately terrified, except her chief guide. He looked infinitely satisfied with present events. Rather smug, in fact.

  Anger filled her at the realization that this Arab scoundrel had led them into an ambush. Her gray eyes narrowed, her gaze impaling him.

  The guide caught her fierce look and, with a start of alarm, immediately set up a very vocal protest in Arabic against the Berbers, denying their right to make such demands. His resistance rang so hollow that Alysson snapped an order for him to be silent. She was furious that she should have been so dim-witted as to ride blindly into this trap, more furious still at their current dilemma. If they fought now, they might very well die. But the alternative—to meekly hand over their only means of protection—was unthinkable. She would have to determine some way to foil these Berber ruffians—and quickly, before her French escort abandoned her. As it was, they were already shifting uneasily in their saddles, their aims wavering as they looked to her, obviously seeking guidance.

  Even as Alysson ground her teeth at their cowardice, a single rifle shot rang out, sending Honor's hat hurtling into the road and making the Europeans' horses shy.

  Alysson flinched, staring in horror. The bullet had come so close! It might have killed her beloved uncle. Honoré's mouth had dropped open in shock, while his angry flush had faded to waxen.

  Her gaze flew to the dark horseman. He was calmly reloading his weapon, the black stallion beneath him standing rock-steady.

  The tense moment drew out, with only the creak of saddie leather and the clank of bridle bits to alleviate the silence. Alysson regarded the black-swathed Berber with every evidence of loathing, but his veiled face, his hooded eyes, gave no indication that he knew or cared about her fury or disdain. As indeed he had no cause. His ease with the long rifle and the accuracy of his shot just now only underscored something else she had been told about the Berbers: they were outstanding marksmen.

  The thought filled Alysson with dismay. Her party would have to surrender. If it came to a battle, her spineless French protectors would prove no match for these fierce Berbers. She wouldn't, couldn't, risk her uncle's life.

  Just then the bearded spokesman addressed the French troops directly, his tone soothing, almost deferential, as he reasoned with them, appealing to their logic. "Do not be concerned for yourselves. We mean you no harm. We only want the woman."

  They meant to single her out? In God's name, why? Alysson wondered. But it was the answer to a prayer. If she could manage to get free of this melee of horses and men, the Berbers would no doubt follow her. She could draw them away, and her uncle would be free to take cover. Moreover, if she fled, she stood a better chance of foiling their plans for her. She was an excellent horsewoman. She might even be able to escape into the shelter of the hills before they caught up with her. Unless they shot her first . . . but if they wanted her, surely they wouldn't shoot her.

  This chaos of thoughts whirled through Alysson's mind, even as her Uncle Honoré sputtered in outrage. Despite his close brush with death, he was trying to urge his mount between her and the Berber leaders, evidently in order to protect her. Alysson's heart swelled with love and fear. That he, an aging, comfort-loving gentleman should be the only man with the courage to defend her made her want to weep. She had to get away, now, before another bullet struck a mortal target on her uncle's person, rather than merely his hat.

  Letting Honoré's blustering gestures act as a distraction, Alysson edged her gray mare sideways till she glimpsed a clear path between the other horses. Turning the mare's head then, she brought her riding whip down hard on the animal's flank in a single swift motion and dug in her heels. The startled animal let out a squeal, reared on its hind legs, then bolted headlong through the throng of Frenchmen and Berbers.

  The mare's rapid flight was all Alysson could have wished. Bending low over the horse's neck, she called out encouragement as she tried to provide some kind of guidance to the frightened animal.

  They left the road, surging up a hill covered with prickly shrubs and ancient olive trees. When they came down again, Alysson spied a narrow ravine. She felt the mare gather for the jump . . .

  With a flying leap they were clear and racing across a bare, relatively flat stretch of land that offered not even the dubious protection of the trees.

  Then she heard the sound of pounding hoofbeats behind her, and dared to look over her shoulder. Only a single rider pursued her.

  The dark horseman on his midnight stallion.

  Her heart sank. Had her heroics been for naught? Why hadn't the other Berbers followed her? What was happening to her uncle? What would happen to her if her savage pursuer caught her?

  Sudden fear gave Alysson renewed determination. Desperately she used her crop again, calling for all the speed her straining mare could muster. Her hat flew off, ripped from its pins, but she ignored the loss. In the distance, some two hundred yards away, she could see a cluster of tall rocks which might provide cover if she could only reach it.

  She chanced another glance over her shoulder at the stallion galloping after her. The black beast was strong-boned, lon
g-legged, powerful. He was from Barbary, after all. Such horses could outrun the wind . . .

  How absurd her notion of escape had been! But she wouldn't give up. She groped inside her saddlebag for her pistol, grateful for the comfort it gave her.

  Her breath came in ragged spurts as she focused her gaze on the boulders ahead. Nearly there. Twenty more yards. Ten. She could hear the echo of savage hooves pounding in her head, could almost feel the stallion's breath hot on her neck.

  She reached the rocks with mere seconds to spare. Hauling back on the reins, Alysson used every skill she possessed to halt her plunging mare. Her heart beating frantically, she flung herself from the gray's back, almost stumbling as she took cover behind a boulder. Catching herself, she whirled, prepared to fight back, desperately aiming her pistol at her attacker.