Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  Suddenly his hands stilled. Jafar looked down at her, his gaze locking with hers. He was remembering, too, Alysson realized.

  "Let me go," she whispered, and didn't know if she meant from her captivity, or from the depths of his gaze.

  "No," he said finally, slowly rising to his feet. "I will never let you go. Not until my mission is fulfilled."

  With that, he rose to his feet and stalked from the room, dropping the curtain behind him, enclosing her in semi- darkness.

  Alysson gazed helplessly after him, tears of fury and despair gliding down her cheeks. How she hated him! How stupid she had been in hesitating to kill him! Next time she would, shoot him, regardless of the consequences. How gratifying it would be to put a bullet straight through his black heart!

  Yet underlying her professed hatred, she was conscious of a plaguing thought that taunted and bewildered her. Jafar's fury hadn't resulted because she had tried to escape. Or even because she'd threatened to kill him.

  Inexplicably, it was because she had threatened to take her own life.

  Chapter 11

  For the remainder of the day, neither her rage nor despair diminished. When Jafar returned to the tent for the midday meal, Alysson gave him a look that held all the contempt and loathing that she could muster. She swore to herself she would never forgive him for tying her up again or foiling her best chance of escape, or for his diabolical schemes to destroy Gervase and the French army.

  Jafar wouldn't relent either. He allowed her the freedom of her hands for the meal, but then bound them again before he left.

  Her face was still stormy when he returned for the evening. Supper was a grim affair, with Alysson picking at her food and treating Jafar to smoldering silence. As she prepared for bed, however, her thoughts turned violent. If he dared lay one hand on her, if he dared subject her to his despicable lusts, or tried to arouse her fledgling passion the way he had managed so successfully the previous night, she would scratch his tawny eyes out.

  Except for binding her wrists and ankles again, though, Jafar made no move to touch her. Alysson was left alone to fume in restless agitation; she couldn't sleep, and she prevented him from sleeping as well.

  "Be still!" Jafar growled finally in irritation, after two hours of lying beside her thrashing form. "You are like a flopping fish."

  Alysson smiled grimly in the darkness. She was glad she had disturbed his sleep. Indeed, she would enjoy disturbing him a great deal more.

  "Why do you hate Gervase so much?" she asked suddenly, intent on making him as uncomfortable as she could— as well as learning the answer to a question that had plagued her for days.

  "It does not concern you. Now go to sleep."

  "Not concern me! How can you possibly say that when you mean to lure him into the desert and kill him, using me as bait?"

  "Matters of war are not the realm of a woman."

  Alysson bristled. "You should have thought of that before you involved me! Beside, this is far more than a matter of war. This is some kind of personal vendetta against Gervase."

  "My business is with the French army. Colonel Bourmont is a commander in that army. My meeting with him will be a military engagement, nothing more."

  "It isn't just the French army you are after! It is Gervase himself. Revenge against him was your reason for abducting me—you implied as much the other day."

  When he didn't reply, she turned her head on the pillow

  to look at Jafar, searching his face in the faint light from the brazier. His eyes were closed, his arms resting on his stomach, as if he was determined to sleep despite her insistent questions. But Alysson was just as determined to force him to talk. "You must hate him for some reason. The other day you said 'the colonel will get precisely what he deserves.' What did you mean by that?"

  Silence met her probing query.

  "You intend to kill him, don't you?"

  It was a long moment before Jafar finally answered. "Yes, I intend to kill him."

  "Why?" The word was a hoarse whisper. "What did he ever do to you?"

  Jafar sighed in irritation. It was becoming obvious that his thorny captive was not about to let the subject drop. But perhaps it would be better if she knew the reasons behind his hatred for Bourmont. At least then she would see why he could not be swayed from his course of vengeance. And it might prevent her from threatening to end her life as she had done so foolishly today, to his everlasting dismay. Involuntarily Jafar clenched his jaw, remembering that chilling moment when she had turned the rifle on herself. His heart had stopped beating for those endless moments before the weapon had been taken from her. It was odd that he should have been so terrified for her, especially when he didn't fear death for himself.

  Pushing away the thought, he forced his mind back to the issue at hand—explaining to Alysson Vickery the reasons for his quest for vengeance.

  "To understand," he said in a quiet voice, "you must first know what occurred seventeen years ago when the French invaded this country. Even after subjugating Algiers and then driving out her ruler, the French jackals were not satisfied with the wealth and plunder they seized. Determined to conquer the entire kingdom, the French army pressed south into the interior, led by a powerful general.

  "At that time there was a great amghar—a Berber chieftain similar to that of an Arab sheik—who lived in the mountains. Unaware of the invasion, the amghar was traveling with his wife and young son to Algiers when their caravan was attacked by French troops led by the general.

  "The amghar fought valiantly to defend his family but he was badly wounded. Even then he might have survived, but the general ordered that the amghar be put to death. When the lady pleaded for her husband's life, the general gave her to his soldiers for their sport. Their sport."

  Jafar's quiet vehemence made the word into an obscenity. Alysson listened with growing dismay, having little trouble envisioning what might have happened to the lady. It was a moment before Jafar continued.

  "The amghar lived long enough to see the woman he cherished and revered above all others defiled and slain by the French troops. The amghar himself was subjected to tortures that you—" He turned his head to look directly at Alysson. "—would call savagely hideous. There was one man—one only, of all those involved . . . a priest, who urged mercy and begged for the slaughter to stop, but the general paid no heed."

  She started to say something, but Jafar raised a hand, cutting her off. "The boy, who was eleven years of age at the time, attempted to save his parents, but he was no match for the soldiers. He was subdued and forced to watch."

  Alysson gave a soft exclamation of horror. Hearing the hushed agony in Jafar's voice, she understood then what he was trying to say to her. She could feel his pain, as well as the rigid control he held over himself as he lay beside her.

  "You were that boy," she whispered.

  "Yes." His reply was barely a breath. "I was that boy. The amghar was my father, the lady, my mother."

  Jafar shut his eyes, remembering the horror. He had wanted to kill that day. And he would have, had he not been half-dead already, with his limbs bound to prevent movement. Had he been free, he would have slain the French general Bourmont with his bare hands.

  He had also wanted to die. He'd actually been grateful that the general had ordered his own death after those of his parents. Only the intervention of the compassionate French priest had spared him. It was only later that he'd seen the priest's interference as fortuitous; he had to remain alive in order to seek retribution.

  "I vowed then to avenge their murders," Jafar said softly, "if it took the rest of my life."

  Alysson was silent, not knowing what to say.

  Restlessly Jafar raised an arm, draping it across his forehead as he remembered the events following the murders, events that had changed his life forever. When the priest had learned of his mother's noble English blood, Jafar had been sent to her previous home in England, to his ducal grandfather. That had given Jafar yet another caus
e to hate the French. They had invaded his country, murdered his parents and members of his tribe, and banished him to a cold, foreign country. But he had vowed to return one day and kill the French general who had ordered the slaughter of his beloved parents.

  After a moment of bitter reflection, he spoke quietly into the silence. "The general's name was Louis Auguste de Bourmont.''

  Alysson's gasp was audible. She stared at Jafar, searching his face, but his shadowed features were an impenetrable mask, his eyes glittering and cold. "Gervase is the general's son," she said hoarsely.

  "Yes, Gervase de Bourmont is his son. The general himself died in his bed, of some paltry illness or other." The contempt in Jafar's tone was apparent.

  "But . . ." Alysson said slowly, trying unsuccessfully to follow his savage logic, "Gervase had nothing to do with your parents' deaths."

  "His treacherous father's blood runs in his veins. It is enough."

  The tainted blood of a murderer. She remembered Jafar saying as much that night in the garden. But still that did not justify another murder. “Is it fair to kill one man for what another did?" Alysson cried.

  "Yes, it is fair. In my people's customs, blood vengeance is not only just, but imperative. It is my obligation, my duty. Even had I not made my vow, I am bound by my tribe's laws to seek out my father's murderer."

  In dismay, Alysson stared back at him, into amber eyes that were hard as nuggets of gold.

  "Console yourself, ma belle. Colonel Bourmont is a soldier, and I will give him a soldier's chance to comport himself honorably. It will be a fair fight, in battle—which is more than his father gave mine. And who knows? The colonel may best me yet, if Allah wills it so. Now go to sleep."

  Turning over then, he gave Alysson his back, leaving her to ponder what he had told her, to struggle alone with her conflicting emotions. Distress was her chief feeling. Her heart went out to the young boy who had been forced to witness his parents' brutal deaths. She could even understand why Jafar was so intent on vengeance. But she couldn't accept his ruthless condemnation of Gervase. It was barbaric, savage, to kill a man for what his father had done years before.

  Her mind in turmoil, Alysson stared up at the tent ceiling. If she hadn't been able to sleep before, now she was doubly wide awake.

  It was well into the night before she drifted into a troubled slumber.

  The next thing she was aware of was Mahmoud shouting through the curtain at her.

  "Awake, lady! The lord bids you dress! We must make preparations to receive the Khalifa Ben Hamadi!"

  Too groggy to be alarmed, Alysson shook herself awake. The excitement in Mahmoud's voice made her wonder if perhaps the camp was being attacked. But she soon learned that it was something quite different. One of the sultan's own generals—a powerful Arab khalifa—was expected to arrive at the camp at any moment. According to the young servant, Ben Hamadi was the right hand of Abdel Kader himself.

  "Hurry!" Mahmoud urged her for the third time as he struggled to untie her bindings. "He is coming."

  Alysson swallowed her disappointment; her intention to ask Mahmoud about Jafar's past would have to wait. She hastened to wash and dress, only because she didn't want to be caught at a disadvantage in front of an Arab general. Donning her blue-and-red tunic, she draped the blue haik over her head and shoulders and joined Jafar a few moments later at the entrance to the tent.

  He said not a word as he briefly surveyed her appearance. Seeing the cool fire of his eyes as he met her gaze, Alysson remembered the terrible tale of murder and vengeance he had told her last night in the darkness. She was startled to

  feel a sudden well of sympathy and compassion for the boy he had once been.

  She also wondered if Jafar had refrained from binding her hands and feet again because of the expected visitor, but there was no time to ask. In the distance, a large column of Arabs was galloping toward the encampment.

  In a only moment the racing column came to a flourishing halt before Jafar's tent. The leader, who sat a powerful white horse, was a small man, and definitely an Arab. He had obsidian-dark eyes, an olive complexion, and lean hawklike features that were half-hidden by a full black beard, and he was dressed much like the wealthy sheiks she had seen in Arabia. He wore an Arab kaffiyeh—a head cloth held in place by a braided gold band around the forehead. His djel- laba was rich crimson wool, over which flowed a brilliant white burnous.

  The Arab chieftain let his horse fret and stamp a moment as he surveyed the camp with obvious approval. When finally he dismounted, Jafar strode up to him.

  Pressing his right hand over his heart, Jafar salaamed deeply. "Peace be with you, Hamadi Bey. May Allah glorify you . . ."

  Listening intently, Alysson understood the first part of Jafar's flowery greeting, but the rest of the exchange, Mahmoud had to translate for her:

  "And you, Sidi Jafar el-Saleh. May Allah recompense you with His highest rewards, and make your portion exceedingly rich and full in everlasting felicity.''

  After more words of welcome, Jafar then stepped aside, allowing other members of his tribe to greet the high- ranking Arab official. The Berber men approached the khalifa eagerly, with respect and reverence, going down on their knees and kissing the hem of his garments. Alysson wasn't surprised when Ben Hamadi spoke to each man with familiarity, calling them by such intimate terms as ya ami—my eye—and ya akhi—my brother. She had once heard it said that to an Arab, every other Arab is his brother. She supposed that was somewhat true of Berbers, as well, since the two cultures were united by their religion.

  Alysson was a bit startled when Jafar interrupted her

  thoughts by beckoning to her. When she obeyed warily, he drew her forward to present her to the khalif.

  "This is Miss Alysson Vickery, Excellency," Jafar said in French—so that she could understand, Alysson presumed.

  "Ah, yes, the Englishwoman," Ben Hamadi acknowledged, switching with some difficulty to the French language. "It is an honor to meet you, Miss Vickery. I trust you are being well-treated."

  Alysson gazed into the general's fathomless dark eyes, not quite knowing how to respond to this bit of politeness. Certainly he would not want to hear about the trials of her captivity, nor would it do her cause any good to curse or revile Jafar before this powerful man. Especially since he might very well hold her fate his hands. Keenly aware that Jafar's hand rested possessively at her waist, she forced a civil reply. "As well as can be expected under the circumstances, Excellency."

  He gave her a gallant smile. "I shall look forward to becoming better acquainted with you later." Then, dismissing her with a wave of his hand, he reverted to Arabic to discuss with Jafar the arrangements for his forces.

  Alysson gritted her teeth at this imperious treatment, thinking that the khalifa's obsequiousness resembled Jafar's at his most obnoxious. Mahmoud, however, seemed quite impressed that the general had spoken to her at all. Khalifa Sidi Ould Ben Hamadi was one of the leaders of the Holy War against the French, and it was a highlight of Mahmoud's short life to have touched the robe of the mighty man. The young servant sang Ben Hamadi's praises all morning long, until Alysson was ready to consign both Mahmoud and his precious khalifa to perdition, along with His Royal Munificence, Jafar el-Saleh.

  Indeed, not only was she not pleased by Ben Hamadi's arrival, but the appearance of an Arab general in Jafar's camp disturbed her greatly. She could only assume his presence had something to do with Jafar's plan to lure the French army into battle. Why else would the khalif have brought so many forces bristling with arms? Mahmoud either did not know, or would not tell her.

  She would have liked to ask Jafar, but he was occupied elsewhere—accommodating his guests, Alysson supposed. The entire camp was busy making preparations for a banquet to be held that evening in the khalif's honor. A hunting party that was sent out returned with the bounty of several gazelles, and a whole sheep was spitted and roasted for the occasion. All this Alysson learned from Mahmoud, for she was not allowed
to leave Jafar's tent, or even look out the entrance. Saful was guarding her as if his life depended on it. Which perhaps it did, she thought wryly, remembering Jafar's lethal expression when she had tried to escape yesterday.

  To her surprise, Mahmoud kept her company the entire day. Possibly because he felt sorry for her, Alysson suspected, though he didn't once mention his lord's fury at her yesterday, or how Jafar had tied her up after her attempted escape. Mahmoud was more forthcoming than usual, though, and he voluntarily gave her another lesson in the Berber language.

  He also kept giving her odd glances, as if trying to determine the answer to a puzzle. Finally he came right out and voiced the thought that apparently had been bothering him.

  "Why do you not turn away when you view my face, mademoiselle? The highborn ladies of the French look upon me with fright and disgust when I show myself."

  The question caught Alysson off guard and filled her with dismay; Mahmoud's disfigurement obviously troubled him deeply.