It was Jafar who first took Alysson up to the roof to observe his magnificent horses being trained in the village arena. Alysson found it a pleasure to watch the high-mettled steeds as they were taught to charge and wheel and charge again.
It was Jafar, also, who escorted Alysson through his stables, an event which resulted from a taunting comment she made at supper one evening after listening to the conversation he was having with her Uncle Honoré about the difficulties the French had encountered in conducting a military campaign in the rugged Algerian terrain.
"What do you and your savage warriors do when you are not engaged in fighting?" she asked dryly, wishing she could stem Jafar's growing influence over her uncle.
Jafar sent her a cool look. "Besides war, Ehuresh, we enjoy the chase, love, and horses. Tomorrow, if you wish, I will show you my horses."
Alysson inclined her head regally, pretending indifference, but the next morning, as they toured Jafar's stables, she couldn't maintain her reserve when near such excellent horseflesh. She listened attentively and with growing admiration as Jafar explained, without exaggeration, that his tribe raised some of the best horses in the country.
When she particularly admired a snowy white mare, Jafar gave it to her outright, not listening to her objections.
Finally conceding with a gracious thank-you, Alysson moved on to the other stalls, till she came to one that held a lean and sharp-boned bay stallion. The horse seemed rather savage as it snorted and pawed the ground—until it scented Jafar. Then it spun and trotted up to him, as docile as a lamb.
For some strange reason the stallion looked familiar, yet Alysson was almost certain it hadn't been one of the mounts Jafar had taken to the desert. "Does this fierce-looking fellow have a name?" she murmured as the stallion affectionately nuzzled Jafar's chest.
"Atoo. It means 'wind.' " She caught the odd look Jafar was giving her, but she had no idea how to interpret it. Moments later, though, she forgot the Barbary steed in her immense delight, for Jafar ordered her new mare saddled and took her riding. For two wonderful hours she explored the rugged countryside and reveled in the long-denied freedom, afterward returning with her cheeks flushed from the chill and the exercise, her eyes glowing with enjoyment.
The following morning, however, her glow faded. When Mahmoud brought her breakfast, the boy seemed more dour than usual, and Alysson asked what was troubling him.
"The council is to meet twelve days hence."
"So?"
A worried frown shadowed Mahmoud's scarred brow. "So the council may vote to remove the lord as amghar el- bar ood. He has been charged with betrayal of his duty and disregard of the law, and thus must prove his innocence."
Alysson felt an icy knot coil in her stomach. Upon questioning Mahmoud, she discovered that amghar el-barood meant something like "chief of war." This elected position of supreme commander was filled only in wartime by one of the tribal amghars from all the surrounding tribes. Currently Jafar held the position, but it seemed that he stood to be impeached for his action that day on the battlefield, when he had spared Gervase's life and allowed his blood enemy to go free.
"Do you mean to tell me Jafar could be punished for showing mercy to an enemy?" Alysson asked incredulously.
Mahmoud nodded sadly. "I do not know what will happen. It is in the hands of Allah."
When she pressed the boy to explain about Berber law, Alysson began to understand why Jafar had so litde time for leisure. Besides chief of war and chief of his own tribe, Jafar also held the position of caid, which was appointed by the sultan. Only caids were allowed to wear scarlet burnouses, Alysson learned, but that was the only simple rule she could discover. The Berber system of government was a tremendously complicated network of inter-lineage blood feuds and interclan warfare—which certainly wasn't made any easier by the independent and warlike Berber spirit.
Alysson thought Jafar's possible dethronement preposterous. During his reign, Jafar had united and led a people whose very instincts drove them to faction and discord, against a superior force of foreign invaders. It seemed almost ludicrous now that he would be required to fight not only the French but his own people.
The threat of impeachment was what had been troubling Jafar, Alysson was certain. She wanted to ask him about it, but could find no opportunity for privacy with him during that entire day. And the next afternoon she was subjected to another encounter with Zohra.
The beautiful blonde woman was waiting for her in the courtyard, much like a watchful spider. Having no intention of becoming Zohra's prey, Alysson started to pass, but Zohra's hissed warning gave her pause.
"You should leave here, lady, before something evil befalls you."
Halting, Alysson turned slowly, her eyes narrowing. "Something evil? Are you daring to threaten me, Zohra? I imagine the lord might have something to say about such treatment of a guest."
Zohra's blue eyes showed an instant of worry before the animosity returned in full force. "You have bewitched him, but he will never take you to wife, no matter how you try to lure him with your great wealth! You are an infidel, a foreigner. He will wed one of his own kind, one who can bring honor to his name and favor to his tribe. You have only brought him dishonor! You are nothing to him, less than nothing!"
Having delivered her scornful denouncement, Zohra swept away with a jingle of gold chains, leaving a startled Alysson to stare after her. Take her to wife? The thought of marriage to Jafar had never crossed her mind—at least not seriously. She was his captive, nothing more. And despite Zohra's warning to leave, she had no choice but to remain his captive.
Damn the woman! Alysson fumed, clenching her fists. The Berber witch not only had cut up her peace, but had actually dared threaten her!
The more Alysson thought about it, the angrier she became. After a few more moments of seething, she turned abruptly on her heel and marched across the courtyard, directly into Jafar's crowded reception hall.
He looked up in surprise, as did every other man in the room. The sudden silence in the great chamber told her more than words that her behavior was unorthodox to say the least, but Alysson was too annoyed at the moment to care what Jafar's tribe thought of her.
"I should like to request an audience," she said tightly, coming to a halt just inside the doorway. "If you can manage to spare a few moments."
The concern in Jafar's expression was evident as he dismissed the crowd with a swift wave of his hand.
The hall was cleared almost immediately, the crowd filing out into the courtyard, but the interval gave Alysson enough time to realize her mistake. A flush of embarrassment tinged her cheeks. She had Jafar's undivided attention now, just as she had demanded, but if she complained of Zohra, he would only think her jealous.
When he invited her to join him, she slowly settled herself on the carpet beside him, her mind racing to think of some plausible excuse for her interruption.
"Mahmoud says you may be impeached by your tribal council because you allowed Gervase to live," she said finally.
Jafar seemed to misunderstand the reason for her comment, for his expression became shuttered. "Don't be concerned, mademoiselle, that my disagreement with the council will affect your colonel's release. I have given my word that no harm will come to Bourmont and that will not change, even if I no longer rule."
"That wasn't my concern," Alysson protested. "I just think it immensely unfair that you could be so harshly punished simply for showing clemency to an enemy."
Jafar gave her a sharp glance, as if surprised that her indignation could be for him.
But it was for him. She couldn't bear to think his sparing a man's life could cost him so dearly.
Shaking his head slowly, Jafar looked away. "You measure fairness by your Western standards, Ehuresh. The council sees my action in a different light . . . a weakness at best, a betrayal at worst. A weak leader is not fit to rule. A traitorous one is not fit to live."
"You are not a traitor!" Alysson exclaimed in ou
trage, squeezing her hands into fists.
"No?" His smile was faint, bleak. "I swore to avenge the deaths of my parents, but I failed. I broke an oath of blood."
He returned his gaze to hers and Alysson drew a sharp breath at the pain and the unguarded need in his eyes. It was a need for understanding.
That she could give him. She might not comprehend many of his people's customs and laws, but she had lain with this man. She knew the grief he was feeling now in his soul. The sorrow, the regret. She knew because she could feel it herself. His failure had shaken Jafar profoundly. Not just because he might lose the vast power and position he held, but on a far deeper level. Because he had disHonoréd his beliefs, himself.
And he had done it for Gervase. Because of Gervase, Jafar's entire life might be shattered.
The injustice made her ache. She wished desperately there were something she could say to ease his pain. "You spared a man's life!" she murmured fiercely. "That can't be wrong."
He averted his gaze, staring off at the distance.
"It can't!"
Jafar wanted to wince at her quiet vehemence. Her defense of him had taken him aback, had touched him as nothing else had in a long while, but he could not accept the consolation she was trying to offer.
The silence lengthened.
"Well . . ."she said helplessly. After another long moment she added, "I should go. Forgive me, please, for interrupting you."
Alysson got slowly to her feet. At the door, however, she paused and looked back. "Jafar?" she said, her voice echoing softly across the empty hall. "What will happen afterward . . . after the prisoners are exchanged?"
Jafar did not want to face that question, or the others it raised. What would be Alysson's response when her fiancé was freed? Would she demand her own freedom? A freedom Jafar did not want to grant?
And yet hearing the troubled note in her voice, he knew he had to give her some kind of answer. "I told you, your precious Gervase will not be harmed," Jafar said grimly, forcing himself to look at her.
Oddly, she didn't seem entirely relieved. Instead, she regarded him searchingly. "Do you still mean to seek revenge for what his father did to yours?"
Her persistent fear for his blood enemy infuriated Jafar, but he forced himself to let out a breath. "No . . . I no longer seek revenge."
"But you will never stop fighting, will you?"
Jafar shook his head. As long as he breathed the war would never be over for him. Even if he was stripped of power, he would never give up his quest to rid his country of the foreign oppressors. This interlude, here in his mountain fortress with Alysson, was only a brief respite. Someday soon he would return to the struggle.
"A traitor would not be so dedicated to a cause," she said softly before turning away, leaving him alone.
Her quiet words whispered though his mind, grasping with seductive fingers at his conscience. He couldn't accept her reasoning, but truthfully, he wished he could.
Alysson wished she could convince his tribal council to reconsider their absurd allegations. What Jafar had done was not traitorous; it was right and good. He had not betrayed his countrymen by letting an enemy live. He was still totally committed to his beliefs. He was still determined to fight against the French, in a war he could never win. That should have been proof enough to vindicate him, she thought.
Alysson was still dwelling on the unfairness of it two days later when she was confronted with a discovery that sent her reeling.
Jafar had been gone all morning long, hunting for boar with his men—an invitation which had not been extended to her, even though she would have liked to participate. Women did not hunt in Barbary, it seemed.
After her recent long ride, however, Alysson wasn't overly distressed at being left out. Not only was she still recovering her health, but the day had turned wet and wretchedly cold, with rain clouds hovering over the mountains much like in the Scottish Highlands—a reminder that the snows would soon come.
Instead, she spent the morning reading aloud to her uncle. After finishing the French text, she wandered disconsolately over to the other second-floor wing that held Jafar's private apartments, intending to search his library for another book.
The library was furnished even more comfortably than the rest of the magnificent house, with dozens of leather- bound volumes filling the wooden shelves and recesses in the walls. Much to Alysson's surprise, she found among the writings of Arabic and French a book of English poetry penned by Lord Byron, the brooding romantic British aristocrat who some twenty-odd years ago had fought alongside Greek freedom-fighters against the bloody Turks.
Curious, Alysson sat down on one of the divans to thumb through the slim volume. When she opened the front cover, though, her hand froze. There on the front leaf, written in a bold flowing hand, the name Nicholas Sterling had been inscribed. The words seemed to leap up at her, while her heartbeat surged erratically.
Sterling was the family name of the dukes of Moreland.
Seven years ago she had visited the duke's estate and had been comforted by a fair-haired stranger.
During her terrible illness she had dreamed about that stranger—a comforting image that had somehow become entangled with Jafar's.
Dazed, confused, Alysson stared at the name, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Just then, she heard a soft, familiar footfall. When she looked up, it was to find Jafar standing in the doorway, his golden eyes focused intently on her, his features shrouded in a look that was both wary and shuttered.
Chapter 20
"It was you that day," she accused, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yes," Jafar replied, meeting her questioning gaze.
"I don't understand . . ."
"My mother was British. Her father—my grandfather- is Robert Sterling, Duke of Moreland."
Alysson simply stared. Jafar had spoken in English. Impeccable, clipped, cultured English that could not have been learned with only casual study.
"Then . . . however did you come to be here . . . in this position . . . your tribe?" she said in confusion.
Jafar sighed. After a moment, he moved to sit beside her on the divan. "It is not so strange a story. Years ago, when my mother was young, she disagreed with the marriage her father had arranged for her. In defiance, she took passage on a ship bound for Sicily, where she planned to remain until her father capitulated. But she never reached her destination. The ship was captured by Barbary pirates. My mother was taken to Algiers, where she was sold as a slave."
Enslaved, Alysson thought with a shudder. "How horrible," she said aloud, thinking of the terrible tales she'd heard about Western women imprisoned in Eastern harems.
"Actually she was quite fortunate. She was young and beautiful and brought a great price," Jafar responded. "She was purchased by a Berber warlord, who carried her to his home in the mountains. There he fell in love and married her, even though she was a Christian. Later she bore him a son."
"You?"
Jafar nodded, but his gaze seemed distant, as if he were sifting through old memories. "I was given the name Jafar, after the pirate who had captured her."
"You were named after a pirate?"
His lips curved in a faint smile. "Jafar is what my father called me. My mother called me Nicholas. I was raised to be a Berber warrior, but my mother never allowed me to forget my English heritage."
Jafar was silent for a moment before he added softly, "She was happy here, I know, though she always hoped to return home one day to visit her father. 'When we return to England,' was one of her favorite phrases." Jafar smiled again, this time sadly. "But she wouldn't go without me, and my father would not allow me to leave. I think he feared I would be seduced by the English life of wealth and privilege that had been denied me."
"Did you ever go?"
"Yes." His reply was terse. "After my parents' deaths, when it was learned that I was half English, I was sent home to my noble grandfather. I remained there for ten years."
&nbs
p; Ten years that had been an eternity, Alysson suspected, hearing the echo of the young boy's anguish in the man's bleak tone.
"Perhaps you can understand," Jafar said, regarding her intently, surprising her with his direct appeal. "The money and titles my grandfather offered meant nothing to me. I had been raised here, in a different world. I was my father's heir. Here I lacked for nothing—I had only to say 'Do this' and it was done. Here I was among family, friends, familiar customs. In contrast, England was a foreign land, filled with cold, contemptuous strangers."
Alysson returned his intent gaze, her own filled with sympathy. She was not akin to him by class or race, but she had endured similar experiences. She understood very well the kind of prejudice and contempt he would have been subjected to by the haughty British nobility because of his mixed blood. She'd suffered much the same way for her own common origins. "You never fit in."
Lord of Desire Page 35
