As was his commanding nature, Oliver at once took charge of the conversation, asking all the questions. Alysson's answers were evasive, however, providing only the sketchiest details of her captivity and her subsequent visit to her captor's mountain home. Of Jafar, she divulged absolutely nothing.
It was that hole in her story that Oliver attacked first.
"You mean to tell me you learned nothing about this man who abducted you? His name, his appearance?"
"I'm afraid not, Uncle."
"Then tell me where you were taken. I shall go after the devil at once and put a bullet through his black heart."
Alysson went pale. "I don't know where I was taken. Somewhere in the desert, I think."
By now Oliver was staring at her with incredulity. "That won't wash, girl. I myself taught you how to judge distances and recognize landmarks. You must have some idea where you were held . . . how far from here, what direction."
"I'm sorry, Uncle, but I don't."
Apparently deciding to try a more profitable tack, he turned a look of frustration on her French uncle. "Honoré?"
In response, the elderly Frenchman gave Alysson a long searching look, before his shoulders rose in a Gallic shrug. "I know nothing of the man's identity."
Oliver vented an explosive oath. "That is all you mean to say? What is this, a conspiracy to hide the truth? Why, for God's sake?" He turned his scowl on his niece. "I think I deserve an explanation after all the trouble you've put me to, my girl. I postponed an expedition to the Caribbean in order to come here and search for you."
"Well, forgive me for interfering with your pleasure!" Alysson snapped back.
"Alysson, my dear," Cedric put in more calmly, "we have been distraught with fear for you. Of course you will understand if Oliver is impatient to discover just what occurred. He only wants to protect you."
She was immediately contrite, and yet she knew very well her Uncle Oliver's threat to shoot Jafar was deadly serious. She had to do something to persuade Oliver to give up his thoughts of revenge. There had been too much bloodshed and vengeance as it was.
"Uncle Oliver, I know you're concerned for me, and I am grateful, I assure you. But there is no need to drag this out any further. What happened, happened. It's over. He didn't harm me. He even showed us every kindness—"
"Not harm you? By God, girl, how can you stand there and defend that savage Arab?"
"He is not an Arab!" Alysson said through clenched teeth. "Nor is he a savage. He's far more civilized than most Europeans I know, including you, Uncle. In fact, he's a nobleman and the grandson of a duke, besides!"
At her impassioned declaration, Oliver's blue eyes narrowed. Alysson, realizing her mistake, abruptly bit her tongue. She had said far more than she had intended about Jafar—and far too much, if the calculating look on her Uncle Oliver's face was anything to judge by.
He stared at her for a long moment before speaking again. "I don't suppose we would be talking about Nicholas Sterling, would we?"
The look on Alysson's face was proof enough, despite her swift denial. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do," Oliver said slowly, anger and disappointment vying for expression on his face. "What I don't understand is why you feel you have to lie to me." He shook his head sadly. "You've sever lied to me before, girl."
Alysson stared at him mutely, her throat achiag with regret.
Oliver shook his head again sorrowfully. "I've been on intimate terms with the Duke of Moreland for years, my girl, and I know enough about his grandson to add two and two. The boy's half English, and he threw away his heritage to come and live here. Moreland told me so himself. You know Moreland . . . we paid him a call that time I first brought you back to England to live."
Oh, yes, Alysson thought. She remembered that day vividly, the day she had first met Nicholas . . . Jafar.
Her uncle evidently did not expect her to reply just then, for he continued to muse aloud. "This Sterling fellow . , . if he's Moreland's grandson . . ." Oliver's look had been pensive, but that look slowly faded as a flush of anger slowly rose in his cheeks. "Then he's fully aware of the nature of the injury he's done you." His narrowed-eyed gaze lifted to spear his niece. "Any Englishman with the slightest pretense to honor who had compromised a young lady would offer her the protection of his name." His tone was stern, his scowl accusing.
"He isn't an Englishman," Alysson replied, her voice barely audible. "And if he had wanted to marry me, he would have asked me."
Oliver sarged to his feet. “What he wants is nothing to the point! By God, he'll marry you if I have to drag him to the altar!"
"No!" Alysson's cry was like the sound of a wounded animal, her gray eyes haunted.
Her uncle stated at her in bewilderment. "What is going on here, Alysson? Why do you insist on protecting the man? He's terrorized you . . . wounded Honoré here . . . ruined your good name . . . I cannot understand why you don't want him brought him to justice."
"Because," she faltered, choking on her tears, "the French army will try to find him, and if they find him, they'll kill him, that's why!"
Oliver stared at his distressed niece in shock. The tears running down her face were genuine; Alysson had never been the kind of female to use tears to get her way.
"Please, Uncle . . . promise me you won't say anything . . . please. I'm begging you. Let it go."
Moving to stand in front of her, Oliver took her hands in his large, lean ones, holding them tightly. "Very well, girl," he said finally, helplessly. "If it means that much to you, I won't pursue it.''
"Yes, it means that much to me."
Her meeting with Gervase de Bourmont was far more difficult, and far more painful.
Alysson sent her Indian servant with a message for Gervase, informing him of her safe return and asking him to call on her at his earliest convenience. Then she dressed for the upcoming interview in her best day gown. After so many weeks of wearing the simple clothing of the East, she felt uncomfortable in the frilled petticoats, chemise, drawers, and constrictive corset that was de rigueur for a well-bred Englishwoman, but she owed it to Gervase to make her best effort.
When he arrived a scant hour later, she was waiting for him in the courtyard. At his approach, she rose from the bench where she'd been seated—but then hesitated, just as Gervase did.
They stood staring at each other for a long moment, in complete silence.
"Alysson . . ." Gervase said finally in a low voice was that was husky, weary.
He looked older, she thought. And tired. There were harsh lines of worry at the corners of his mouth and between his eyes that had not been there before. More than that, he looked . . . sad.
She discarded all the polite reponses she might have made and simply spoke from her heart. "I'm so sorry, Gervase."
He shook his head abruptly. "You have no cause to be sorry. You were not to blame for that bloody—" He paused and chose another word. ". . . that man's act of revenge."
"Yet I share some of the blame. You warned me of the danger, you tried to prevent me from going."
"I never suspected that madman would target you. You must believe me."
Alysson refrained from replying that Jafar was not a madman. "I do believe you," she said quietly instead.
As if he couldn't bear to meet her gaze, Gervase looked away. "I am the one who should be asking for your forgiveness."
"No. What happened was not your fault, either."
There was a long pause while the muscles in Gervase's jaw worked in anger. "How much did he tell you?" he finally asked.
She did not intend to disclose the details of her abduction, nor make the same mistake as she had with her uncle by alluding to Jafar's past. "Simply that he had reasons for making me his prisoner, reasons for his vengeance. He told me about the death of his parents at your father's hands."
The momentary grimace that flashed across the Frenchman's face was bitter. "Ah, yes, the great General Bourmont," he murmured.
"The conqueror of Algiers. I've spent my entire military career trying to live up to my father's reputation . . . all the while knowing he was little better than a murderer. It is not something for which I'm proud."
"I know." And she did. She had known Gervase for many years. He was a kind man, a caring man. Nothing at all like his father the general. "You are not responsible for your father's sins, Gervase, any more than you are to blame for what happened to me. Besides, you did your best to rescue me. I haven't yet thanked you for that."
"Thank me for failing you? I would prefer that you didn't." The bitterness in his tone was harsher now.
"You did not fail me."
"I agreed to abandon you to him. What do you call that, if not failure?"
"I call it courage for making a difficult choice. I call it concern for the lives of your men. I call it plain, old- fashioned, much-welcomed common sense."
"Ah, Alysson . . ." He moved toward her then, eliminating the distance between them. Drawing her close, he folded her into his arms. She let her cheek rest against the comforting wall of his chest and gave a sigh as she felt him stroke her hair.
"I want you to know," Gervase said in an unsteady voice, "none of this changes what I feel for you. I still love you. I still want more than anything to marry you."
Alysson shut her eyes. He might look older than when she'd last seen him, but she felt older. So much older. And perhaps she was. She was no longer a mere girl, no longer an innocent in matters of the heart. She knew now the anguish of loving and being unloved in return.
Her newfound knowledge made her view Gervase's dilemma with compassion. And it made her all the more reluctant to say what had to be said.
"I can't marry you, Gervase," she declared softly. "It would not be fair to you. I shared his bed."
There was a long pause. "I suspected as much. Mon Dieu. Alysson, I would have given anything if I could have spared you that. It must have been a nightmare, being forced to endure his—" Gervase broke off, incapable or unwilling to complete the thought.
Unable to bear the anguish in his tone, Alysson drew back and raised her fingers to touch his cheek comfortingly, holding his gaze with her troubled one. "He didn't force me, Gervase. I . . . went to him willingly."
There was another long pause while Gervase regarded her in haunted silence.
"So you see . . . I can't marry you."
"You must, Alysson," he said finally, quietly. "You will likely be shunned by society, otherwise."
In response, she stepped back and shook her head. "I am well accustomed to being the subject of gossip and censure. What society says or does has never carried much weight with me. The only people whose good opinion I care about are the ones I love. And those people—my uncles- mean to stand by me."
"As I will. I trust you know that. You will always have my good opinion . . . my love."
Alysson felt her throat tighten with unshed tears. She had not expected Gervase to be so generous, that his love for her ran so very deep. He was still willing to marry her, even after her damning confession that she had acted the wanton with the stranger who had carried her off. Gervase was offering to give her the protection of his name. He was prepared to face the dishonor and disgrace that would surely follow once the scandal of her abduction became known. Despite his apparent willingness, though, she could never allow him to make such a sacrifice.
She reached for his hands and held them in her own smaller ones. "I would be grateful to keep your friendship, Gervase. And I am honored, believe me, that you still want me for your wife. But I cannot accept your proposal."
His face assumed a wounded look. "You do hold me to blame, is that it? I can only try to make it up to you—"
"No, of course I don't blame you! Not at all. I told you that."
"I can be a good husband to you, coquine,"
"I have no doubts on that score. But I very much fear I could not be a good wife to you . . . not the kind of wife you deserve."
"Zut!" He pulled away from her, breaking the contact between them. In agitation he ran his hand through his dark hair. "I won't accept your refusal! I intend to change your mind. All I need is time to persuade you."
"I won't change my mind, Gervase."
"How can you be certain? You once were willing to give me a chance."
Alysson hesitated. She did not want to say the words that would only cause Gervase more pain, but it was perhaps the only way he would accept her refusal.
"Because I love him," she answered quietly, and was rewarded by the unmistakable, unbearable look of defeat in Gervase's dark eyes.
She loved, and was unloved in return. That was the bitter truth that Alysson tried desperately to ignore during the following days.
Blessedly the self-protective numbness shrouded her heart and dulled her grief somewhat. For several minutes at a time, she managed not to think about Jafar, about the passion they had shared, the intimacy, the rapture, the impossible situation.
She even had hopes that the pain might diminish over time, that someday she might learn to forget her fierce Berber lover. But if she thought this wished-for memory loss might happen any time soon, she was destined for disappointment. Too many events conspired to remind her of Jafar.
The first was the unexpected visit the next morning of the wife of the British Consul in Algiers, Lady Jane Wol- verton. The lovely, golden-haired Lady Wolverton was one of the arbiters of European society in the country, and Alysson recalled meeting her at several functions two months before.
When presented with the lady's card, Alysson's first inclination was to have Chand declare her "not at home." But curiosity got the better of her—that, and sheer contrariness. If Lady Wolverton had come to torment her about her scandalous conduct, she would not let the challenge go unanswered.
Apparently, though, condemnation was the last thing on the lady's mind. She had called for the purpose of extending personal invitiations to Alysson and her uncles to a supper and muscale for the following evening.
Expecting something entirely different, Alysson looked at the woman with blank astonishment. "Did Colonel Bourmont put you up to this?" she asked.
Lady Wolverton graciously overlooked the rude bhintness of the question. "Actually, no, my dear. I am not well acquainted with your charming fiancé, but naturally I have included him on my guest list.''
"My lady, please forgive me for correcting you, but the colonel is not my fiancé. We are not engaged, nor do we plan to be."
Lady Wolverton raised an eyebrow at this revelation, but blithely let it pass. "I am so looking forward to have you attend my entertainment, Miss Vickery. I long to hear about your exciting adventures—how your party was set upon by bandits, and how you were rescued by an elderly French couple who took you to their homestead, how you enjoyed their hospitality until your Uncle Larousse could come for you. How romantic it must have been!"
Alysson couldn't decide if the lady had gone mad, or if she was simply trying to help—for whatever obscure motives of her own.
"Forgive me again, my lady," Alysson said wryly, "but with all the tales that are sure to be circulating about me, no one with an ounce of intelligence would believe that rapper."
"Well, if anyone can carry it off, I daresay I can," Lady Wolverton retorted with a warm twinkle dancing in her blue eyes. Her smile faded slightly at Alysson's bewildered silence. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you, my dear, that the best course is to show your face in company as often as possible, and to allow your engagement to Colonel Bour- mont to stand for the time being. You can always quietly end it later, once the rumors have died down."
"I suppose," Alysson agreed slowly, "that might indeed be the wisest course."
"Excellent! Hold your head high, I say, and never, never apologize. Well then, it is settled. I shall see you and your uncles tomorrow evening at my party. "
She rose then and swept across the room in a rustle of silk, but paused at the arched doorway to glance over her shoulder. "Oh, yes, perhaps I
should mention that the Duke of Moreland is a firm friend of my husband, and that we both have known his charming grandson for ages. Good day, Miss Vickery. I look forward to welcoming you in my home. *'
With another attractive smile, the lady made her exit, leaving Alysson with her mouth hanging open and her thoughts spinning. The oblique reference to Jafar had both startled her and roused painful speculation. Did he have a hand in Lady Wolverton's kind attempt to protect her name and reputation? It would be so like Jafar to act with generosity and refuse to take the credit.
Alysson forced herself to attend the musicale, flanked by all her uncles and Gervase. As it turned out, the ordeal was not as bad as she feared, thanks to Lady Wolverton's skill at manipulation and persuasion of the very society Alysson had once disdained. Just as her hostess had predicted, the ladies veiled their claws and expressed profound exclamations of sympathy for Alysson, while the gentlemen vowed with renewed fervor to protect their womenfolk and rid the land of the scourge of bandits. Alysson would have laughed at the absurdity of it all—if she could have found it in herself to feel anything as light as laughter.
Lord of Desire Page 42
