Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  Shortly her scandal was overshadowed by reports from the front lines. The day after the musicale, the news spread like a desert sandstorm through the European and Moorish community alike that the rebel Berber leader, Abdel Kader, had been forced to flee Morocco, driven out by the Moroccan and French troops, back across the river into Algeria.

  That, too, served to remind Alysson of Jafar, and arouse her fears. Had Jafar had gone to the defense of the valiant Sultan of the Arabs? Had he joined the defiant Algerines to ride against the superior French forces? Was he even now- lying wounded and helpless on some battlefield? Her apprehension mounting daily, she seni Chand to scour the Arab coffee shops and barbershops to discover any scrap of information available about Abdel Kader's movements. And she asked Gervase to keep her informed of events, as well.

  Otherwise, Alysson tried to distance herself from the world. .

  She found herself sitting hour after hour in the courtyard, staring down at the twisted handkerchief in her hands. One corner bore the initials NJS, initials she had always wondered about until now.

  She knew, of course, that she ought to plan her departure from Algeria, but she couldn't bring herself to consider it. Indecision, passiveness, lethargy—all characteristics normally foreign to Alysson's nature—seemed to be her constant companions now.

  Her Uncle Oliver had invited her to sail the Caribbean with him, but she was no longer anxious to travel the world in search of adventure. Nor was she enthusiastic about retreating to London, where her Uncle Cedric meant to return at once. Not only were his services needed at his hospital, but he was only weeks away from completing his treatise on the mode of communication of cholera through contamination of drinking water.

  As for her Uncle Honoré, he declared his intention of remaining in Algeria for a time, to Alysson's great surprise. After the ordeal he had been through, she had expected him to rush home at the first opportunity. But he still intended to establish his vineyards. He had experienced and survived the worst this land had to offer, Honoré declared, and furthermore, he felt safe enough, now that he had the protection of one of Barbary's most powerful amghars.

  When Alysson quizzed him, Honoré said he'd been given letters of safe conduct by Jafar. She couldn't understand why Jafar would countenance a Frenchman settling on Algerian soil, unless perhaps it was his way of making amends for involving Honoré in his affairs. But she was pleased for her uncle. He planned to remain a few more months at least, he said, but she was welcome to accompany him to France when he finally returned.

  Yet day after day Alysson put off making any decision about her future. The need to distance herself from the source of her pain, to get away so she could begin forgetting, was not as vital to her as the need to remain near her love.

  She said good-bye to her Uncle Cedric with little of her usual regret. And when her Uncle Oliver expressed his desire to leave directly after Christmas, Alysson was almost relieved. Oliver still had not given up his thoughts of vengeance, it seemed.

  "He hurt you, girl," Oliver declared one morning, trying to jolt Alysson out of her misery. "I say shooting is too good for him."

  In her more defiant moments, Alysson agreed. In those vulnerable moments, she tried to hate Jafar. She tried to tell herself that he didn't deserve her love, that he had abused her body, ravaged her soul, without the slightest consideration for her feelings or her welfare.

  Yet there was still a part of her heart that wanted to believe his concern had been real, that he cared for her, that she had meant something to him. She wanted to believe she hadn't imagined the shared torment of that last night in his arms—his eyes blazing with desperation, his kisses tasting of pain as well as passion.

  Alysson was again thinking about that night several days before Christmas as she sat in the courtyard. In the distance, she could hear the falsetto voice of a muezzin chanting from the minaret of a nearby mosque, calling the faithful to evening prayer.

  Suddenly the peacefulness of the moment was shattered by her Indian servant who came rushing toward her.

  Alysson looked up, grateful for any respite from her tormented thoughts.

  "I bring you good tidings, memsahib!" Chand exclaimed, forgetting to make his normal respectful salaam. "Abdel Kader has surrendered!"

  Part Four

  From the desert I come to thee

  On a stallion shod witb fire.

  And the winds are left behind

  In the speed, of my desire,

  Bayard Taylor

  "Bedouin Song"

  Chapter 26

  Abdel Kader had surrendered! The rebel Berber leader had been defeated at last!

  From the rumors and reports that flew during the next few days, Alysson managed to piece together the events leading to Abdel Kader's capitulation. After striking a swift counterattack against the Moroccan army, he retreated into Algeria, where more French troops lay in wait. Pursued from the rear, challenged in front, he was required to make a decision—to flee through the mountains into the desert and live to fight another day, or concede victory to the superior forces that had brutally hounded him for so roaay years.

  On December 21st, Abdel Kader had made his submission to General Lamoriciere. Two days later, he formally handed over Ms sword to the Governor-General of Algeria, His itoyal Highness ths Due d'Aumale. Abdel Kader's defeat. it was reputed, was due in part to the independent Berber spirit, since many of the intractable Barber tribes in the mountains had refused to join with the Arabs against the French. But regardless of the reason, Abdel Kader and his armies would no longer be a menace to French forces or civilian settlers.

  The excitement and relief that the news roused in the French community were unbounded, but Alysson could not share the triumph of her fellow Europeans. Indeed, she coidd feel only sympathy and great sorrow at the defeat of the valiant Berber leader who had defied the French invaders for fifteen years. Whatever his crimes against his French conquerors, Abdel Kader was a remarkable man with heroic greatness.

  What would happen to him now was the cause of much speculation. It was said that Abdel Kader would likely be executed as a traitor. Or he would be imprisoned like the meanest criminal. These brutal rumors circulated freely, even though as a condition of surrender the emir had been promised by the French government that he and Ms family could seek refuge in Palestine or Egypt.

  The possibility of either his execution or imprisonment whipped up Alysson's anger and sympathy. Hoping to aid him, she persuaded her Uncle Honoré to accompany her while she paid a visit to Gervase at his offices.

  The European quarter of the city was little more than a huddle of French barracks and military headquarters grouped around the harbor. She finally managed to track Gervase down in one of these dreary buildings, but he was so busy that he could only spare a moment of his time. When she pleaded with him to help Abdel Kader if possible, Gervase promised to try, but he had few hopes that he would be able to persuade the ruling powers to show leniency. The best that could be expected would be exile.

  When Alysson came out again, she wandered disconsolately across the courtyard. Her uncle had paused inside to speak to an acquaintance, though Chand followed her at a respectful distance.

  To her left, set against a background of hills, the city rose in a mass of white walls that glittered in the sun and contrasted richly with the cypress and myrtle and other verdant foliage that grew along the coast. To her right, below the walled fortifications, the azure sea was dotted with fishing boats and merchant vessels. Ordinarily the beauty of the view would have awed her, but at the moment her spirits were too depressed for her to appreciate it.

  She had just gathered breath for a deep sigh when she spied a gentleman in the distance, striding purposefully across the court toward another of the buildings. Her heart leapt at the sight of the gleaming golden hair beneath Ms elegant ehapeau. Jafar, she thought dazedly, and then berated herself for her absurdity. Her mind was playing tricks on her, obviously. She was so desperate for some w
ord of him, for even the slightest glimpse of him, that she was imagining his presense—here, in this bastion of French authority. Ridiculous to think Jafar would be foolish enough to set foot in his enemy's sanctum.

  She watched as the gentleman disappeared inside, then tamed away, only to have her gaze fall on a cluster of horses. To one side stood a fiery bay stallion.

  Alysson had no doubt that she had seen that horse before. There was no doubt either that the young boy who held the reins was Jafar's servant.

  Without pausing to think, Alysson picked up her skirts and almost ran across the courtyard. "Mahmoud! It is you!" she cried, managing to startle both boy and horse. "Whatever are you doing here?" she asked once Mahmoud had brought Jafar's beloved steed under control. "I never expected to see you again."

  "Lallah!" Mahmoud's scarred face lit up momentarily, before his expression suddenly became guarded. "I do not know you, lallah. You have mistaken me for another."

  "Not know me— Of course you know me. What on earth are you talking about?"

  Mahmoud's voice dropped to a murmur. “It is not wise for you to be here, for us to speak."

  Bewildered, Alysson glanced around her to discover they were drawing curious stares from several passersby, while a few paces behind her, Chand stood glaring at her. "I will pretend I am admiring the stallion in your charge. Perhaps I might wish to purchase him."

  "But he is not for sale, lallah!"

  "I know that, but it will do no harm if I am seen making inquiries. Now tell me what has happened to bring you here."

  Mahmoud shifted uncomfortably, while his brow took on a gloomy cast. "Have you not heard of the defeat of our armies?''

  "Yes . . . and I am sorry, Mahmoud. I wish the outcome could have been different."

  "It should have been different! Allah could not have deserted the true believers to side with the French infidels— those foul offspring of snakes and scorpions!"

  Alysson murmured an appropriately soothing sound of agreement. "But what is your master doing here . . , that was Jafar I saw just now, was it not?'' When the boy didn't answer at once, Alysson bit her lip, trying to control her impatience. "Mahmoud, please, you have to tell me."

  "The lord is here on behalf of the Sultan of the Arabs, Abdel Kader."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It is not my place to say."

  Mahmoud obviously did not want to tell her, but Alysson would not give up. When she continued to press, she learned that Jafar was here to negotiate terms of exile for the vanquished. leader. Jafar had presented himself to the French authorities, not as a Berber warlord, but as the Englishman Nicholas Sterling, the grandson of the Duke of Moreland.

  Her thoughts racing ahead, Alysson stared at Mahmoud in horror. In hopes of aiding his vanquished sultan, lafar had given up his Berber identity in exchange for the bargaining power his British nationality and noble family name could give him. But even if hed adopted English dress and assumed his English name, Gervase would surely recognize him as the Berber warrior who had abducted her, the same one who had nearly killed him. And then Gervase would expose the man she loved as an enemy of the French government, as a traitor.

  A shudder of fear ran up Alysson's spine. She had to find Gervase at once and prevent him from setting eyes on Jafar.

  With only a brief word to Mahmoud, ordering him to wait, she whirled and reentered the building where her Uncle Honotb was just concluding his conversation. Sweeping past her startled uncle, Alysson pushed her way into Gervase's office, only to discover that he was no longer there. When she demanded to see him, she was told apologetically that the colonel was now closeted in conference with other officials of the French government and could not be disturbed.

  She finally gave up when Honoré forcibly took her by the arm and steered her outside. To her further dismay, Mahmoud. had disappeared with the horses. Alysson wanted to search for him, but Honoré insisted that enough was enough, and she didn't dare push him further. So far her uncle had acquiesced to her wishes and protected Jafar by remaining silent, but he was not likely to continue if her abductor could easily be brought to justice.

  So instead of protesting, Alysson reluctantly, quietly, returned home to wait in a state of nervous dread, wondering if any minute she would hear that her fierce Berber lover had been captured and taken away in chains.

  The same concern lay in the back of Jafar's mind.

  He had risked recognition in order to participate in the negotiations, but he could not have done otherwise. If there was the slightest possibility that he could impact his sultan's fate, he had to take it. And so he had attended the conference called by His Highness, the Due d'Aumale, determined to lend whatever weight his family name and position in the European community could bring.

  Any moment, though, Jafar expected to be arrested. He was even resigned to that eventuality. He had little doubt that Colonel Bourmont could identify him. And he was prepared to face the consequences—afterward, when the negotiations were completed. The case against him was not particularly strong, he thought. It would be his word against the colonel's, in fact. But Jafar hoped sincerely to delay the moment of reckoning. If it occurred now, the charges would be serious enough to complicate matters and completely destroy his ability to plead his commander's case.

  He knew the exact instant the colonel made the linkage between the Englishman Nicholas Sterling and the Berber warlord who had captured an innocent young woman and used her to lure the French army into the desert where they could be slaughtered.

  The two of them were sitting at opposite ends of a long table, but Jafar could feel the colonel staring at him during the opening remarks, and later, when, as Nicholas Sterling, he rose to address the gathering.

  At his first words, he could see Bourmont's face freeze in a startled expression, then slowly turn dark with anger.

  But the colonel did not leap to his feet and point an accusing finger at him. Bourmont made no move at ail- probably, Jafar decided, because he preferred not to interrupt the proceedings. Thankful for the reprieve, Jafar forced himself to relax and devote his attentions to the subject at hand, though knowing his conflict with the colonel was not over by any means.

  The present discussion over what to do with the vanquished Berber leader was both heated and surprising to Jafar. He had not expected to find himself on the same side of the debate as his blood enemy, arguing for leniency. Like he, Colonel Bourmont favored exile to any of the harsher punishments to which the leader of the Arabs could have been sentenced. The Due d'Aumale listened with appropriate graveness before making his decision. When it was over, Jafar felt he had achieved the best terms he could have hoped for. Abdel Kader would be escorted to France, where the king would determine his fate.

  The gathering of government officials and military men was starting to disperse when Jafar heard a hard voice at his left shoulder.

  "Might I have a word with you, m'sieur? In private."

  He turned to meet the dark, narrowed eyes of his longtime enemy. With a brief nod, Jafar followed the colonel to his offices, noting the half dozen armed subalterns that accompanied them at a discreet distance. The colonel, it seemed, was taking no chances that his enemy could escape.

  But this was to be a civilized discussion, apparently. The colonel offered him a chair and a glass of claret before hesitating thoughtfully. "Or do you drink liquor?"

  "Occasionally," Jafar replied, accepting the drink. Bourmont's odd question only confirmed what he already suspected; the colonel knew who he was. Otherwise the Frenchman would not have shown such consideration in asking if his religion allowed him to imbibe alcohol.

  Waiting uneasily, Jafar sipped the wine and studied the colonel over the rim of his glass while endeavoring to hide his surprise. He was accustomed to French officials who showed a contemptuous display of superiority and superciliousness when dealing with Muslims, officials who enforced the regulations laid down by the French government with haughtiness and severity.

 
The colonel, however, seemed only to possess the severity. Jafar watched warily as the other man settled himself in an adjoining wing chair.

  "If you are wondering at the chances of my exposing you," Bourmont said then, "you may cease to worry. I did indeed recognize you, but I intend to hold my tongue . . . for two reasons. You spared my life that day in battle, and it is not something I can easily forget. I could not repay such magnanimity by turning you over to a military tribunal, to perhaps face a firing squad."

  Jafar was silent for a long moment while he considered Bourmont's disclosure. "No one would fault you for enacting such a reprisal," he said slowly.

  "I would fault me. No man of honor could do otherwise. As it is, I shall always be in your debt, m'sieur."