Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  "The word 'always' does not exist on earth."

  "Perhaps."

  There was another long pause while the two men regarded each other. "You spoke of two reasons?" Jafar said finally.

  "Yes, but I first should like to ask you a question, if I may. Why did you not kill me when you had the opportunity? You seem to have gone to a good deal of trouble in order to carry out your vendetta against my father. And then to pass up the opportunity to finish it . . . I admit having some curiosity as to why."

  Unwilling to answer, Jafar looked down at his glass. "My reasons are my own, Colonel. Suffice it to say that I have forsworn vengeance on the Bourmont family."

  "On the contrary," Gervase replied softly, sadly. "I think you have already had your vengeance. You have taken Alysson's love."

  Jafar's head came up like a wolf scenting the wind. He stared at Bourmont, his heart suddenly pounding.

  "Alysson is in love with you," Gervase said quietly. "You didn't know?"

  Jafar swallowed, suddenly bereft of speech. When he finally spoke, his voice was strangely hoarse. "Forgive me if I find that hard to accept. She had every opportunity to make her feelings known. The decision to leave was hers. She chose not to stay."

  "Yet it is true, I'm afraid. She told me so herself. It is why she would not accept my offer of marriage."

  "She refused you?" This time his voice was merely a cracked whisper. "But I heard no rumors of a broken engagement."

  Gervase's brief smile was one of bitterness. "Perhaps because there never was an engagement. Before she left on her expedition, Alysson had promised to consider my proposal and give me her answer upon her return. Afterward . . . it was wiser to let society assume our engagement had never ended. If I had cried off so soon after her abduction, it would have branded her for life. My only thought was to protect her."

  A long pause. "You . . . must love her very much, then."

  Again that bitter smile. "I like to believe that I am unselfish enough to put her happiness before my own."

  "Then we are more alike than I suspected," Jafar said in a low, tortured voice. "The most difficult thing I've ever done in my life was to let her go."

  "Ah," Gervase murmured. "So I was right. She was the reason you spared my life."

  "Yes . . . she was the reason."

  "Because you love her yourself."

  Jafar looked away. "Yes."

  "And now? What do you intend to do about her?"

  Jafar closed his eyes, remembering the torment of the past weeks when he'd held no hope that Alysson could ever be his. He had gone through the motions of living, but he'd been more like a corpse, a mere ghost of a man, his spirit broken. Perhaps that was why he hadn't hesitated to walk into the stronghold of his mortal enemy, to put himself at the colonel's mercy. The thought of death held no terror for him, compared to the pain of living. "I had not considered yet . . . I thought she was lost to me."

  "I don't believe that is so. She has not left Algiers, did you know that?"

  "Yes, I knew. But I didn't dare hope that I might be the reason.''

  Abruptly Gervase leaned forward in his seat, his face searching and intense. "You will take good care of her?"

  Jafar met the colonel's gaze directly, his expression a solemn promise. "I would give my life for her."

  Apparently believing him, the colonel relaxed somewhat. "I can rest easy, then." Settling back in his chair, he sipped his claret. After a moment he introduced an entirely new subject. "Alysson was not the only reason I asked you here. I should like to discuss the future of your country with you, if I may."

  It was with tremendous effort that Jafar dragged his mind from his half-agonized, half-optimistic thoughts of Alysson, and focused his attention on what the colonel was saying.

  "You are aware, are you not, of the responsibilities of the Bureaux Arabes?" Bourmont asked.

  Jafar thought back, recalling what he knew of the Arab Bureau. It was the system by which the French government ruled the native peoples of the country—a department of the French military staffed with French officers to administer the conquered territories and supervise the native chiefs. The Turkish hierarchy of khalifas, aghas, and caids had been retained, but at every level a French intelligence officer, acting as advisor, actually did all the governing- raising taxes and administering justice through a docile Muslim nominee.

  "I know something of it," Jafar replied. "It is the institution through which the French army maintains domination over Muslim populations by controlling their tribal chiefs and councils."

  The colonel stiffened slightly at the veiled contempt in his guest's tone. "Assimilation is the goal of the Bureau, not domination. The native tribes are allowed to govern themselves, with chiefs selected and approved by the Arab Bureau. It is a fair and just system."

  "I expect that depends upon one's point of view."

  "Perhaps," Gervase agreed. "But regardless, it is the only system we have to work with. As head of the Bureau, my primary job is to protect our settlers. There are some hundred thousand of them now, half of them French, and there will be more to come. Now that the war is over—"

  "You will come in ever greater numbers," Jafar said grimly, "all burning with a love of conquest."

  This time Bourmont sat up in his chair. "The French presence has not been all bad for your country. Look at the advantages we have provided. When we arrived seventeen years ago, Algiers was suffering from plague and famine and was almost a ruin."

  "Is that what you believe, or what you were told?"

  The colonel hesitated, angry color rising in his face.

  "Your father no doubt used numerous fallacies to justify his rape of the Kingdom of Algiers," Jafar observed, his tone cool. "But I was here seventeen years ago, Colonel, and I can assure you Algiers was in no way suffering the kind of devastation you speak of."

  "I had thought," Bourmont said just as coolly, "we had tacitly agreed to allow the past to remain in the past. My father has been dead nearly a decade now, and I would be well satisfied to leave him buried and forgotten."

  "Indeed, we did. Forgive me. Please continue, Colonel."

  "Yes, well then. As I was saying, the task of protecting the colonists will be easier, now that the war has ended, but there are other aspects of this situation which concern me. I intend to provide justice for the Arab population, if I can. My predecessors . . . lacked what might be called the virtue of the victor. The balance of the spirit and of the heart. The regard for the right of the weak. I hope to do better."

  Returning a look of polite restraint, Jafar made no reply.

  "If we mean to have a peaceful and effective administration, I believe we must have accurate and comprehensive knowledge of the people we govern—the customs and social organization, the language, the institutions. I want the Bureau staffed with officers well acquainted with the entire way of life of the native population. Which leads me to my point. I would very much like your help."

  "Mine?"

  "I am prepared to offer you an official position in the Bureaux Arabes." When Jafar's jaw hardened, Gervase held up a hand. "I can see by the look on your face that you mean to reject the idea, but before you decide, consider this. Holding a position of authority in the French government is the best way to influence your country's conquerors and protect your people. You would have the autonomy to govern a major part of your province, maintaining Arab justice while administering French laws. In exchange, you would act in the role of interpreter, judge, tax collector, intelligence officer. More importantly, you would advise me on the effectiveness of our policies and aid me in making appropriate changes and improvements."

  Repressing his first inclination to tell Bourmont precisely what he could do with his offer, Jafar remained silent. In fact, he had to admire the colonel, both for the courage to present his plan honestly and without the use of threats, as he might have done, and for the plan itself. Enlisting the aid of the enemy to subjugate itself was clever and quite tenable in this
case. Yet the colonel's paternalistic view of his responsibilities struck Jafar as genuine. It was even possible—no, likely—that the colonel's motives were philanthropic, that he truly did want to foster peace between the Arabs and the French.

  Jafar forced himself to let out the angry breath he had been holding. Glancing toward the curtained window, he saw the dwindling daylight and thought of Alysson. This was the best time of day, when late afternoon passed into evening, when waning sunlight faded from rose-gold to soothing violet. This was the time of day when he missed her most sharply. Unless one counted the moments when he woke each morning filled with a relentless ache, or when he restlessly sought sleep each night, or when he rode one of his horses, or when he visited any of the places he had been with her, when he walked through his empty house, when he gazed out at his barren courtyard and saw no defiant young Englishwoman sitting among the almond trees, her face lifted to the sun as if she wanted to wring every drop of energy out of life . . . when he simply existed. His sense of bereavement never left him.

  But now he was being offered the chance to influence the future of his country. Even more, he was being offered salvation. The chance to have Alysson at his side without betraying his duty. If he were to accept Bourmont's proposal, he would be allying himself with the French. In his people's eyes, his marriage to a European would serve the same purpose as marrying the daughter of a neighboring ruler—the strengthening of tribal alliances. He could make Alysson his first wife . . . his only wife. If she would have him.

  Even if that audacious dream were unattainable, he could not pass up the colonel's proposal if Bourmont was sincerely interested in working toward justice for the Algerian people. No matter if it galled him to play the role of the vanquished.

  No doubt it galled Bourmont also to ask for aid from the man who had stolen his love and nearly destroyed his forces. They were each in positions that required compromise— although his own position was by far the weaker. The French were the victors for the moment. And like in the negotiations regarding his sultan, he would have to press for the best terms possible and continue from there.

  Bowing to fate, Jafar returned his solemn gaze to Bourmont, who was quietly waiting. "I will consult with the other tribal leaders of my province, Colonel," Jafar said finally.

  Bourmont eyed him quizzically. "I had assumed you would be able to make such a decision on your own."

  Jafar permitted himself a brief smile. "No, the decision is not mine alone. I rule at the will of my people, not at my own whim. It is our way. If you mean what you say, if you intend to allow us to retain our customs and way of governing, you will try to understand."

  "Yes . . . of course, I should have realized."

  "And," Jafar said mildly, "if you can summon a bit more patience, I can promise you that your offer will be given careful consideration. I will even tell you that I mean to advise our council of the advantages of your proposal and give it my full support."

  "Very well." Gervase leaned forward. "Shall we shake on it?"

  Jafar's gaze dropped to the hand held out to him.

  "It is a Western custom, I know, but if and when you agree to join me, we can celebrate in the Eastern fashion . . . take a meal together and afterwards smoke a pipe."

  With genuine acknowledgment this time, Jafar accepted the colonel's hand.

  Satisfied, the Frenchman settled back in his seat, swirling the liquid in his glass as he mused out loud. "Algeria will likely remain under military rule for some time to come, but I can envision the day when administration reverts to civil control. I even hope to see the day when Arabs and Berbers live peacefully beside French and other European colonists." Raising his glass in a toast, Bourmont eyed his guest. "Perhaps we might drink to that day."

  Slowly, Jafar raised his own glass. "The good manners

  which my grandfather drummed into my head compel me to participate," he said agreeably, "but allow me to repeat what the Sultan Abdel Kader has said of the French . . . You are merely passing guests, Colonel. You may stay three hundred years, like the Turks, but in the end you will leave."

  In response, Gervase de Bourmont returned a smile that was more than a little sad. "To that day then, m'sieur."

  Chapter 27

  Vengeance had never been satisfied, and yet . . .

  Jafar stood on the darkened terrace outside the crowded, brightly lit chamber, watching the man he had once planned to kill. Gervase de Bourmont was present at the victory celebration, very much alive, and very much the cause of the violent jealousy that raged in Jafar's breast.

  And yet Jafar was glad he had forsworn his blood oath. Fulfilling his quest for vengeance would not have gained him what he wanted most in life. Rather, it would have been the death blow to all hope. A hope that even now he dared not embrace completely.

  Not for the first time, he shifted his gaze to the young woman standing near the colonel, his eyes going soft with yearning. Alysson. Flanked by two of her uncles, she burned with a charm and a vivacious energy that gave no hint she was pining away with love for him or any other man.

  That radiant, carefree manner of hers had kept Jafar from making an appearance at the celebration ball held at the palatial residence of the Governor-General. That manner and his own fear. He was utterly afraid that Bourmont had been mistaken about the depth of Alysson's feelings. Afraid to the point of cowardice.

  Jafar smiled grimly at his silent admission, though he

  found little amusement that an ordinarily fearless Berber warlord had such incredible difficulty working up the courage to approach a mere female. But then, Alysson Vickery had never been a mere female. From the very first she had exhibited her independent, passionate nature, her indomitable spirit—challenging him and defying him at every turn, arousing his anger and admiration, as well as his fierce desire. She had captured his heart, his very soul. And now he couldn't face knowing the truth. He couldn't force himself to take the next step, to ask the question that needed to be asked, to leam the answer, that the woman who meant more to him than life spumed his love. And so he waited in the darkness, fear and despair knifing through him in equal measure.

  Within the ballroom, Alysson was battling her own fears. Her dread had not diminished during the past twenty-eight hours. Since discovering Jafar's presence in Algiers, she'd lived in constant terror that he would be exposed as a traitor, that he would be arrested and imprisoned, perhaps executed. She'd attended the victory celebration ball that evening only because Gervase had insisted, and because she couldn't remain calmly at home with her tortured thoughts when Jafar might be in mortal danger.

  For the benefit of her uncles, she'd pretended enjoyment, while silently praying that her fears were groundless. Surely Jafar would be long gone by now. There was no reason for him to remain in Algiers. The negotiations were complete, the fate of his sultan sealed; Abdel Kader had embarked for France that morning with his family and his closest followers.

  From the roof of her rented residence, Alysson had glimpsed the legendary figure, splendid in a scarlet burnous, as he rode through the streets to the deafening cheers of thousands of his people. His departure marked the end of a violent era, yet Alysson could only feel a deep sadness at his defeat. Emir Abdel Kader had proved himself a bom leader of men, a great soldier, a capable administrator, a persuasive orator, a chivalrous opponent. For fifteen years, he had led the valiant struggle against French domination, holding at bay half a dozen great French generals and several princes of the blood. And now he'd been made to pay the price for his defiancé.

  What concerned her most, however, was not the vanquished Arab leader, but Jafar. What would he do now that his commander had surrendered? Would he accept defeat, or would he carry on the war against overwhelming odds? Or was he even now being taken prisoner? Would she even know of his fate? The uncertainty was driving her to distraction.

  Oh, would this interminable evening never end? Alysson lamented, clasping her gloved hands together to hide their trembling.r />
  Just then she met Gervase's solemn gaze. Unable to maintain her pretense of equanimity a moment longer, she murmured something to her uncles about needing air and made her way quickly toward the wide doors, pressing through the throngs of faceless people.

  When at last she stepped into the coolness of the terrace, Alysson drew in a deep calming breath, which in itself was a. mistake. The moonlit courtyard below was filled with masses of scarlet bougainvillea and laurel roses, and countless other flowers that would continue to bloom even in midwinter. The sweet fragrances brought to mind memories of other scents, of other exotic nights when she had lain in Jafar's arms.

  Feeling all over again the anguish of her hopeless passion. she leaned against the balustrade and bowed her head, wishing that the numbness that had once shielded her would return to deaden her pain.

  It might have been an eternity later when Jafar stepped out of the shadows, her name on his lips. With a start, her heart pounding, Alysson turned to find him standing merely inches away. Like that first time nearly three months ago, he was dressed in elegant evening clothes, tailored in the European style.