As she raced further and further away from her uncle and her party, waves of cold rage and fiery anxiety alternately swept over Alysson. Rarely in her life had she felt such helplessness, and never such terror.
But she couldn't give in to her fear. She had to compose her shaken nerves. She had to think! She had to recall what she knew about the Berbers and use her knowledge to her advantage. Much of what she'd heard was good. Gervase respected and admired the Berbers, in part because they could be expected to act more like Europeans—unlike the guileful Moors of the cities or the nomadic Bedouin Arabs of the plains. What was it Gervase had said? That the Berbers were known for their virtues of honesty, hospitality, and good nature . . . None of which, Alysson thought with a bitter glance at her brutal captor, did he possess in the slightest.
They also were known for their vast courage. That he did have, apparently. He had defied death to capture her, had even been amused by her attempt to shoot him. And in abducting her, he had also risked the wrath of the French government. Not that such wrath meant much. The Berbers in the mountains had resisted all attempts by the French Armee d'Afrique to bring them to heel, Gervase had told her. They were laws unto themselves, giving only condescending lip service to the Arab Bureau's efforts to organize their tribal factions into some civilized form of government.
Then there were the accounts of the recent war. Only a few days ago had she overheard an officer of the Foreign Legion speaking of the campaigns and fierce battles in which he'd fought against the Algerines. "It is better," the Legionnaire had said, "to die in the first assault rather than live as hostage. No man survives the unspeakable tortures the Arab army inflicts on its prisoners. That is why we kill our wounded rather than allow them to be taken alive."
Alysson's gaze stole to the black-robed Berber galloping just ahead of her. Would he torture her? He had said he wouldn't harm her. But perhaps her fate would be worse. In Barbary white women were sold as concubines or slaves . . . Could she bear such degradation, such horror? To be the plaything of some strange, savage man? Or many men?
Trembling anew, Alysson clasped the fingers of her bound hands to keep them from shaking. She did not cry easily, but tears would have brought a welcome relief just now. Still, it did not seem wise to show the slightest weakness before her abductor. Aloof and hard, he was a man to be feared. She'd felt the full force of his potential for violence—in the strength of his muscular body, in the glitter of his eyes, in the edge of his voice.
Alysson tore her gaze away, focusing instead on her surroundings. If she was to find her way back to her uncle, she had to concentrate on locating landmarks and committing them to memory. Minute by minute the terrain was becoming more hilly, the mountains growing closer, she realized with dismay. Soon they would leave the Plain of Algiers behind altogether—and civilization as well.
At the thought of her uncle, though, her worries shifted from herself to Honoré. What had happened to him? What had this blackguard done to him?
They rode at a relentless speed for several more miles, before finally Alysson could bear her fearful thoughts no longer. The uncertainty of not knowing was more nerve- racking than the truth.
Marshaling her courage, Alysson urged her racing mare forward, till she rode alongside the galloping stallion. Her captor turned his head slightly, one dark golden eyebrow raised in question. She started to shout at him, but realized it would be too difficult to make herself heard over the pounding hooves. Leaning forward as far as she could reach, she tugged on her mount's bridle, which made the mare swerve into the stallion. Thankfully, the Berber brought the grueling pace to a halt.
"What have you done to my uncle?" Alysson demanded in breathless English, forgetting that all their previous conversations had been in French.
Not a flicker of understanding crossed the carved mask of his features, but he set the horses in motion again, this time at a rapid walk.
"You . . . you savage brute. If you have harmed him, I swear I will see you hanged!"
"Either speak French or don't speak," the Berber answered in a mild tone.
Glaring, she took a breath and tried again in French. "Very well, what—have—you—done—to—my—uncle?" she said through gritted teeth.
"Not a thing. He was to be set free as soon as you were safely in my power."
Could she believe him? Alysson wondered, searching his face. His eyes were as bright as topaz, his gaze as intent as the sharp look of a hunting bird—and just as steady. They were not eyes that lied.
The tense set of her shoulders relaxed the slightest degree. At least that was some comfort; he didn't want her uncle. She didn't have to worry about Honoré as well as herself.
But Uncle Honoré would be frantic with worry for her, Alysson suddenly realized. She had to extricate herself from this situation before he worked himself into a frenzy.
But first she had to discover why this black-robed devil had abducted her, what he planned to do with her. Perhaps he might even be persuaded to release her, she thought with burgeoning hope. She hadn't yet tried bargaining with him.
"You don't have to go to the trouble of carrying me off," she said, trying to remain calm. "If you mean to hold me for ransom, I can tell you now, my uncle will pay a great deal of money to have me safely returned."
"It isn't money I want." Not a whisper of emotion was evident in his soft tone, or on his hard features.
"What is it then? What do you want?"
He didn't reply; his only response was a long, frustrating silence.
"The soldiers of my escort won't allow you to take me far. I expect they are directly beh
ind us. They will hunt you down and shoot you like a dog."
"I doubt it." He shook his head as if remembering. "Such brave men your guards were, to give you up without a fight. They had no more discipline than sheep."
Though she had thought the same thing, his scoffing tone goaded Alysson into defending her French escort. "They weren't at fault! They had no one to direct them. Their commanding officer became ill—"
Even as she said the words, sick understanding dawned on her. The lieutenant had become ill only that morning. As had Chand . . . Oh, God . . . Chand.
Anguish etched her features as she cast him an imploring glance. "Chand . . . my servant . . . please, tell me you didn't have him poisoned?"