Alysson felt herself shaking. He meant to kill Gervase, she was certain. And that thought frightened her more than anything that had happened to her since her capture.
Trembling, she rose to her feet. "I hope you burn in hell."
Jafar's tone, when he replied, was cold. "The prospect of your Christian hell holds no terror for me, mademoiselle."
Alysson clenched her fists. She hated him at that mo-
ment, with a fierceness she hadn't thought possible. Yet she hated her helplessness even more. ,
With a sound that was nearly a sob, she turned and fled into the relative safety of the tent.
Watching her go, Jafar gritted his teeth, while the knuckles of his hand turned white from gripping the cloth. Within him, the cold rage of vengeance faded, to be replaced by hollow fury at her despair. It galled him that she cared so deeply for that French jackal, Gervase de Bourmont. Galled and sickened him. Yet even in his fury, Jafar found himself struggling against the urge to follow her and comfort her.
What solace could he offer her, though, when he intended to kill the man she planned to marry?
With a violent curse, Jafar set his jaw and forced himself to return to the task of grooming the Barb.
Chapter 9
The noonday dust swirled ripe and hot as Alysson watched the mounted Berber warriors at play. Their activities looked like sport, yet knowing now what she did about their lord's plans, their games took on an ominous significance.
They were practicing for war and death.
From the shelter of Jafar's tent, she watched numbly, with a kind of horrified fascination, unable to look away. The moment Jafar directed his prancing steed toward his tent, though, Alysson retreated inside. She hadn't spoken a word to him for two days, not since the evening he had told her of his plan to lure Gervase and the French army into battle.
For two days the turmoil had eaten away at her. She couldn't sleep and had little appetite; the churning in her stomach wouldn't go away. Her tension, her fear, her feeling of helplessness, had increased tenfold. For now she knew it wasn't only her life at stake. She had heard it said that the Berbers were unconquerable in war. If Jafar succeeded in carrying out his plan, then scores of French soldiers might perish. And Gervase as well, the man who loved her. And her Uncle Honoré.
With brutal clarity she'd suddenly realized what would happen when her uncle learned where she was being held. Honoré would never allow Gervase to search for her alone. Though ill-suited to withstand the rigors of a desert campaign, he would accompany Gervase into the desert to find her. And he might very well die.
"I won't let it happen!" Alysson murmured defiantly, yet the tight ache in her throat belied her determination.
It would be her fault if they were killed; their blood would be on her hands. She was responsible for this situation. If she'd never insisted on accompanying her uncle, she never would have been taken captive, to be used as bait in Jafar's snare.
If only she could send Honoré a message that she was unharmed, that she was relatively safe and well, that he wasn't to come for her, she might rest more easily. At least Gervase was a soldier, a brave and skilled officer who stood a fighting chance against a warlord of Barbary. Just possibly he could avoid whatever terrible fate her demon captor had planned for him.
Exactly what that fate might be she had lain awake contemplating for two nights now. What manner of revenge did Jafar mean to exact? And what had Gervase done to deserve such enmity? Why had Jafar called him "a man with the tainted blood of a murderer in his veins"?
Revenge implied prior acquaintance, so the two men must know each other; indeed, Jafar had implied as much. And he'd done more than imply that her abduction was only a means to an end. He had told her so.
She was his means for revenge.
She should have suspected as much, given the fact that Jafar had yet to harm her. He hadn't raped her, and that in itself should have been portentous.
She could almost wish he had. If Jafar had simply ruined her in order to shame her fiancé, she could have dealt with that. Her reputation had never concerned her overmuch, for she refused to allow society to dictate her actions. She would gladly have sacrificed her good name if it meant sparing Gervase's life. She would even have surrendered her body to her barbaric captor, as he seemed to want. But she realized now that her surrender alone would not satisfy him.
He wanted Gervase's death. That was crystal clear to her now. And she knew instinctively that nothing she could do or say would change his mind. Jafar was not a man who would be swayed by pleas or tears. Nor could she appeal to his moral conscience or his sense of honor. This was not England. This was the desert, where civilized rules didn't apply, where standards of honor were far different than in her country. Here in Barbary, women were possessions to be bought and sold and used. Here men took what they wanted. Here men like Jafar el-Saleh made their own laws.
"Good afternoon, ma belle."
Alysson tensed at Jafar's greeting as he entered the tent. Deliberately, she turned and gave him her back.
Behind her, Jafar swore silently. For the past two days, his lovely young p
risoner had treated him as if he were a viper she had found hidden under a rock. Her disdain annoyed him fiercely. Her smoldering silence, too, irritated him. And this from a woman! Only to his English grandfather had he ever owed deference; only to his sultan did he owe allegiance now—and that only because he chose to. And yet he believed Alysson Vickery deserved an explanation for why he'd involved her in his personal vendettas. He had tried to make her understand his reasons for opposing the French invaders, but she was obviously too stubborn to try and comprehend.
Worse than annoyance, though, was the way his heart wrenched every time he saw the torment in her expressive eyes. Her distress at his revelations was palpable.
It was all he could do to remain unaffected. He hadn't expected to be this moved by her anguish. He wanted to go to her and take her in his arms. He wanted to kiss away the misery on her face. He wanted to drive away her hatred and fill her with passion . . . passion for himself and not his blood enemy.