Aware of the need to curb both anger and impatience, Jafar forced his reply to remain even. "I could not leave the Englishwoman's side while she is barely alive, Excellency. I do not want her death on my conscience. It would be a stain to my honor, and that of my tribe, if I did not see to the safety of a captive. Moreover, she is an innocent in this affair. If I can help her survive, I will."
"Her death—or life—is in the hands of Allah."
"Sometimes it is wise," Jafar said with deliberate enunciation, "for men on earth to aid Allah, in order that His will be carried out.''
The khalif's dark eyes narrowed, but Jafar returned his gaze steadily. What he'd just said was close to blasphemy in their religion, but he meant every word. He blamed himself for allowing harm to come to his captive. Because of his iaxness in letting her escape, Alysson had nearly died— and still might. He could not let it happen.
Ben Hamadi must have realized his determination, for he shrugged gracefully and changed the subject. "Your plan is working, sidi. The rumors you planted in the ears of the French have been fruitful. Colonel Bourmont has left Algiers for the desert with a large force."
Jafar simply stared, aware of a feeling of vague surprise. His longtime enemy the colonel had not even crossed his mind during Alysson's illness—which was unique. Until now, not a day had passed since the murder of his family that he had not cursed the name of Bourmont.
"The French troops will reach us within the week," the Arab noted, "perhaps less."
A week. Perhaps less. In only that short while he would have the revenge he had sought for seventeen years. Why then could he not summon the anticipation, the sweet satisfaction, that should have accompanied such a revelation? Jafar glanced down at Alysson, at her ravaged form so still and unmoving . . . and he knew the answer.
"I will take the young
woman with me," Ben Hamadi added, "if she lives."
If she lives. Jafar clenched his teeth, refusing to consider the possibility that she might not. But like it or not, he was obliged to discuss his English captive's fate with his guest, a discussion they had already begun the evening of Alys- son's escape.
Ben Hamadi had never intended to remain in Jafar's camp. Shortly before the French army arrived, they would separate their forces and wait for the right moment to strike. For that battle, Jafar would lead the attack, while the Arab general's troops circled around to assault the French flanks and prevent escape.
As for Alysson, Ben Hamadi had proposed they transfer the English prisoner to his own large encampment, where she would be kept with his women until she could be escorted back to Algiers. Despite his instinctive objections, Jafar had not dismissed the suggestion out of hand. Alys- son's safety might be better assured were she well away from the battleground. But the most pressing reason, the overwhelming one, was his growing awareness that he was losing objectivity where Alysson was concerned. More than once he had let his fierce desire for her affect his judgment, had let his heart rule his head. He would do better to sever this dangerous attraction at once, before he found himself making decisions based not on what was best for his people or his country, but on what a fiery English captive asked of him.
Now, however, with Alysson so near death's door, he scotched the khalif's plan entirely. Ben Hamadi would protest, but Jafar would not turn her over to be cared for by anyone but himself. Not now, when he owed her his most valiant efforts.
"She cannot be moved, Excellency. Even if . . . she survives, she will be too weak to travel in the near future. I will see to her welfare here."
"You need have no fear, my brother. While in my charge, she will receive the best of care."
"I will not give her up."
There was a long silence, while the general scrutinized Jafar with his keen black eyes. "It will not do to become overly fond of the foreign woman," Ben Hamadi said finally, a gentle warning.
Jafar glanced down at the young woman they spoke of. Foreign? But she was not foreign to him. The same English blood that ran through her veins ran through his, though he often tried to forget that truth. And they had been lovers. After the intimacies he had shared with her during that long passion-filled night, intimacies known only between a man and a woman, she was as familiar to him as the desert, as the mountains that he called home. Alysson, with her defiant, smoke-hued eyes. Alysson, with her passion and vitality and indomitable spirit, a spirit that called to him and touched something wild within him. Somehow, in the past few weeks, she had managed to make all the other elements of his life pale to insignificance. And for the mind-numbing eternity of the past days, all his hopes and wishes for the future had converged, centering on the single fervent desire that she would survive her battle with death.
Just then Alysson stirred, muttering some unintelligible phrase. Bending over her, Jafar smoothed a tousled tress back from her hot forehead. "Be still, little tigress," he murmured in English.
The endearment drew a sharp look from the khalif; Jafar could feel Ben Hamadi watching him speculatively.
"Perhaps it is not wise to speak to her in her own tongue,'' the Arab suggested uneasily.
Within Jafar the slow heat of anger uncurled itself. Not hesitating, he raised his golden gaze in challenge. "It calms her to hear her own language."
Ben Hamadi was the first to break contact with that fierce gaze. After a long moment, the Arab let his hawklike features relax beneath his beard. But when he rose to withdraw, he added one last caution. "Take care, my friend, that you do not put her welfare above the lives of your own people."
It was perhaps two hours later that Alysson slowly opened her eyes to find Jafar sitting beside her, his chin resting on his fist.
How strange, was her first foggy thought. She had been dreaming of that long-ago day in England, of her arrival at the elegant estate of an English date. She had climbed an oak tree and thrown acorns at a fair-haired stranger. But then she had cried and he had comforted her.
Alysson blinked and squinted her eyes at the black-robed man beside her. This was Jafar, a fierce Berber warlord, not the fair-haired English stranger of her dreams.
But something was wrong about him. His head bowed, he appeared deep in contemplation, while his shoulders slumped as if under the burden of some great weight.
Slowly, weakly, she reached out to touch him on the knee. Jafar reacted the instant she moved. Startled, he caught her hand and pressed it between his own as he stared at her.
"Thank you, Allah," he said a long moment later, his voice a hoarse rasp.