Lord of Desire

A silence seemed to descend over the camp as he drew his mount to a halt before his tent. Alysson couldn't speak. She simply stared at him. Jafar, too, was silent. He sat looking down at her, his expression hard and remote in the torchlight, and totally unreadable.

She desperately wanted to know about Gervase, about the outcome of the battle, but she couldn't force herself to ask and hear the dreaded answer. She couldn't face knowing he was dead, any more than she could face knowing Jafar was his killer.

Suddenly, Alysson caught the weak sound of a snarled oath from a short distance away. An oath that was delivered in French.

For an instant she swayed on her feet, not daring to believe. But that cursing, plaintive voice came again out of the darkness, a voice as dear to her as Jafar's.

"Sweet heaven . . ." she whispered through a mist of mingled hope and fear. "Uncle Honoré."

She moved blindly across the camp, tripping and stumbling over the long skirts of her burnous until in a. gesture of impatience she jerked them up. She saw her favorite uncle through a haze of tears, recognizing the thinning silver hair shining in the torchlight. Honoré was lying on a stretcher, one end of which was drawn by a horse, the other dragging the ground. It was the kind of device appropriate for an invalid, or a wounded man. And his voice was feeble, even though he was busy swearing in pithy French that these heathens were trying to kill him.

Alysson halted in confusion. A whimper of miserable joy hung in the back of her throat as slowly she knelt beside his stretcher. "Mon oncle," she murmured, her own voice a hoarse rasp.

He left off cursing to stare at her. "Sacre Dieu . . . Alysson! My beloved child . . ."

She flung her arms around him just as he reached for her, and for a long moment, they clung to each other, both weeping with relief to see the other alive. Finally, with a groan of pain, Honoré held her away, grimacing as he searched her face. “I was sick with worry for you, my dear. You are unharmed?"

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Alysson nodded, drinking in the sight of his beloved face. "Yes, I am fine-"

Before she could complete the sentence and ask about her uncle's health, a small dark man stepped forward from the shadows and made a deep salaam. "Memsahib? My heart is filled with gladness to find you."

"Chand!"

Leaping to her feet, Alysson launched herself at her Indian servant, wrapping her arms around him in a stranglehold, laughing through her tears as she drew comfort from Chand's dear, familiar presence.

"Memsahib! This is not seemly!" Chand exclaimed. He gave a dignified sniff as he pried himself loose, but she caught the sheen of tears in his dark eyes before his expression sobered.

"Memsahib, I beg you to heed me. Your ancle is gravely wounded.''

Alysson's heart leaped again with dread as her gaze flew ro Honoré. Gravely wounded? But he did not look as if he were at death's door. Pale, perhaps. And disgruntled. But not dying. Hes. pulse regained a mors normal rhythm. Most likely, Chand was exaggerating as usual.

When she eyed him anxiously, the Indian hastened to speak in heavily accented French. "Is there a place where we may take the sahib so that I may attend to him?''

"Yes, my dear," Honord put in, resuming bis querulous tone, "have you any influence over these barbarians? They have strapped are into this contraption and won't let me out. I vow I am oieediag to death. One of those Arab deads stuck a sword blade in ray ribs, skewered me as if I were a pig to be roasted."

Influence? Alysson thought with desperation. She had no power of persuasion over these Berbers, especially the am whose opinion mattered most, the lord whose word was law here in this wild land. Helplessly she glanced around her, only to have her gaze arrested. Jafar had come to stand behind her and was silently observing her.

She guessed that he had overheard her conversation, for all she had to do was say, "Please", in a soft, pleading whisper, before he gestured to someone in the shadows.

"Gastar will aid you," he said abruptly, almost angrily, before turning toward his tent.

Alysson watched in bewilderment as he strode away. She didn't know what he was thinking, or why he was treating her so brusquely bow, after the infinite tenderness he had shown her during her illness. But men the old Berber wohise who had helped nurse her through her fever came shuffling forward. Seeing Gastar, Alysson felt a twinge of guilt. She hsd never even dtaaked die woman for saving her life. For that matter she had never thanked Jafar, either.

Her gaze followed his tall, black-cloaked figure for another moment, before she managed to drag her thoughts to attention. She had to see to her uncle before she could consider Jafar's actions or his cold treatment of her.

She listened anxiously as Gastar issued incomprehensible orders to several Berber men, theo followed as her uncle was carried into a nearby tent. After Honoré was released from the bindings of the stretcher and transferred to a comfortable pallet, though, all Alysson could do was wait. Both she and Chand were left with nothing to do as Gastar worked with swift efficiency over her patient.

That in itself became a problem. Chand was insulted by the old woman's assumption of his duties, not liking to be relegated to the role of spectator, but Alysson prevented him from making a scene with reassurances of Gastar's competence in healing. Even so, Alysson held her breath as the bloodstained bandage covering Honoré's chest was peeled away.

She was eminently grateful to discover that her uncle's wounds weren't as terrible as she feared. The right side of his chest was slashed by a bloody gash, and at least two ribs were broken, but the wound was clean, and the torn flesh easily sutured. She held her uncle's hand as Gastar performed the necessary operation and bound his ribs once again.

It was only when Honoré had been given a potion and was sleeping soundly, however, that Alysson had the time and opportunity to question Chand about what had happened. The French forces had been routed with little effort, she learned.

"At the battle's end, I was engaged in seeing to the La~ rousse Sahib's wound when the Berber lord discovered us." Chand shuddered, his fear at reliving the moment becoming evident. "I thought he would murder us! I prayed to Allah for mercy, and my prayers were answered, for the Berber lord commanded his men to aid us."

"But why?" Alysson asked, puzzled that lafar should offer comfort to his hated adversaries. "Did he give you a reason?''

Chand shook his turbaned head. "Only that the Larousse Sahib should not be allowed to die. It was not my place to question the Berber's wishes."