"But you won't let them go?"
"No."
“Why? Because you need them here? Because you need me here? Do you still require my presence here to have your revenge?"
It had nothing to do with revenge, Jafar thought with vehemence—and was surprised by his conviction. When had he stopped thinking of using Alysson in terms of revenge? The moment she had threatened to take her own life with a Berber rifle? When she'd lain so near death from the venomous scorpion's bite?
He stared down at her, recalling with agonized clarity the lament of a Berber love poem he had heard years ago, about how terrible it was to d
esire and not possess. He had scoffed at such sentiments then. But that was before he knew Alysson, before he knew this burning need to take her and make her his, to brand her with his possession.
Alysson watched his silent struggle, trying to comprehend what it meant. "Will you at least tell me what you intend to do with us?"
Taking a step back, Jafar abruptly turned away. "You will accompany me to my home, where you will remain until your uncle's wounds heal."
"I . . . I don't understand."
"Your uncle will recuperate more comfortably in the coolness of the mountains. And there I can provide the amenities he and you are accustomed to." He hesitated before adding, "You will be my Honoréd guests."
Alysson shook her head bitterly. How like Jafar to couch his command in terms of a polite invitation. "We will be your prisoners, you mean."
"As you wish."
She bit her lip. "You said when this was over, you would allow me to return to Algiers. You said when you accomplished your mission, you would let me go free."
At her quiet words she saw his entire body tense. "I have not accomplished my mission."
Alysson's heart suddenly seemed to stop beating. "What . . . did you say?"
The glance Jafar threw over his shoulder at her was filled with savage fury. "I said, I have failed. I did not kill your precious fiancé."
Stunned, Alysson stared at him. "Gervase is alive?" she whispered hoarsely.
Jafar didn't answer; he only stood there, violently clenching his fists.
Abruptly, Alysson's legs folded beneath her and she sank to her knees. She could hardly credit what he'd said. Dear heaven! Gervase was alive?
"What. . . happened?" she managed to ask. "Was Gervase injured? Did you take him prisoner?"
The brilliance of Jafar's gold eyes impaled her. "I did not kill him. You will have to be satisfied with that."
"Jafar . . . please." Her tear-filled eyes begged him. "I have to know."
Jafar clenched his teeth at her beseeching look. He could have told her that by now Colonel Bourmont and the other French officers would be safely interned in Ben Hamadi's camp; although he'd spared his enemy's life, he had no intention of allowing Bourmont anywhere near Alysson Vickery. Nor did he intend ever to let her know just how much power she had over him.
Yet he could not deny her the simple reassurance she was pleading for. "He is my prisoner," Jafar said finally, "but he is unharmed."
Alysson closed her eyes. Gervase was a prisoner, but he was alive. He was alive!
A joyous feeling of deliverance welled in her heart, lightening the burden of despair she'd carried with her for so many days. Jafar had spared his blood enemy. He was not the cruel barbarian she'd feared. He was not a coldhearted murderer. He was noble and merciful and wonderful . . .
She buried her face in her hands, savoring the sensation.
Jafar cursed.
Such profound relief for his enemy was something he couldn't bear to see from her. In two strides he was across the room, grasping Alysson's arms and dragging her to her feet. "You will not weep for him!"
Only then did Alysson become aware of the scalding tears streaming down her face. They were tears of joy, of exultation. She gazed at Jafar mutely, her throat too clogged to speak.