Lord of Desire

Her persistent fear for his blood enemy infuriated Jafar, but he forced himself to let out a breath. "No . . . I no longer seek revenge."

"But you will never stop fighting, will you?"

Jafar shook his head. As long as he breathed the war would never be over for him. Even if he was stripped of power, he would never give up his quest to rid his country of the foreign oppressors. This interlude, here in his mountain fortress with Alysson, was only a brief respite. Someday soon he would return to the struggle.

"A traitor would not be so dedicated to a cause," she said softly before turning away, leaving him alone.

Her quiet words whispered though his mind, grasping with seductive fingers at his conscience. He couldn't accept her reasoning, but truthfully, he wished he could.

Alysson wished she could convince his tribal council to reconsider their absurd allegations. What Jafar had done was not traitorous; it was right and good. He had not betrayed his countrymen by letting an enemy live. He was still totally committed to his beliefs. He was still determined to fight against the French, in a war he could never win. That should have been proof enough to vindicate him, she thought.

Alysson was still dwelling on the unfairness of it two days later when she was confronted with a discovery that sent her reeling.

Jafar had been gone all morning long, hunting for boar with his men—an invitation which had not been extended to her, even though she would have liked to participate. Women did not hunt in Barbary, it seemed.

After her recent long ride, however, Alysson wasn't overly distressed at being left out. Not only was she still recovering her health, but the day had turned wet and wretchedly cold, with rain clouds hovering over the mountains much like in the Scottish Highlands—a reminder that the snows would soon come.

Instead, she spent the morning reading aloud to her uncle. After finishing the French text, she wandered disconsolately over to the other second-floor wing that held Jafar's private apartments, intending to search his library for another book.

The library was furnished even more comfortably than the rest of the magnificent house, with dozens of leather- bound volumes filling the wooden shelves and recesses in the walls. Much to Alysson's surprise, she found among the writings of Arabic and French a book of English poetry penned by Lord Byron, the brooding romantic British aristocrat who some twenty-odd years ago had fought alongside Greek freedom-fighters against the bloody Turks.

Curious, Alysson sat down on one of the divans to thumb through the slim volume. When she opened the front cover, though, her hand froze. There on the front leaf, written in a bold flowing hand, the name Nicholas Sterling had been inscribed. The words seemed to leap up at her, while her heartbeat surged erratically.

Sterling was the family name of the dukes of Moreland.

Seven years ago she had visited the duke's estate and had been comforted by a fair-haired stranger.

During her terrible illness she had dreamed about that stranger—a comforting image that had somehow become entangled with Jafar's.

Dazed, confused, Alysson stared at the name, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. Just then, she heard a soft, familiar footfall. When she looked up, it was to find Jafar standing in the doorway, his golden eyes focused intently on her, his features shrouded in a look that was both wary and shuttered.

Chapter 20

"It was you that day," she accused, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes," Jafar replied, meeting her questioning gaze.

"I don't understand . . ."

"My mother was British. Her father—my grandfather- is Robert Sterling, Duke of Moreland."

Alysson simply stared. Jafar had spoken in English. Impeccable, clipped, cultured English that could not have been learned with only casual study.

"Then . . . however did you come to be here . . . in this position . . . your tribe?" she said in confusion.

Jafar sighed. After a moment, he moved to sit beside her on the divan. "It is not so strange a story. Years ago, when my mother was young, she disagreed with the marriage her father had arranged for her. In defiance, she took passage on a ship bound for Sicily, where she planned to remain until her father capitulated. But she never reached her destination. The ship was captured by Barbary pirates. My mother was taken to Algiers, where she was sold as a slave."

Enslaved, Alysson thought with a shudder. "How horrible," she said aloud, thinking of the terrible tales she'd heard about Western women imprisoned in Eastern harems.

"Actually she was quite fortunate. She was young and beautiful and brought a great price," Jafar responded. "She was purchased by a Berber warlord, who carried her to his home in the mountains. There he fell in love and married her, even though she was a Christian. Later she bore him a son."

"You?"

Jafar nodded, but his gaze seemed distant, as if he were sifting through old memories. "I was given the name Jafar, after the pirate who had captured her."

"You were named after a pirate?"

His lips curved in a faint smile. "Jafar is what my father called me. My mother called me Nicholas. I was raised to be a Berber warrior, but my mother never allowed me to forget my English heritage."