Jafar was silent for a moment before he added softly, "She was happy here, I know, though she always hoped to return home one day to visit her father. 'When we return to England,' was one of her favorite phrases." Jafar smiled again, this time sadly. "But she wouldn't go without me, and my father would not allow me to leave. I think he feared I would be seduced by the English life of wealth and privilege that had been denied me."
"Did you ever go?"
"Yes." His reply was terse. "After my parents' deaths, when it was learned that I was half English, I was sent home to my noble grandfather. I remained there for ten years."
&nbs
p; Ten years that had been an eternity, Alysson suspected, hearing the echo of the young boy's anguish in the man's bleak tone.
"Perhaps you can understand," Jafar said, regarding her intently, surprising her with his direct appeal. "The money and titles my grandfather offered meant nothing to me. I had been raised here, in a different world. I was my father's heir. Here I lacked for nothing—I had only to say 'Do this' and it was done. Here I was among family, friends, familiar customs. In contrast, England was a foreign land, filled with cold, contemptuous strangers."
Alysson returned his intent gaze, her own filled with sympathy. She was not akin to him by class or race, but she had endured similar experiences. She understood very well the kind of prejudice and contempt he would have been subjected to by the haughty British nobility because of his mixed blood. She'd suffered much the same way for her own common origins. "You never fit in."
Jafar shook his head. "No, I never fit in. I could never become the civilized young gentleman my grandfather wanted me to become. One doesn't forget his heritage simply because he finds himself in a different country. Being half English does not make him an Englishman."
No, Alysson thought silently, Jafar could never be an Englishman. Not when the blood of Berber warriors ran so fiercely in his veins. And yet he was not all Berber, either. Had she known to look, she would have seen the signs of his European upbringing in his mannerisms, in his care of her. He'd kept his past hidden from her, but his rare lapses into speaking English should have warned her, if nothing else.
"And later? You gave up your English life to return here?"
"There was a war being fought here. This is my country, my home. I had to return. I had just taken leave of my grandfather the day I came across you up in that tree, throwing acorns at me."
She thought back, remembering. Now she knew why the bay stallion in his stables seemed familiar to her. She had seen it before. It was the same savage-looking beast he had ridden in England, the same one she had seen in her dreams. And Jafar—he was the stranger who had comforted her that long-ago day, the stranger who had made her grief more bearable.
He was the man who had affected her life so profoundly seven years ago. Much of her happiness during her awkward progression from girlhood to womanhood she owed to him.
It would take her a moment to grow accustomed to the idea.
Her gaze searching, she scrutinized Jafar with new eyes. The lamp glowed, giving intriguing play to the lean hollows and planes of his face. It took no effort to see in those hard features the authority of one born to rule . . . or the determination of a man unflinching in love and hate. But now that she knew who he was, she understood things that had always puzzled her, things that his conflicting heredity and disparate upbringing might explain. Why, for instance, his conduct and manner of address sometimes seemed European. Why she'd thought he always seemed alone, even among his own people. He was a man caught between two cultures, Berber and English. Half of this world, half of a foreign one, perhaps a true part of neither. Within him warred the sensual soul of the East and the cool pragmatism of the British aristocrat. And no doubt he had inherited a measure of both pride and arrogance from each side. He might have disavowed his English heritage, but it was still a vital part of him.
"Did you ever see your grandfather again?" she asked finally.
"I visited him once more," Jafar said with a sigh. "In '43, the tide of the war had turned. Abdel Kader's army was facing defeat, and the French government was intent on crushing any final opposition. Not only were they determined to limit the authority of our sheiks and administrators, but they attempted to destroy our very culture. I led an envoy to England on behalf of Abdel Kader, where I petitioned Queen Victoria to enter the war against France on the side of the Arabs . . . to no avail."
Silently Alysson studied him. Thinking back, she remembered the harsh, bitter words Jafar had once flung at her about the sufferings his country had endured at the hands of the French. She'd realized then how powerless he felt about his ability to save his people or prevent them from being ground under the heel of French oppression. Jafar was struggling with his own kind of grief over the French conquest of his country. She could sense his anguish, his silent rage over his helplessness, and it wrung her heart. She longed to comfort him, though she could find no consolation to offer.
But she could thank him for the consolation he had once given her.
"You gave me hope that day," she said quietly. "You told me to make myself indispensable to my uncles, to make them want me, and I did. I still have your handkerchief."
The harsh emotion in Jafar's eyes suddenly abated, his gaze softening as he contemplated her. "I am curious to know how you implemented my advice."
"I became what my uncles wanted most—a traveling companion, a helpmate, a daughter."
"I'm glad that your term in England was not as bad as you feared."
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that." Alysson regarded him with a wry smile. "I was an outcast from the first moment I arrived at boarding school with my Indian servant. Chand prostrated himself to pray to Allah and promptly was branded a heathen. I was considered an unholy terror."
Jafar's lips curved upward. "I can well imagine how you might have shocked some sensibilities. You were rather a contentious young lady, if I recall."
Alysson gave a graceful shrug. She still couldn't look back on that time with equanimity. She'd been a reckless, unruly, inelegant young girl back then, stubbornly determined to flout the disdainful social elite who had scorned her. "I didn't allow their rejection to bother me, not once my uncles came to notice me. I even became accustomed to being a byword."
She said it lighdy, but Jafar heard the underlying hurt in that simple admission.
"I wasn't totally without resources," Alysson continued. "A vast fortune can gain one entree into even the highest circles. I even had a presentation at court. Not that I was keen on the idea, but my Uncle Cedric thought it a great coup that I make my curtsies to the queen."
"A fortune can be an advantage," he agreed quietly.
Alysson fell silent, remembering. She had been raised to elegance and wealth, but money was not a cure for loneliness. Indeed, for her, money had never been the great blessing it was supposed to be. She'd quickly learned what a curse it could be to be so exceedingly rich . . . to be used by impoverished aristocrats and social climbers for their own ends, to pay the price in loneliness, never knowing who you could trust to be a true friend, never knowing who you could love. Yet it was because of that very wealth that society tolerated her. In spite of her wild ways, she could do little wrong.