"Very well." Gervase leaned forward. "Shall we shake on it?"
Jafar's gaze dropped to the hand held out to him.
"It is a Western custom, I know, but if and when you agree to join me, we can celebrate in the Eastern fashion . . . take a meal together and afterwards smoke a pipe."
With genuine acknowledgment this time, Jafar accepted the colonel's hand.
Satisfied, the Frenchman settled back in his seat, swirling the liquid in his glass as he mused out loud. "Algeria will likely remain under military rule for some time to come, but I can envision the day when administration reverts to civil control. I even hope to see the day when Arabs and Berbers live peacefully beside French and other European colonists." Raising his glass in a toast, Bourmont eyed his guest. "Perhaps we might drink to that day."
Slowly, Jafar raised his own glass. "The good manners
which my grandfather drummed into my head compel me to participate," he said agreeably, "but allow me to repeat what the Sultan Abdel Kader has said of the French . . . You are merely passing guests, Colonel. You may stay three hundred years, like the Turks, but in the end you will leave."
In response, Gervase de Bourmont returned a smile that was more than a little sad. "To that day then, m'sieur."
Chapter 27
Vengeance had never been satisfied, and yet . . .
Jafar stood on the darkened terrace outside the crowded, brightly lit chamber, watching the man he had once planned to kill. Gervase de Bourmont was present at the victory celebration, very much alive, and very much the cause of the violent jealousy that raged in Jafar's breast.
And yet Jafar was glad he had forsworn his blood oath. Fulfilling his quest for vengeance would not have gained him what he wanted most in life. Rather, it would have been the death blow to all hope. A hope that even now he dared not embrace completely.
Not for the first time, he shifted his gaze to the young woman standing near the colonel, his eyes going soft with yearning. Alysson. Flanked by two of her uncles, she burned with a charm and a vivacious energy that gave no hint she was pining away with love for him or any other man.
That radiant, carefree manner of hers had kept Jafar from making an appearance at the celebration ball held at the palatial residence of the Governor-General. That manner and his own fear. He was utterly afraid that Bourmont had been mistaken about the depth of Alysson's feelings. Afraid to the point of cowardice.
Jafar smiled grimly at his silent admission, though he
found little amusement that an ordinarily fearless Berber warlord had such incredible difficulty working up the courage to approach a mere female. But then, Alysson Vickery had never been a mere female. From the very first she had exhibited her independent, passionate nature, her indomitable spirit—challenging him and defying him at every turn, arousing his anger and admiration, as well as his fierce desire. She had captured his heart, his very soul. And now he couldn't face knowing the truth. He couldn't force himself to take the next step, to ask the question that needed to be asked, to leam the answer, that the woman who meant more to him than life spumed his love. And so he waited in the darkness, fear and despair knifing through him in equal measure.
Within the ballroom, Alysson was battling her own fears. Her dread had not diminished during the past twenty-eight hours. Since discovering Jafar's presence in Algiers, she'd lived in constant terror that he would be exposed as a traitor, that he would be arrested and imprisoned, perhaps executed. She'd attended the victory celebration ball that evening only because Gervase had insisted, and because she couldn't remain calmly at home with her tortured thoughts when Jafar might be in mortal danger.
For the benefit of her uncles, she'd pretended enjoyment, while silently praying that her fears were groundless. Surely Jafar would be long gone by now. There was no reason for him to remain in Algiers. The negotiations were complete, the fate of his sultan sealed; Abdel Kader had embarked for France that morning with his family and his closest followers.
From the roof of her rented residence, Alysson had glimpsed the legendary figure, splendid in a scarlet burnous, as he rode through the streets to the deafening cheers of thousands of his people. His departure marked the end of a violent era, yet Alysson could only feel a deep sadness at his defeat. Emir Abdel Kader had proved himself a bom leader of men, a great soldier, a capable administrator, a persuasive orator, a chivalrous opponent. For fifteen years, he had led the valiant struggle against French domination, holding at bay half a dozen great French generals and several princes of the blood. And now he'd been made to pay the price for his defiancé.
What concerned her most, however, was not the vanquished Arab leader, but Jafar. What would he do now that his commander had surrendered? Would he accept defeat, or would he carry on the war against overwhelming odds? Or was he even now being taken prisoner? Would she even know of his fate? The uncertainty was driving her to distraction.
Oh, would this interminable evening never end? Alysson lamented, clasping her gloved hands together to hide their trembling.
r />
Just then she met Gervase's solemn gaze. Unable to maintain her pretense of equanimity a moment longer, she murmured something to her uncles about needing air and made her way quickly toward the wide doors, pressing through the throngs of faceless people.
When at last she stepped into the coolness of the terrace, Alysson drew in a deep calming breath, which in itself was a. mistake. The moonlit courtyard below was filled with masses of scarlet bougainvillea and laurel roses, and countless other flowers that would continue to bloom even in midwinter. The sweet fragrances brought to mind memories of other scents, of other exotic nights when she had lain in Jafar's arms.
Feeling all over again the anguish of her hopeless passion. she leaned against the balustrade and bowed her head, wishing that the numbness that had once shielded her would return to deaden her pain.
It might have been an eternity later when Jafar stepped out of the shadows, her name on his lips. With a start, her heart pounding, Alysson turned to find him standing merely inches away. Like that first time nearly three months ago, he was dressed in elegant evening clothes, tailored in the European style.
"Jafar , . ." Her whisper was barely audible, the quiver in her voice betraying the trembling, uncertain joy she felt at the sight of him. Hardly daring to believe he was truly here, she drank in the reality of his presence. He filled up her vision, his eyes deep and quiet and searching, his face still and intense.
They stared at each other tor a long moment before Jatar finally broke the silence. "I had thought by now you would be gone from Algiers, Ehuresh."
Vaguely realizing he had spoken in English, Alysson shook her head. She couldn't think about that or anything else when his life was at risk. "Jafar, please . . . you shouldn't be here. The danger is too great. You have to leave."
"What is this, chérie? Is it possible I detect a note of concern in your tone?"