Lord of Desire

"Yes! Yes, I am concerned for you. If Gervase discovers you here—"

"Ease your fears, Alysson. The colonel himself invited me to attend the celebration."

She looked at him, bewildered. "I don't understand . . . You've spoken to him?"

"At length. He considers himself to be repaying the debt he feels he owes me."

Again Alysson shook her head, not understanding. But no explanation was forthcoming from Jafar. Instead, there was a longer pause, while he seemed to struggle with his choice of words.

"There is something I must ask you, Ehuresh," he said finally. "The colonel seems to think . . . that you love me. I desperately want to know if it is true."

She returned Jafar's searching gaze, unable to look away. His amber eyes were grave and vulnerable, not at all like the man who had once professed hatred for his father's murderer and vowed revenge.

"And if it is?" she whispered.

In that moment his eyes filled—with tenderness, hunger, longing, and more than a hint of uncertainty. She read each emotion as clearly as if it was her own—because it was her own.

"If it is true," he replied hoarsely, "then I would have to confess my own love . . . for a woman I have long since come to admire and respect."

Alysson parted her lips soundlessly. Wild hope was bubbling in her, but her throat was too constricted to speak. Helpless to respond verbally, she answered in the only other way possible, with her heart; she moved into Jafar's embrace. As his arms folded around her, she leaned weakly against him, shutting her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder.

Jafar could feel her trembling as he bent close, could feel the wetness on her face against his cheek. For a moment, though, he simply held her tightly against him, his cheek pressed to hers. Then, drawing back, he gathered her face in his hands, his hard palms curving to fit the delicate contours.

"Only you can ease the storm raging in my heart, Alysson. Tell me you don't hate me . . . Give me hope that one day you could come to love me."

"Yes . . . Oh, Jafar, yes—"

Before she could complete the words, his lips were suddenly raining soft, desperate kisses on her chin, her cheeks, the moistness seeping under her eyes. She clung to him, sobbing, laughing, until finally he raised his head, his expression all seriousness.

"Marry me, Alysson."

"M-marry you? You want me to marry you?"

"Yes, my heart. I want your hand in marriage. I'm asking you to be my wife, Alysson, to share my life and my home, to bear my children, to grow old at my side."

She stared at him in shock, before a sudden bleakness replaced the incredulity in her eyes. "But your tribe, Jafar . . . they'll never accept me . . . an infidel, an Englishwoman."

"That is not so, Alysson. They will accept you without question. Because of your bravery, your courage. A woman who can vanquish a lion is a bride fit to carry the children of a Berber amghar in her womb. That is what is being said about you among my people."

The knowledge that the members of his tribe had been discussing her fitness as wife to their lord should have disturbed Alysson, at the very least annoyed her, but all she could feel was relief. Immense relief. And happiness. The thought of bearing Jafar's children made her weak with joy.

He must have misunderstood her hesitation, though, for his voice went low and quiet. "If you say you cannot live here with me, in my country, I will understand. We can live wherever you wish . . . England, France . . . India. It matters not to me, as long as I have you."

Her eyes filled again with tears. It did matter to him, greatly, she knew, but he was prepared to leave his homeland, to give up his entire life, his country, his struggle, simply for her sake.

"Do not weep, beloved," he pleaded in his own language. "I cannot bear to see you cry."

"I'm not crying," she replied shakily in English. "And yes, we can live here, Jafar."

"Then . . . you will marry me?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll marry you."

He still didn't seem convinced. Gently, almost tentatively, he stroked the wetness under her eyes with his thumbs, brushing away her tears. "It won't be as disagreeable as you think, Alysson. I don't want to take away your independence or your freedom. I won't try to change your passionate nature to fit our culture. Your spirit is one of the things I love most about you. Nor would I ever ask you to give up your religion. It is not against the Koran for a Muslim man to marry a Christian woman. We can be married in a Christian ceremony as well as a Muslim one, in order to satisfy your uncles and my English grandfather." He stopped, searching her face intently.

Her tremulous smile must have encouraged him, for his intensity relaxed the slightest degree. "As for our future children, we can strike a fair compromise, I think. They will be raised in the Islamic faith, but will study Christianity as well, so that when they are old enough they may choose for themselves. Would that be agreeable to you?"

"Yes, I'm sure that would be fair, but . . . are you truly certain you want an English wife?"