The slight pressure of Jafar's hand at the small of her back made Alysson step inside. As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she could make out the unlit olive oil lamps hanging from the ridgepole overhead. The tall support poles also boasted numerous hooks, upon which hung saddlery and other accoutrements of war.
Spying movement, Alysson came to an abrupt halt. A tall, turbaned Berber had turned to face them, his arms full of swords and daggers, pistols and rifles. The young man managed a graceful salaam to Jafar, despite the armload of weapons he was holding, and when Jafar issued a command in a low voice, he obediently withdrew. Yet Alysson saw a brief flash of curiosity in his blue eyes as he passed.
She was curious about him as well. Watching him carry the weapons from the tent, she guessed that hed been ordered to prepare the place for her residency. The thought made her shiver. Was this to be her prison?
She turned to eye Jafar with a quizzical look, but his hard face gave no clue as to his thoughts, or his intentions.
Not meeting her gaze, he strode across the chamber and drew aside a woolen curtain, revealing an inner room. "If you will excuse me, mademoiselle, there are affairs I must attend to," he told her evenly. "You may rest here."
Alysson followed him with great reluctance. Was this Jafar's bedchamber? Here, items of clothing hung on the pole hooks while a striped woolen blanket lay neatly folded upon the woven-straw pallet.
"I will send a servant to see to your needs," he said, turning away.
Torn between pique at being dismissed so summarily, and the shameful desire to plead with him not to leave her here alone in these unfamiliar surroundings, Alysson couldn't manage to reply before Jafar strode from the tent.
Alone, she glanced around the bedchamber uncertainly. In one corner sat an unlit charcoal brazier. In another, on a small table, was a pitcher and washbowl. Beneath the table, to her surprise, rested a glazed, lidded receptacle that was apparently a chamber pot. Was that for her use? Did Jafar intend to keep her here for the duration of her captivity?
Her gaze stole again to the pallet. She was too keyed up to rest as he had suggested, but even if she hadn't been, she couldn't stay here. Not in his bed.
Abruptly Alysson retreated to the large front chamber which no doubt served as a reception room and living quarters. Hearing a horse's whinny, she went to the doorway of the tent. There were several horses tethered directly outside, including her gray mare and Jafar's black Barb. But her hope of claiming one and making an escape was dashed at once. The blue-eyed Berber stood guarding both the doorway and the horses.
When he spied Alysson he came immediately to attention and with his musket blocked her way. "Eskana," he said, motioning for her to turn back.
With a sinking heart, she did so. She needed no interpreter to understand that it was forbidden for her to leave the tent.
She spent the next few minutes wandering around the large room, exploring her surroundings, looking for a weapon the Berber guard might have missed. There was none, though in the far corner she discovered Jafar's library. The knee-high table was strewn with maps and a few leather- bound volumes written in Arabic, and, to her surprise, several French journals.
Wondering what use he had for them, wondering also what he intended to do with her, Alysson sank down upon one of the cushions to await Jafar's return. With effort she even managed to rally her flagging spirits. She should have expected Jafar to see that she was well guarded, of course, but she needn't despair just yet. If she used her wits, she might still contrive an escape. And there was also the chance that she could bribe someone to carry a message to Gervase in Algiers. By now, with luck, her Uncle Honors would have returned safely to Algiers, and Gervase would be searching for her. He would find her before too long. She had to believe that.
Her worried musings were interrupted just then when a boy of perhaps ten limped into the tent, bearing a tray. Alysson gave a start when she looked at him directly. Not only was the child lame, but one side of his face was horribly scarred beneath his turban, the flesh red and puckered.
The boy was glaring at her fiercely, as if daring her to pity him. Realizing her staring had given offense, Alysson schooled her features into a semblance of equanimity, but he continued to glower as he bent and placed the copper tray on the table nearest her.
"My lord bade me serve you," the boy said with undisguised hatred.
His words took her aback, not because of his hostility, but rather because of the language he had used; he had spoken in clear, fluent French.
"The master orders you to eat," the boy added, before he turned awkwardly and busied himself lighting the lamps.
Alysson barely glanced at the contents of the tray, for her thoughts were whirling. If this boy could converse with her, then perhaps she could befriend him and eventually persuade him to carry a message to Gervase.
Wondering how to begin, Alysson watched the young servant. He certainly showed no inclination to talk. When he had completed his task without saying another word, he turned to leave.
"Wait!" Alysson called after him. "How is it that you speak French?"
"In Algiers I was forced into the employ of the enemy." The boy nearly spat the words. "Brother of vermin," he muttered under his breath in Arabic, a term Alysson recognized as a curse in any language. She had no doubt he was speaking of the French. "They did this to me." He pointed to his face and his crippled right foot.
The compassion she felt must have shown on her face, for he squared his slender shoulders and straightened to his full, unintimidating height. She wished there were something she could say to console the child.
"What is your name?" she asked, her tone gentle.
He eyed her warily. "I am called Mahmoud."
"I am Alysson Vickery. I am an Englishwoman."
Mahmoud looked rather surprised that she had offered her name, yet still unforgiving. "Even so, it is not befitting for a Muslim to serve infidels."
"I