"Be still!" Jafar growled finally in irritation, after two hours of lying beside her thrashing form. "You are like a flopping fish."
Alysson smiled grimly in the darkness. She was glad she had disturbed his sleep. Indeed, she would enjoy disturbing him a great deal more.
"Why do you hate Gervase so much?" she asked suddenly, intent on making him as uncomfortable as she could— as well as learning the answer to a question that had plagued her for days.
"It does not concern you. Now go to sleep."
"Not concern me! How can you possibly say that when you mean to lure him into the desert and kill him, using me as bait?"
"Matters of war are not the realm of a woman."
Alysson bristled. "You should have thought of that before you involved me! Beside, this is far more than a matter of war. This is some kind of personal vendetta against Gervase."
"My business is with the French army. Colonel Bourmont is a commander in that army. My meeting with him will be a military engagement, nothing more."
"It isn't just the French army you are after! It is Gervase himself. Revenge against him was your reason for abducting me—you implied as much the other day."
When he didn't reply, she turned her head on the pillow
to look at Jafar, searching his face in the faint light from the brazier. His eyes were closed, his arms resting on his stomach, as if he was determined to sleep despite her insistent questions. But Alysson was just as determined to force him to talk. "You must hate him for some reason. The other day you said 'the colonel will get precisely what he deserves.' What did you mean by that?"
Silence met her probing query.
"You intend to kill him, don't you?"
It was a long moment before Jafar finally answered. "Yes, I intend to kill him."
"Why?" The word was a hoarse whisper. "What did he ever do to you?"
Jafar sighed in irritation. It was becoming obvious that his thorny captive was not about to let the subject drop. But perhaps it would be better if she knew the reasons behind his hatred for Bourmont. At least then she would see why he could not be swayed from his course of vengeance. And it might prevent her from threatening to end her life as she had done so foolishly today, to his everlasting dismay. Involuntarily Jafar clenched his jaw, remembering that chilling moment when she had turned the rifle on herself. His heart had stopped beating for those endless moments before the weapon had been taken from her. It was odd that he should have been so terrified for her, especially when he didn't fear death for himself.
Pushing away the thought, he forced his mind back to the issue at hand—explaining to Alysson Vickery the reasons for his quest for vengeance.
"To understand," he said in a quiet voice, "you must first know what occurred seventeen years ago when the French invaded this country. Even after subjugating Algiers and then driving out her ruler, the French jackals were not satisfied with the wealth and plunder they seized. Determined to conquer the entire kingdom, the French army pressed south into the interior, led by a powerful general.
"At that time there was a great amghar—a Berber chieftain similar to that of an Arab sheik—who lived in the mountains. Unaware of the invasion, the amghar was traveling with his wife and young son to Algiers when their caravan was attacked by French troops led by the general.
"The amghar fought valiantly to defend his family but he was badly wounded. Even then he might have survived, but the general ordered that the amghar be put to death. When the lady pleaded for her husband's life, the general gave her to his soldiers for their sport. Their sport."
Jafar's quiet vehemence made the word into an obscenity. Alysson listened with growing dismay, having little trouble envisioning what might have happened to the lady. It was a moment before Jafar continued.
"The amghar lived long enough to see the woman he cherished and revered above all others defiled and slain by the French troops. The amghar himself was subjected to tortures that you—" He turned his head to look directly at Alysson. "—would call savagely hideous. There was one man—one only, of all those involved . . . a priest, who urged mercy and begged for the slaughter to stop, but the general paid no heed."
She started to say something, but Jafar raised a hand, cutting her off. "The boy, who was eleven years of age at the time, attempted to save his parents, but he was no match for the soldiers. He was subdued and forced to watch."
Alysson gave a soft exclamation of horror. Hearing the hushed agony in Jafar's voice, she understood then what he was trying to say to her. She could feel his pain, as well as the rigid control he held over himself as he lay beside her.
"You were that boy," she whispered.
"Yes." His reply was barely a breath. "I was that boy. The amghar was my father, the lady, my mother."
Jafar shut his eyes, remembering the horror. He had wanted to kill that day. And he would have, had he not been half-dead already, with his limbs bound to prevent movement. Had he been free, he would have slain the French general Bourmont with his bare hands.
He had also wanted to die. He'd actually been grateful that the general had ordered his own death after those of his parents. Only the intervention of the compassionate French priest had spared him. It was only later that he'd seen the priest's interference as fortuitous; he had to remain alive in order to seek retribution.
"I vowed then to avenge their murders," Jafar said softly, "if it took the rest of my life."
Alysson was silent, not knowing what to say.