"Are you cold?" Even the low resonance of his voice was capable of causing her pulse to quicken.

"No," she r

eplied swiftly, but his arms tightened about her. She felt the warmth of his breath on her cheek, which did nothing for her equanimity.

"How is it that you know about tying a tourniquet for a poisoned wound?"

She sighed in defeat. If Jafar was intent on making her talk to him, as she suspected, she had best answer him. He would prod and pester her until she obeyed from sheer frustration. She had never met a man more determined to have his way. "My Uncle Cedric is a physician in London. I visited him sometimes at his hospital."

"This uncle . . . he is familiar with the sting of scorpions?"

"No, but he once had a patient who was was bitten by a venomous snake. Uncle managed to save the man's life, in spite of the vast odds against him. You can't imagine the sordid conditions of the hospitals in London . . . the filth . . . the slovenly, drunken women who nurse the patients."

"I can't imagine that a wealthy heiress would want to expose herself to such conditions."

Alysson gave a slight shrug. She had contrived to make herself useful to her uncle, so that he would have a reason to want her. "Uncle Cedric has a theory about cleanliness being the best way to prevent disease. When he could not convince the directors to adopt his methods, I donated the funds to build a hospital of his own."

"A noble gesture."

Alysson shook her head. "A selfish gesture, actually. I have more money than I could spend in a lifetime, and he could put it to better use than I. But mainly I wanted to see him succeed with his dream. He has spent the past seven years searching for a cure to cholera. My parents died of cholera, you see . . ."

Suddenly, she turned to gaze up at Jafar, searching his face. She was struck by the oddest feeling that she had told him this story before. It wasn't possible, and yet . . .

Had she merely dreamed of meeting him in England? The similarities between her Berber captor and the fair-haired Englishman of her dreams were striking, especially now, when the waning sun highlighted the gold of Jafar's hair and set his sherry-colored eyes aglow with amber fire.

"Have you ever been to England?" she asked, holding her breath as his gaze locked with hers.

He didn't answer at once, yet neither did he look away.

"Yes," he said finally. "Four years ago my sultan sent an embassy to your Queen Victoria to gain support for our cause against the French, and to press for England's acknowledgment of our national independence. I was a member of that delegation."

Alysson stared at him. "I never heard that my government was considering acknowledging yours."

It was Jafar's turn to shrug. "Because our efforts were unfruitful. We were never granted an interview. Your queen was more interested in maintaining relations with the French jackals than with championing justice."

Alysson knew better than to pick up that gauntlet, even if she'd had the energy. "Is that," Alysson asked in her native language, "when you learned to speak English?"

Jafar understood her, she was certain, but still he answered in French. "No, I learned before then."

"Then why do you pretend not to know it?"

"I am uncomfortable with your language. Just as you would be uncomfortable speaking Berber or even Arabic."

Alysson wasn't sure if she could believe him, but she turned back around, again leaning against him and falling silent as she pondered his answer.

Jafar was relieved that she had dropped the subject. He didn't want to lie to her if it could be helped, yet he couldn't afford to have her divulge his identity later to the French government. I would mean death and persecution for his tribe.

Gently shifting his weight, he rested his chin on the top of Alysson's head, staring out at the desert, listening to the familiar sounds as the camp made preparations for the evening, savoring the moment. This was the best time of day in the desert, when the scorching heat had ended, when the sun set the horizon aflame with red and gold. His mother had loved this time best, as well.

The reminiscence brought to mind an errant memory during one of his family's yearly treks to Algiers, a childhood memory of peace and serenity: his noble father sitting before their tent . . . his mother gazing at her lord with love and adoration. Recalling that innocent time could set him dreaming—

Jafar gave a soft sigh. A rare indulgence, his dreams. They had no place here, when his country was torn by war, when his heart was filled with vengeance.

Alysson must have been thinking along similar lines, for she broke into his musings with a thoughtful comment. "If your sultan named you to his delegation, then you must be one of his trusted lieutenants."

"It was my duty to serve him."

"And to fight for him against the French?"

Tags: Nicole Jordan Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net