Lord of Desire

"No, of course not. But what happened then?"

"The lord's men saw to all the wounded, even those of the French army, and buried the dead. Then they brought us here . . . only us. There were others taken prisoner but I know not what became of them." His gloomy tone held a hint of fear. "Now we have found you, memsahib, praise Allah, but we are prisoners with you. What does it mean? Does the Berber lord wish to torture us?"

Alysson was quick with her denial.

"I am certain he would never consider such a thing!" She couldn't vouch for Jafar's benign intentions toward the French, but she couldn't believe he would torture a wounded man and an innocent servant.

A frown knitting her brow, she glanced down at her beloved uncle, whose limp hand she still held. She was infinitely grateful to Jafar for bringing her wounded uncle to her, but why had he done it? Simple charity? In the nomad tradition, offering hospitality even to an enemy was a sacred duty. To refuse asylum was a stain upon the Arab character. Perhaps this was so with the Berbers as well. Yet that didn't explain his singling out her uncle . . . unless Jafar intended to use Honoré as another political hostage. That was the only explanation that made sense.

But there were many other aspects of this situation that did not make sense. Why, for example had Jafar taken the time to care for the wounded and bury the dead of his enemies—

The thought made Alysson's throat tighten. Men had died because of her. Her uncle had nearly lost his life, and her devoted servant had sacrificed his freedom, all because of her. "I'm sorry, Chand," she murmured, her voice quivering.

Chand must have understood her guilt, for his dark eyes were full of sympathy. "You have not to blame yourself, memsahib. These peoples of Barbary have been fighting the French foreigners before you came to this country, and they will continue to do so when you have gone."

She took comfort from his logic. And perhaps he was right. She was not to blame for every battle between the Algerines and their French conquerors, and not this battle, either. The deep-rooted animosity and bitterness had been festering for years. Jafar would have used any excuse to fight the French, if not on this occasion, then another. His quest for vengeance had demanded restitution. His hatred of Gervase . . .

Alysson drew a ragged breath, trying to summon her courage. She dreaded hearing about Gervase, but she had to ask. "And Gervase . . . Colonel Bourmont? Do you know what became of him?"

"No, I regret that I do not know. We were cut off from those troops under the Bourmont Sahib's command."

She closed her eyes, relieved he hadn't said that Gervase was dead. While there was uncertainty, there was still hope.

"You are weary, memsahib," Chand admonished in his sternest tone. "Why do you not seek your bed? I will see to your uncle."

Again Chand was right. There was little more she could do here at the moment. Besides, she had to see Jafar.

Nodding agreement, she bent and lightly kissed her uncle's ruddy cheek, then did the same to Chand's, much to his embarrassment. "You must try to get some sleep, too," she ordered. "I will return first thing in the morning to relieve you."

"Where is it that you will stay?"

Alysson hesitated. Naturally Chand would be concerned about the sleeping arrangements—and not only because he needed to know where to find her if Honord took a turn for the worse. Rather because it was Chand's custom to curl up each night before her door. She had long ago given up trying to prevent what he believed was his duty; her father had commissioned him to protect her, and protect her he would. And guard her virtue, as well.

A blush momentarily touched her cheeks. How could she confess to Chand, who had looked after her since she was a child, indeed had cherished her like his own child, that she slept in her captor's tent, that she had shared intimacies with Jafar which only a wife or mistress shared with a man?

"I have been given the use of a tent," she prevaricated.

"You will be safe, memsahib?"

The worried note in her servant's voice was a familiar sound. In reassurance, Alysson forced a smile. "Yes, I will be quite safe. And so will you, I promise." And she would do everything in her power to keep that promise, she vowed.

The victory celebrations had died down as she crossed the encampment, so her progress was unimpeded. There was no guard, either, to hover over her or prevent her escape. But there was no need, Alysson realized. She would never leave Jafar's camp now, not as long as her uncle was held prisoner, too. Perhaps that was precisely what Jafar had planned by bringing Honoré here, after all.

She found Jafar alone in his tent, standing at the far corner of the room. A single oil lamp burned overhead, wrapping the room in a soft welcoming glow, but Alysson hesitated at the doorway. For a moment she simply drank in the sight of him. She shouldn't feel so relieved by Jafar's safe return, she knew. Not when she had no idea what terrible fate had befallen Gervase. Not when Jafar might very well be a cold-blooded killer. Yet she couldn't dispel the warmth stealing into her heart.

Even so, she was unsure how to approach Jafar just now. He stood with his back to her, his golden head bowed—in the attitude not so much of a man in deep thought, but of a man suffering some heavy burden.

Indeed, Jafar was suffering . . . his thoughts tormented as he grappled with painful emotions. Unbidden images haunted him as he reflected on his actions of the previous day.

After the battle, he'd searched for Alysson's uncle among the dead and injured, and found him seriously wounded, enough to warrant immediate care. Coming to a swift decision, Jafar had given the order for the elderly gentleman and the Indian servant to be escorted back to the encampment. He had seen the questioning looks on the faces of his men at his decision; they were puzzled and disgruntled by the command to welcome a Frenchman into their midst. But they would not dare to dispute him.

It was perhaps not the wisest action to have taken, but he would make the same decision again. The old man's life would have been gravely endangered on the long march back to Algiers, without rest and proper care.

"Accursed fool," Jafar swore at himself softly, bleakly. Two months ago he would not have regretted the death of one more Frenchman. But that was before he had met Alysson Vickery. The aid he had rendered to her wounded uncle he had given for her sake. He knew enough about her to be aware of the deep love she bore for her uncle. And after all the pain and despair he had brought her, he was determined to give her this much.

Alysson.

Resolutely, Jafar closed his eyes, trying to banish the haunting images of his young captive. Yet he couldn't forget his first sight of her tonight . . . all sleep-tousled and ar- ousingly beautiful, despite the lines of fear on her pale face. Had any of that fear been for him? Had she been even the least bit anxious about him? Or was he only imagining the relief in her eyes when she'd looked at him through a mist of tears.