Lord of Desire (3 page)

He felt a strange kinship with her, this young English girl who wanted to return to India where she had been raised. He understood her compelling need to defy authority, to lash out at even those who had her best interests at heart.

He knew; he had been there. Leaning back on his hands, Nicholas recalled the half-wild boy that he'd been. He had run away twice before he'd agreed to his grandfather's bargain: he would remain in England to be educated, until he reached his majority. Then if he was still of a mind to return to Barbary, the duke would fund his passage.

Had the bargain been worth it? For ten years he had chafed to return to his homeland, while his grandfather had nearly despaired of turning "a savage little Arab" into a civilized English gentleman.

The transformation, though ultimately successful, had been painful. He was only half English, born to a woman enslaved by a Berber warlord after her ship had been captured by Barbary pirates. He couldn't deny his warlike Berber blood—though his noble English grandfather would have preferred to ignore it altogether. He was considered by some to be a dangerous rebel, by others an infidel. Even though his parents had eventually married, his father had been of a different faith.

But he had mastered to perfection the fine art of acting the aristocrat: boredom, cynicism, hypocrisy, seduction. Not only was he accepted by the fashionable world, he was sought after by the opposite sex with fascination. Despite his mixed blood and questionable legitimacy.
Or perhaps because of it.
The ladies of his grandfather's class who were first to profess themselves shocked at his background were willing, even eager to invite him to their beds, curious to find out if he was the dangerous savage they conjured up in their ignorant imaginations.

Nicholas's gaze shifted to the young girl beside him. His term in England was ending, while hers was just beginning. She would have to endure the lonely existence, just as he had endured.

His probing gaze surveyed her damp face. Though the flood of warm tears had abated, she was still grieving; her trembling lower lip lent her a vulnerability that was heartrending. Nicholas longed to comfort her.

"Have you any family here?" he asked gently. "Did your parents have relatives?"

Her young face clouded with pain before she looked away, her fingers clutching the handkerchief he had given her. "I have two uncles . . . three if you count the one in France. But they don't want me. I would just be a burden to them."

At the mention of France, Nicholas felt his stomach muscles tighten, yet he forced himself to reply lightly. "Then I suggest you convince them differently. Perhaps you should contrive to become indispensable to your uncles—give them good reason to want you."

When she turned to stare at him, the thoughtful expression that crept into her eyes almost made him smile. "Wipe your face," he said gently. "You have tearstains on your cheeks."

She obeyed him almost absently. When she was done applying his handkerchief to her damp face, she held it out to him. "I should give this back . . . thank you."

The handkerchief bore the initials of his English name. "You may keep it," Nicholas replied. "I won't
be needing
it any longer where I am going."

She eyed him quizzically. "Where are you going?"

"Away.
To another country."

Sudden hope lit her face as she scrambled to her knees. "Will you take me with you? Please?
Please?
I won't be any trouble to you. I can be a model of decorum if I truly put my mind to it. Truly I can."

The impropriety of asking a perfect stranger to escort her to a foreign land obviously hadn't occurred to her. Yet Nicholas hesitated to correct her. The plea in her voice, in those
huge gray eyes, made him suddenly wish he could do what she asked.

Slowly he lifted his hand to her face. Tenderly, with his thumb, he wiped away a tear she had missed. "I'm afraid I can't," he said softly.

Just then the bay stallion which had been standing obediently lifted its head to sniff the wind. Nicholas turned to watch as a small, dark-skinned man appeared from behind the willows. He wore the native dress of India, a white cotton tunic and loose trousers, and a plain turban wrapped around his head.

Seeing him, the girl sat down abruptly, smoothing her rumpled skirts and wiping at her red eyes again with the handkerchief.

The small man approached with a soft tread and bowed low before the girl, his dark forehead nearly touching his knees. "You gave me great fright, missy-sahib. You should not have strayed so far in this strange place. The Erwin Sahib will say I do not take care of you. He will beat me and cast me out—may Allah protect me."

Nicholas expected the giri to take exception to the servant's scolding, but instead her tone was one of fond exasperation, not defiancé.

"Uncle Oliver will
not
beat you, Chand. He never blames you when I misbehave."

"You have been hiding yourself from me again." The Indian raised his eyes heavenward. "What have I done to deserve such ingratitude?"

She actually looked contrite. "I am sorry. But you needn't have worried, Chand. I've come to no harm. This gentleman—" She gave Nicholas a quick glance that carried a hint of shyness, "—has been kind enough to lend me his handkerchief."

Protectively, the servant scrutinized Nicholas and his manner of dress, but the dark little man must have been reassured, for he tendered another bow before addressing the girl again. "The Erwin Sahib has requested your presence. May I say you will come, yes?"

She sighed. "Yes, Chand, tell my uncle I shall be there in a moment.''

The servant did not appear pleased with her response,
but he bowed again and withdrew, muttering under his breath. Nicholas was left alone with the girl.

"My Uncle Oliver," she said by way of explanation. "He is paying a call on the duke. Uncle Oliver brought me here to England because he feels responsible for me, but I know he will be happy to wash his hands of me."

Nicholas smiled, gently. "Then you had best begin at once to change his mind."

The faint smile she gave in return was tentative, shy, but a smile nonetheless. "Thank you for not telling Chand . . . about the acorns. He would have been ashamed of me." She hesitated, twisting the handkerchief in her fingers. "I owe him my life, you see. In India, when I was a child, he pushed me from the path of a rogue elephant and saved me from being trampled. That was why my papa engaged him— to watch over me and keep me out of mischief."

"Is he ever successful?"

Her eyes widening, she stared at Nicholas a moment before apparently realizing he was teasing her. The rueful smile she gave him this time was genuine. "I suppose I am a sore trial to him sometimes."

Nicholas could well believe it. "Just promise me you won't throw any more acorns. You are dangerous with those things."

"Well . . .
all right, I promise."

He rose then, dusting off his buff trousers. Looking down at the girl, he felt strangely lighthearted; she had quit weeping, and the grief had faded from her eyes.

Without another word, he mounted the Barb. But as he rode away, he gave a final glance over his shoulder. The girl was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared at the lake—contemplating her future, he guessed.

Satisfied, Nicholas turned his attention to his own future, to the bitter score that needed settling. Today he had turned twenty-one. He was celebrating not his birthday, but his freedom; today he had received the duke's reluctant blessing to return to his country, the land the French had named Algeria.

Freedom!
For himself and his father's people.
He would return, with but two purposes filling his heart: to drive the French from his homeland, and to seek vengeance against
the man who so brutally had claimed the lives of his beloved parents.

Freedom! How sweet it would feel to set foot once more in his native land.
To gallop across the hot desert plains, to slake his thirst at a well, to find refuge from the heat in the rugged mountains.
How glad he would be to give his back to this cold, damp country with its hypocritical morals and twisted notions of civilization.

A moment later, when he passed his silk hat where it had fallen, he left it lying in the dust. No longer would he have need for that or any other English thing. Not his fashionable clothing, not his name of Nicholas Sterling.

Henceforth he would resume the noble Berber name he had been given at birth. Henceforth he would be known as Jafar el-Saleh.

Part One

Her passion is quite African; her desires are like a tornado in the desert—the desert,
whose
burning vastness is mirrored in her eyes—the desert, all azure and love, with its unchanging sky and its fresh, starry nights.

Honor
É
de Balzac

Algiers, North Africa

1847

V
engeance had been a long time in coming.

Jafar stood on the darkened terrace outside the brightly lit chamber, calmly watching the man he planned to kill. The arched doors of the reception room, though open to the night, were curtained with
a silken
gauze. The sheer draperies lent a hazy glow to the glittering soiree within, muting the sounds of gay laughter and conversation. They also served a useful function, letting him see inside while preventing him from being observed by either the crowd of wealthy Europeans or their host, Colonel Gervase de Bourmont.