Lord of Desire (38 page)

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.

Restlessly Jafar raised an arm, draping it across his forehead as he remembered the events following the murders, events that had changed his life forever. When the priest had learned of his mother's noble English blood, Jafar had been sent to her previous home in England, to his ducal grandfather. That had given Jafar yet another cause to hate the French. They had invaded his country, murdered his parents and members of his tribe, and banished him to a cold, foreign country. But he had vowed to return one day and kill the French general who had ordered the slaughter of his beloved parents.

After a moment of bitter reflection, he spoke quietly into the silence. "The general's name was Louis Auguste de Bourmont.''

Alysson's gasp was audible. She stared at Jafar, searching his face, but his shadowed features were an impenetrable mask, his eyes glittering and cold. "Gervase is the general's son," she said hoarsely.

"Yes, Gervase de Bourmont is his son. The general himself died in his bed, of some paltry illness or other." The contempt in Jafar's tone was apparent.

"But . . ." Alysson said slowly, trying unsuccessfully to follow his savage logic, "Gervase had nothing to do with your parents' deaths."

"His treacherous father's blood runs in his veins. It is enough."

The tainted blood of a murderer.
She remembered Jafar saying as much that night in the garden. But still that did not justify another murder. “Is it fair to kill one man for what another did?" Alysson cried.

"Yes, it is fair. In my people's customs, blood vengeance is not only just, but imperative. It is my obligation, my duty. Even had I not made my vow, I am bound by my tribe's laws to seek out my father's murderer."

In dismay, Alysson stared back at him, into amber eyes that were hard as nuggets of gold.

"Console yourself,
ma belle.
Colonel Bourmont is a soldier, and I will give him a soldier's chance to comport himself honorably. It will be a fair fight, in battle—which is
more than his father gave mine. And who knows? The colonel may best me yet, if Allah wills it so. Now go to sleep."

Turning over then, he gave Alysson his back, leaving her to ponder what he had told her, to struggle alone with her conflicting emotions. Distress was her chief feeling. Her heart went out to the young boy who had been forced to witness his parents' brutal deaths. She could even understand why Jafar was so intent on vengeance. But she couldn't accept his ruthless condemnation of Gervase. It was barbaric, savage, to kill a man for what his father had done years before.

Her mind in turmoil, Alysson stared up at the tent ceiling. If she hadn't been able to sleep before, now she was doubly wide awake.

It was well into the night before she drifted into a troubled slumber.

The next thing she was aware of was Mahmoud shouting through the curtain at her.

"Awake, lady!
The lord bids you dress! We must make preparations to receive the Khalifa Ben Hamadi!"

Too groggy to be alarmed, Alysson shook herself awake. The excitement in Mahmoud's voice made her wonder if perhaps the camp was being attacked. But she soon learned that it was something quite different. One of the sultan's own generals—a powerful Arab
khalifa—
was expected to arrive at the camp at any moment. According to the young servant, Ben Hamadi was the right hand of Abdel Kader himself.

"Hurry!"
Mahmoud urged her for the third time as he struggled to untie her bindings. "He is coming."

Alysson swallowed her disappointment; her intention to ask Mahmoud about Jafar's past would have to wait. She hastened to wash and dress, only because she didn't want to be caught at a disadvantage in front of an Arab general. Donning her blue-and-red tunic, she draped the blue haik over her head and shoulders and joined Jafar a few moments later at the entrance to the tent.

He said not a word as he briefly surveyed her appearance. Seeing the cool fire of his eyes as he met her gaze, Alysson remembered the terrible tale of murder and vengeance he had told her last night in the darkness. She was startled to

feel
a sudden well of sympathy and compassion for the boy he had once been.

She also wondered if Jafar had refrained from binding her hands and feet again because of the expected visitor, but there was no time to ask. In the distance, a large column of Arabs was galloping toward the encampment.

In
a
only moment the racing column came to a flourishing halt before Jafar's tent. The leader, who sat a powerful white horse, was a small man, and definitely an Arab. He had obsidian-dark eyes, an olive complexion, and lean hawklike features that were half-hidden by a full black beard, and he was dressed much like the wealthy sheiks she had seen in Arabia. He wore an Arab
kaffiyeh—
a head cloth held in place by a braided gold band around the forehead. His djel- laba was rich crimson wool, over which flowed a brilliant white burnous.

The Arab chieftain let his horse fret and stamp a moment as he surveyed the camp with obvious approval. When finally he dismounted, Jafar strode up to him.

Pressing his right hand over his heart, Jafar salaamed deeply. "Peace
be
with you, Hamadi Bey. May Allah glorify
you . . .
"

Listening intently, Alysson understood the first part of Jafar's flowery greeting, but the rest of the exchange, Mahmoud had to translate for her:

"And you, Sidi Jafar el-Saleh. May Allah recompense you with His highest rewards, and make your portion exceedingly rich and full in everlasting felicity.''

After more words of welcome, Jafar then stepped aside, allowing other members of his tribe to greet the high- ranking Arab official. The Berber men approached the
khalifa
eagerly, with respect and reverence, going down on their knees and kissing the hem of his garments. Alysson wasn't surprised when Ben Hamadi spoke to each man with familiarity, calling them by such intimate terms as
ya ami—my
eye—and
ya akhi—
my brother. She had once heard it said that to an Arab, every other Arab is his brother. She supposed that was somewhat true of Berbers, as well, since the two cultures were united by their religion.

Alysson was a bit startled when Jafar interrupted her

thoughts
by beckoning to her. When she obeyed warily, he drew her forward to present her to the khalif.

"This is Miss Alysson Vickery, Excellency," Jafar said in French—so that she could understand, Alysson presumed.

"Ah, yes, the Englishwoman," Ben Hamadi acknowledged, switching with some difficulty to the French language. "It is an honor to meet you, Miss Vickery. I trust you are being well-treated."