Lord of Desire (4 page)

With one finger, Jafar held the curtain slightly parted. His face was set with cold determination as he silently studied his enemy. The colonel was a tall, dark-haired gentleman in his mid-thirties, a military man of striking good looks and a keen intelligence. Jafar had never met the Frenchman face-to-face, but the name of Bourmont had been branded on his mind for seventeen years.

And now, finally, the moment for revenge was at hand.

During the past few months, since Bourmont's arrival in Algiers, Jafar had become well-acquainted with the colonel's every movement. His spies had been unfailingly thorough. He knew down to the smallest detail every aspect of both the colonel's official and personal habits. What he ate for breakfast.
Which route he took to his offices each morning through the narrow, twisting streets of Algiers.
What horses he preferred.
Which prostitutes he patronized.

The colonel's taste in women ran to full-blown, lusty beauties with generous curves and sultry looks. Which was why his choice of a bride was surprising.

Mar's eyes narrowed as again he shifted his gaze to the young woman standing beside the colonel. She was scarcely average height, with a slender waist that a man could span with his hands.
Very definitely a lady, and most likely a virgin.

The moment he'd learned of Alysson Vickery's existence, Jafar had known she would become his means of revenge. Grim excitement filled him as he coolly appraised his quarry. Soon Miss Vickery would be in his power.
Very soon.
Her innocence would only work to his advantage, he thought with harsh satisfaction. The colonel would be that much more willing to protect her, to preserve her honor.

Tonight's events had merely confirmed the rumors of her impending engagement to Bourmont. The reception this evening had been given in her honor, and during the entire time, the colonel had paid court to her most assiduously, scarcely leaving her side.

Jafar could see how the colonel might be smitten with her. The young lady was obviously wealthy. She wore a gown of shimmering pale silk, delicate and Ml-skirted, the sculpted bodice encrusted with seed pearls. More lustrous pearls gleamed at her throat and in the rich chestnut hair that was arranged in a loose knot—a style unusual for its lack of ringlets. But it was not her jewels or unconventional coiffure or fashionable Parisian gown that commanded attention.

What drew the eye was her vividness, her restrained energy that he could feel even at a distance. She stood there radiating vitality and life, much like an oasis in the desert. And despite her graceful slenderness, her figure was as enticing as water to a thirsty man.

Unwilling admiration shone in Jafar's eyes as he took in the lush curve of her bare shoulders and firm, high bosom. The gown's decolletage was modest by European standards, allowing little more than a glimpse of pale, silken breasts. But the effect was tantalizing.

His gaze caught by the alluring sight, he wondered how
those soft, ripe swells would feel beneath his palms, would taste against his lips.

A faint smile curled his mouth.

Perhaps before long he would know.

Alysson no longer had any doubt. Her Uncle Honoré was hiding from her.

Her suspicions had been aroused the moment Honoré disappeared from the reception line, leaving her to face the guests at Gervase's side. But only now, when she finally had a moment to herself, had she been afforded the opportunity to look around for her uncle.

There was no sign of the fainthearted, elderly Frenchman.

"You cannot escape the inevitable,
mon oncle,"
Alysson murmured to herself, torn between amusement and exasperation. She would find her cowardly relative presently and wring an answer from him. He had postponed the decision as long as possible. Tomorrow would be too late.

Alysson unfurled her painted-silk fan to ply it against the heat, an occupation which helped hide her restlessness, while her searching gaze lingered on the throng of guests. She had arrived in Algiers nearly a full week ago, and as yet she'd seen little of the city that had been the refuge of pirates and a stronghold of Turks. Of the country, she'd seen nothing at all—and she could scarcely contain her impatience.

Not that her staid Uncle Honoré would ever understand her attitude. Her uncle had no conception of what drove her. A heart thirsting for passion, for adventure, was entirely foreign to him. He would never comprehend that this elegant gathering was not what she wanted out of life. This was not why she had come to Algeria.

By conventional standards, she should have been pleased with the soiree given in her honor. This evening she had been presented to royalty, a glittering triumph for a merchant's daughter. But for Alysson, an empty triumph.

With effort she maintained a polite smile as she surveyed the crowd of elegant Europeans.
All pomp and glitter and triviality.
Odd to think how desperately she had once longed to be a part of all this. There was laughter, but it was the
shallow amusement of bored wives and cunning politicians. There was music, but it was the formal refrains of a French orchestra, not the strange, exotic rhythms of the East. The conversation, too, was conducted in French, consisting of meaningless chatter and spiteful gossip. Even the furniture was French, reducing the huge chamber with its Moorish arches and fretted work, delicate as lace, to the appearance of any other European ballroom.

Only the turquoise and scarlet tiles covering the floor in a floral mosaic looked appropriately Eastern. Alysson longed to slip off her elegant shoes and feel the cool tiles against her silk-stockinged feet. But she had promised her uncle to be on her very best behavior. And indeed, she'd kept her word. She had done nothing scandalous or wild in well over a month.

But enough was enough.

Furling her fan, Alysson circled the room in search of her uncle. She found him half-concealed by a potted palm, engaged in conversation with a French couple who had settled here in the new colony. Nearing sixty, Honoré was short of stature and inclined to portliness, with a head of thinning, silver hair, the top of which barely reached Alysson's ear.

Honoré gave a guilty start when he spied his niece.

Her suspicions confirmed
,
Alysson favored the elderly gentleman with an accusing smile. Actually her great-uncle, Honoré Larousse was the brother of her late French grandmother who, as an emigr6, had fled the terror of the French revolution. Of her three uncles, he was her favorite.

"Will you forgive me," Alysson inquired politely of the other guests, "for stealing my uncle away?" Slipping her arm through Honor's, she drew him aside. "You
have
been hiding from me, haven't you?"

Blustering
a denial, he tried to change the subject. "How can it be that you are all alone?" Honorf asked in French. "A moment ago there were a dozen young bucks vying for your attention. Never tell me Gervase has abandoned you."

"I've only been alone for a moment, Uncle," Alysson replied in the same language. Her schoolgirl French had progressively improved over the years, due to the summers she'd spent with Honoré in France, and she found it easy now to respond fluently. "The prince required Gervase's attention on some matter, and his officers went with them. But you know that isn't what I wanted to discuss with you. You promised to give me your answer tonight, remember?"

"So I did." His heavy white brows drew together in a scowl as he tried unsuccessfully to stare her down. Alysson met his gaze calmly, trying not to laugh. It was obvious her uncle wanted to avoid a scolding.

"You look in need of refreshment," he stated, avoiding giving her an answer. Hastily, he retrieved two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and pressed one on his niece. Lifting his own glass to his lips, Honoré took a swallow and grimaced.
"Merde!"

Alysson had expected his reaction. A vintner of the highest reputation, her uncle deplored wine that was not of the first quality. And this was both bitter and slightly flat.

"Take heart, Uncle," she soothed. "In only a few years you will be able to savor your own vintages." Honoré meant to expand his Bordeaux vineyards by purchasing property in the French colonial province. Land here was plentiful and cheap, now that the war with the Arabs was virtually over. Later he hoped to build a winery to carry on the tradition of his forebearers.

"If I can survive on this pap till then," he complained.

"The sooner you begin, the sooner your plans will come to fruition."

"Tomorrow is soon enough."

"Ah, yes . . . tomorrow. Shall we discuss our expedition, then?"

Tomorrow they would set out for the fertile coastal plain where her uncle meant to establish his new vineyards. A practical businessman, Honoré insisted on viewing the land before making the final commitment to buy.

Alysson would accompany her uncle only because she refused to be left behind. But the real contention between them was rooted in her determination to travel beyond the settled areas. After visiting the prospective property, Alysson wanted to journey further south, into the interior of the province. She had been eager for such an expedition for years. She'd once seen the works of the painter Delacroix, who had traveled through Algeria. Ever since, she'd longed to explore this rugged country for herself. Her Uncle Honoré, on the other hand, couldn't care less about exploration or adventure.

Alysson didn't understand his attitude, any more than he understood hers. "Don't you wish to know anything about the land you mean to setde?" she asked curiously.

Honoré shook his head with adamance. "No.
Absolutely not.
I cannot see how it will make the least difference to my vineyards whether or not I see the desert. Very likely such a journey will prove detrimental to my health, and yours, too, my dear. And I am not the least interested if the natives can stand on their heads or dance naked on their camels. They can keep their barbaric customs to themselves."

"Uncle, they don't stand on their
heads . . ."
Her exasperation nearly got the better of her. Trying another tack, Alysson softened her tone to a plea. "What about our bargain? Come, Uncle, you must give me due credit. I have been a perfect angel for ages. I've allowed Gervase to pay me court, just as you wanted me to—"

"You have not agreed to marry him."

It was Alysson's turn to frown. "That was
not
our bargain."

"Perhaps.
But how can you fall in love with the fellow if you do not see him for months on end?"

"We will only be gone for a few short weeks, Uncle. And I've told you
before,
this journey will have no bearing on my decision to marry Gervase."

Honors gave her a penetrating look. "If I refuse to go, no doubt you will proceed without me."

"I wouldn't like to act against your wishes, but yes . . . I would consider making the trip alone."