Lord of Desire (44 page)

"It seems absurd to me to kill people in the name of religion. It is bad enough to die for it."

"But Muslims look upon their death, if it occurs, as a new life," he replied softly. "And in Barbary, religion is the only political sentiment which unites the population. Abdel Kader is the incarnation of that sentiment. His campaigns, his mode of administration, principles of government, plans for reform, all have been directed at one simple and majestic idea of Arab nationality, under Allah."

Alysson shook her head slowly. "Does he truly think that God will help you vanquish the French?"

"Abdel Kader believes that God is on our side, yes."

"And you? What do you believe?"

It was a long moment before Jafar replied. "He is fighting a Holy War. I am fighting a foreign oppressor. The French conquerors are like the
simoon—
the fierce desert wind that destroys and kills. They must be resisted, even to our last dying breath, our last drop of blood."

Alysson fell silent, her thoughts occupied. Did Jafar's admission mean his religious beliefs were secondary to his hatred for the French? But yes, he had already said that vengeance was his motive for seeking Gervase's death, she remembered with a return of some of her former frustration. Yet for the first time since she had learned of Jafar's plan, she was filled with a measure of hope. Jafar wasn't as ruthless and as black-hearted as she had once thought him. Not only had he remained by her side when she lay so near death, but she'd seen kindness in his eyes these past few days when he'd cared for her. And now for once, they were discussing the war in a civilized fashion. Perhaps, if she could talk to him about Gervase, if she used logic and reason, she could persuade Jafar to turn away from his compulsive revenge.

"But Gervase is not the oppressor," Alysson said, her tone low but insistent. "He has done nothing to harm you."

"I beg to differ,
ma belle.
The colonel is the archetype of French tyranny. Not only is he a high-ranking military commander, but he is the head of the bureau which, by its very nature, is intent on subjugating my people."

She bit her lip, wondering how she could convince him. She knew Gervase didn't condone the violence of his predecessors, nor did he support the harsher measures of the French government, such as prescribed confiscation of Arab lands for minor infractions of French rules. In fact, to her, privately, Gervase had decried the official "scorched-earth" policy during the French occupation—the burning of crops and homes to prevent the native population from giving support to Abdel Kader. She could only admire Gervase's commitment to improve the lot of the vanquished Arabs and Berbers.

"I think you are condemning him unjustly. Since his arrival, Gervase has only used his office to help better the conditions of your people. He has provided a voice of reason within the army, against the settlers who would force all the Muslims off their land."

At her back, she could feel Jafar's muscles tense in an effort at control. "Even if that were so, it would make no difference. My dispute with the colonel is personal."

"Your dispute was with his father, who is no longer even alive. Besides, I doubt the late general would have been pleased with his son now. Gervase is nothing like him, in temperament or principles."

Jafar was silent.

Alysson turned to look up at him. "You spoke of your religion. Well, mine teaches that love and forgiveness are to be valued above war, above revenge. What his father did to yours was terrible, I know, but killing Gervase will not bring your parents back to life. Could you not learn to forgive the past?"

Gravely, Jafar returned her gaze. Her eyes were wide and still and heartrendingly vulnerable. "Do you love him so very much, then?" Jafar asked quietly, the involuntary question dredged out of him.

Surprise flickered in the gray depths of her eyes, yet he did not withdraw the question. Instead, he waited anxiously, searching her face, not wanting to admit how important her answer was to him.

"Would it matter?" she replied, her voice almost a whisper.

Yes, yes, it would matter, Jafar wanted to shout. The thought of this woman giving all her love to his blood enemy sent a cold knot of raw jealousy and despair coiling in the pit of his stomach. She couldn't love another man that deeply. She belonged to
him.

The vehemence of his possessiveness took him aback. He had never before found a woman whom he had wanted for his own. For the past seven years, his time had been consumed with fighting and fulfilling his tribal duties. He'd seldom had the leisure to indulge his sensual nature, and never the inclination to pursue the business of getting sons to follow him and inherit the leadership of his tribe. Against tradition, he had not established any concubines in his harem or acquired any wives. He'd taken his pleasure among the sultry courtesans of the neighboring Beni Ammer tribe or the Arab beauties of the wandering Ouled Nail nomads, never keeping one long enough to bore him or plague him with the jealousies and cunning stratagems for attention that females so often engaged in.

Alysson Vickery was the only woman he had ever wanted to possess. Not possess in the Eastern sense. Though Berber society was far less restrictive than Arab regarding the female sex, in Eastern cultures women
were
considered merely the instruments of a man's pleasure, the bearer of his children. But Alysson would mean more to him than that. He sensed that she might touch him, fulfill him, satisfy him in some way he'd never been satisfied before.

Jafar reached up to fondle a lock of her hair, his fingers caressing it. Nearly dry now, it was fragrant with the sweet- smelling herbs that he had used in the rinse, and it stirred his senses.

Indeed, just looking at her now made him ache to kiss her, to take her. She would be wild as a hawk in her love- making if she ever came to give herself to him freely.
Freely.
He wanted that more than anything except his vengeance. He wanted to see the same love and devotion on Alysson's
face that his English mother had felt for his Berber father, the same desire. He wanted Alysson's eyes smoky with passion, her slender body swollen with his child . . .

A tight band suddenly wrapped around Jafar's chest at the breathtaking vision.
His child.
His sons, who would possess their mother's fiery courage.
His daughters, who would have her passion and independence—

Abruptly his fantasies came crashing back to earth with a violence that shook him. There could never be children between them. His vow of revenge must be fulfilled. He would have to kill the colonel, her fiancé. And in doing so he would destroy any chance that Alysson would yield to him willingly.

She was still watching him, Jafar realized, and with a questioning plea in her eyes. Suddenly he no longer wanted to know how deep her feelings for Bourmont ran, or how intense the love she felt for the colonel was.

"No, it would not matter how much you loved him," Jafar said, his voice low and hoarse.

When her pleading look turned to anguish, the torment in her eyes was nearly more than he could bear. His hand moved to her cheek, a gentle touch grazing the flesh. "I cannot forsake my duty, even for you."

His own eyes were dark with regret and a glaze of passion that Alysson didn't want to recognize. She stared at Jafar numbly. "And I cannot," she whispered, "sit by and do nothing while you plan to murder the people I love."

Unable to hold her gaze any longer, he looked away.

The bleak chill of despair came seeping back into Alysson's soul once more in full force. Turning, she shivered.

At her trembling, Jafar became aware that the shadows were lengthening and the temperature rapidly dropping as the sun slipped behind the horizon.

"Come," he said quietly. "It grows cool."

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her back inside—but not to the bedchamber. Instead, he settled her among the silken cushions in the main room, then busied himself retrieving a blanket with which to cover her, lighting an oil lamp, closing the tent flap against the evening air.

Not for the first time, Alysson was struck by the consideration and care he showed her, the extreme tenderness that
contrasted so dramatically with the determined, ruthless man she knew him to be. Just now, the lamplight shone on his gilded head and muted the hard lines of his face, disarming and softening.

Against her will, she lay there watching Jafar, studying his austerely handsome features, as if she might find the key to the enigma. It was almost as if he were two different men.
One forbidding, hard, dangerous.
The other gentle and compassionate . . . and almost vulnerable, in a way she couldn't begin to fathom. There was something lonely about him. More than that, there was
a sadness
in his soul, as if it held dark secrets that he could share with no one else.

Then she remembered the tale of his childhood. What would it be like to watch one's parents murdered so hideously? To be forced to watch their brutal tortures, unable to raise a finger to aid them? How could someone as proud and authoritative as Jafar endure such helplessness?

She couldn't hate him for wanting to avenge their murders, or for wanting to protect his people from the rapacious French. She couldn't hate him at all . . .

Alysson closed her eyes, deliberately shutting out this softer image of Jafar, yet unable to dispel her intense awareness of his nearness. A desolate smile of irony touched her lips. Sometime during the past days of pain and fear and despair, she had given up her futile attempt to despise him. And she very much feared that in the end, she would learn to want him, just as he had predicted.

Chapter 14

"They
come! They come!" Mahmoud exclaimed
as
 
he
rushed into Jafar's tent the following morning. "The French troops—they come!"

Straggling to sit up on the cushions where she'd been resting, Alysson stared at the boy in alarm. She had thought that when the time came for battle, her concern would only be for Gervase and her Uncle Honoré. But at Mahmoud's shouted revelation that the French army was on the march, the first thing that entered Alysson's mind was fear. Fear for Jafar. She had never before considered that Jafar might be wounded or even killed in the fighting. As a Berber warlord, he seemed so powerful, so invincible. And yet he was mortal. Bullets and sharp steel would penetrate his flesh as they would any other man's.

Raising a calming hand, Alysson momentarily pushed aside her disturbing reflections about Jafar and tried to question Mahmoud. He was nearly dancing with excitement, despite his crippled foot.

"Allah
be
praised! We will make a
razzia
on the French jackals!"

A
razzia
was an attack, Alysson eventually managed to learn. The Berber scouts that had been sent out to observe the enemy's movements had returned with a comprehensive report. A column of French cavalry had been sighted near- ing the mountains to the west. The force consisted of hundreds of mounted troops and an artillery train with at least two cannons. Alysson wondered if those guns were meant for a siege—a reasonable precaution if they expected her to be held hostage in the mountains.