Lord of Desire (47 page)

Alysson halted in confusion. A whimper of miserable joy hung in the back of her throat as slowly she knelt beside his stretcher.
"Mon oncle,"
she
murmured,
her own voice a hoarse rasp.

He left off cursing to stare at her. "
Sacre Dieu . .
. Alysson! My beloved
child . . ."

She flung her arms around him just as he reached for her, and for a long moment, they clung to each other, both weeping with relief to see the other alive. Finally, with a groan of pain, Honoré held her away, grimacing as he searched her face. “I was sick with worry for you, my dear. You are unharmed?"

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Alysson nodded, drinking in the sight of his beloved face. "Yes, I am fine-"

Before she could complete the sentence and ask about her uncle's health, a small dark man stepped forward from the shadows and made a deep salaam.
"Memsahib?
My heart is filled with gladness to find you."

"Chand!"

Leaping to her feet, Alysson launched herself at her Indian servant, wrapping her arms around him in a stranglehold, laughing through her tears as she drew comfort from Chand's dear, familiar presence.

"Memsahib!
This is not seemly!" Chand exclaimed. He gave a dignified sniff as he pried himself loose, but she caught the sheen of tears in his dark eyes before his expression sobered.

"Memsahib, I beg you to heed me. Your ancle is gravely wounded.''

Alysson's heart leaped again with dread as her gaze flew ro Honoré. Gravely wounded? But he did not look as if he were at death's door. Pale, perhaps.
And disgruntled.
But not dying.
Hes.
pulse
regained a mors normal rhythm. Most likely, Chand was exaggerating as usual.

When she eyed him anxiously, the Indian hastened to speak in heavily accented French. "Is there a place where we may take the sahib so that I may attend to him?''

"Yes, my dear," Honord put in, resuming bis querulous tone, "have you any influence over these barbarians? They have strapped are into this contraption and won't let me out. I vow I am oieediag to death. One of those Arab deads stuck a sword blade in ray ribs, skewered me as if I were a pig to be roasted."

Influence?
Alysson thought with desperation. She had no power of persuasion over these Berbers, especially the am whose opinion mattered most, the lord whose word was law here in this wild land. Helplessly she glanced around her, only to have her gaze arrested. Jafar had come to stand behind her and was silently observing her.

She guessed that he had overheard her conversation, for all she had to do was say, "Please", in a soft, pleading whisper, before he gestured to someone in the shadows.

"Gastar will aid you," he said abruptly, almost angrily, before turning toward his tent.

Alysson watched in bewilderment as he strode away. She didn't know what he was thinking, or why he was treating her so brusquely
bow
, after the infinite tenderness he had shown her during her illness. But men the old Berber
wohise
who had helped nurse her through her fever came shuffling forward. Seeing Gastar, Alysson felt a twinge of guilt. She hsd never even dtaaked die woman for saving her life. For that matter she had never thanked Jafar, either.

Her gaze followed his tall, black-cloaked figure for another moment, before she managed to drag her thoughts to attention. She had to see to her uncle before she could consider Jafar's actions or his cold treatment of her.

She listened anxiously as Gastar issued incomprehensible orders to several Berber men,
theo
followed as her uncle
was carried into a nearby tent. After Honoré was released from the bindings of the stretcher and transferred to a comfortable pallet, though, all Alysson could do was
wait
. Both she and Chand were left with nothing to do as Gastar worked with swift efficiency over her patient.

That in
itself
became a problem. Chand was insulted by the old woman's assumption of his duties, not liking to be relegated to the role of spectator, but Alysson prevented him from making a scene with reassurances of Gastar's competence in healing. Even so, Alysson held her breath as the bloodstained bandage covering Honoré's chest was peeled away.

She was eminently grateful to discover that her uncle's wounds weren't as terrible as she feared. The right side of his chest was slashed by a bloody gash, and at least two ribs were broken, but the wound was clean, and the torn flesh easily sutured. She held her uncle's hand as Gastar performed the necessary operation and bound his ribs once again.

It was only when Honoré had been given a potion and was sleeping
soundly,
however, that Alysson had the time and opportunity to question Chand about what had happened. The French forces had been routed with little effort, she learned.

"At the battle's end, I was engaged in seeing to the La~ rousse Sahib's wound when the Berber lord discovered us." Chand shuddered, his fear at reliving the moment becoming evident. "I thought he would murder us! I prayed to Allah for mercy, and my prayers were answered, for the Berber lord commanded his men to aid us."

"But why?"
Alysson asked, puzzled that lafar should offer comfort to his hated adversaries. "Did he give you a reason?''

Chand shook his turbaned head.
"Only that the Larousse Sahib should not be allowed to die.
It was not my place to question the Berber's wishes."

"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.