Lord of Desire (6 page)

"There is no reason for you to be so concerned, Gervase. The escort you intend to provide will surely be adequate."

"I can ensure your safety better here."

"Your men will be armed, as will I. And you know I am an excellent shot."

"Still, I would prefer that you remain in Algiers." He gave her a reproachful glance. "I confess I don't understand why you insist on taking such a grave risk."

Alysson felt a twinge of exasperation. In Gervase's opinion, no woman should have such a fondness for travel as
she did. But she couldn't change simply because he held such straightlaced notions about how a woman should behave. "What is the risk? You said yourself that the war is over."

"It won't be entirely over until Abdel Kader surrenders. And even then, some of his followers will no doubt try to carry on his Holy War."

She had no need to ask what Gervase meant. Long before she'd come to Algeria, Alysson had heard of the Berber religious leader, Abdel Kader. Fifteen years ago he had united the Berbers and Arabs in a Holy War against France. Indeed, the handsome, dashing, romantic sheik had once been all the rage in the salons of Paris. But that was before the war had turned so brutal.

Not that the Arabs were the only ones to blame for the savagery. Since invading in 1830, the French had committed their fair share of barbarities in their effort to conquer this proud nation. From what she had gathered, even Gervase's own father had been guilty of unforgivable excesses. General Bourmont had been involved in the initial invasion seventeen years ago, and was reported to have encouraged the most violent actions in putting down the rebellious natives.

Gervase was very different from his father, thankfully.
Different from most of his countrymen, for that matter.
He was far more sympathetic to the plight of the Arabs. Gervase had arrived in Algeria barely six months ago, but he seemed to have a far more humane understanding of how the French should play their role as conquerors. It was for that reason she thought he would prove to be an admirable administrator of the Arab Bureau.

Still, she felt Gervase was overly concerned about her visit to the interior. Only last year Abdel Kader had been driven into neighboring Morocco with his followers. And the atrocities committed on both sides had finally come to an end. No longer were the French colonists being killed and burned from their homes as in past years; the natives in the
northern
provinces had finally been subdued by the powerful French army, and the Plain of Algiers was once again safe for Europeans, protected by
the Armee d'Afrique.
Some settlers had even moved further into the interior to carve domains out of swamp and arid wasteland.

No, if she had thought the risk too great, she never would have considered making the journey. She herself would not have minded the danger, but never would she gamble with Uncle Honoré's safety. As it was, she felt guilty enough simply for planning to deprive her uncle of his comfort for the few weeks or so that it would take to visit the outskirts of the Sahara. At least the heat of the desert would not be quite so unbearable now that it was October.

When she didn't agree with Gervase's estimation of the risks, though, he made a gesture of impatience. "Alysson, will you listen to me! There are untold dangers in the interior—bandits and slave traders and hungry nomads, fanatical Arabs who refuse to admit the war
is
over . . . even deserters from our Foreign Legion."

"Chand will be with us."

"That is not a comfort to me in the least," Gervase said tersely. "Chand is devoted to you, obviously, but he is hardly the appropriate servant for a lady. I cannot like it that you will have no female chaperone or attendant to care for you."

Alysson sent her prospective fianc£ a warning glance, unwilling to countenance any criticism of her faithful Indian servant. "Gervase, perhaps you didn't know, but I owe Chand my life—several times over."

Realizing then that her tone had become overly sharp, she softened her next words and gave him a disarming smile; sweetness and logic would be more effective in coaxing Gervase out of his ill humor. "Chand has been my friend as well as my servant. I think you can safely trust him to take good care of me. Besides, you forget that I am an Englishwoman. The English have far less to fear from the Arabs than do the French."

But Gervase wouldn't accept this argument. "The Arabs hate all infidels," he replied, shaking his head. "And I cannot—"

"Gervase, you are worrying needlessly."

The sigh he gave held regret.
"Perhaps."

At length he shrugged, his features relaxing their tautness. "It is just that I don't want any harm to come to you. And I am selfish, I suppose. The next month will be unbearable with you gone."

He reached for her hands then. Drawing her near, he gently pressed her fingers to his lips. "Do you realize how very much I love you,
coquine?"

"Gervase . . ."
Alysson started to protest. The desire in his eyes disturbed her, and so did his declaration. She was fearless about most things, but avowals of love had the power to disquiet her, arousing painful memories she would sooner forget. She'd learned from bitter experience to be wary of hucksters and fortune hunters who plied her with sweet words.

Gervase was no fortune hunter, certainly; she was convinced he truly loved her. But she couldn't understand what he saw in her. She wasn't a beauty, admittedly, and her independent nature was hardly a quality a man looked for in a wife. Indeed, she had grave doubts that she could ever make Gervase a good wife.

He was still looking at her ardently, Alysson realized. Still gazing at her with that hot desire that made her
feel
flustered and unworthy of his adoration. "Gervase . . ." Alysson said uncomfortably. "You promised to give me time . . ."

He sighed softly. "I suppose I am in good company. Honoré tells me you once refhsed the hand of a rajah."

Relieved that Gervase didn't mean to insist on an answer, she let her mouth curve ruefully. "That isn't quite what happened. A rajah once offered to purchase me as his
third
wife. Uncle Oliver was inclined to haggle over the price, but I didn't relish being relegated to third place."

Gervase's answering smile warmed her. "No, you, my shameless minx, would insist on being first. And as usual you would get your way. No doubt when we are married, you will be able to wrap me around your finger as you do your uncles.
Alysson . . ."
His voice dropped to a gentle murmur as slowly he drew her into his arms. "Will you kiss me so that I may endure the coming weeks without you?"

She couldn't deny such an earnest plea. Mutely she nodded, wishing with all her heart that she could respond to Gervase the way he wished her to.

At her acquiescence, he tightened his arms around her and bent his head. His lips were warm and loving—but
careful, exhibiting the self-restraint expected of a gentleman toward a young lady. His consideration, rather than flattering her, though, left Alysson with a vague sense of frustration. She longed for Gervase to embrace her more purposefully, to sweep her off her feet, to inspire in her the kind of passion and desire that the poets raved about. But it had never happened. Gervase's kisses were always persuasive and skilled, but she felt no thrill in his arms, no rush of excitement that set her heart to pounding, no spark of fire between them. Instead, his caresses always left her feeling somehow . . . disappointed.

Like now.
There seemed to be something
vital
missing in his kiss. Her own lips parted in anticipation as she felt his tongue slowly delve into her mouth, but Gervase's gentle coaxing roused in her only a nameless, unfulfilled longing. His accomplished embrace kindled in her nothing more than a feeling of sadness . . . that he wasn't the man she wished him to be. That she wasn't the woman he needed and deserved.

Gervase seemed to be satisfied with her response, though, for when finally he raised his head, it was to gaze longingly at her. "Go quickly, my love," he said in a husky whisper. "Make your journey short, so that we may be married as soon as you return."

Alysson started to protest, but Gervase silenced her by pressing his fingers to her mouth.

Finally releasing her then, he stepped back. "Do you mean to stay here for the rest of the evening? My guests will soon miss you."

"A moment longer only."

"Very well, but only a moment, or you might catch a chill."

Alysson refrained from responding that she had never caught a chill in her life. Instead, she watched silently as Gervase went back inside the house.

Turning then, she gazed down at the shadowed garden. Her conversation with Gervase and his kiss afterward had only renewed her restlessness. Anxious again for the morning to come, Alysson descended the long flight of stone steps into the garden and began wandering along the torch- lit path.

She had only taken a few steps, though, when she came to a startled halt; a gentleman in evening clothes stood there in the shadows, one shoulder negligently propped against the thick trunk of a palm tree. Her hand flew to her throat, while she barely managed to stifle a gasp.

He made no move toward her as he spoke in a low voice, in fluent French. "Pardon me for frightening you, mademoiselle."

Alysson willed her heart to settle down as she peered at him in the dim light. His face was half-hidden by the dancing shadows so she couldn't make out his features, but he didn't appear dangerous. He was a tall, lean man, a striking figure in black evening attire. Imposing perhaps, but not frightening.

"Did no one ever tell you," he continued in French as she stared at him, "that it does a young lady's reputation no good to be seen unchaperoned in a darkened garden, kissing a man?"

His tone was amused, yet with a curt edge that sounded almost like scorn. It took her aback.

Hot with embarrassment over being caught kissing Gervase, Alysson couldn't help the blush that rose to her cheeks. To think that this stranger had been watching her . . . "Did no one ever tell
you,
m'sieur," she retorted with irritation, "that it is impolite to eavesdrop on an intimate conversation? You should have made yourself known at once."

"You gave me no opportunity."

That was such a patent falsehood that Alysson didn't deign to reply. Grasping the fan dangling from her wrist, she flicked it open, using the rapid feminine movement to show her displeasure. "I trust you were pleasantly diverted," she said finally, the sweetness of her tone scarcely veiling her own scorn.

"Oh, indeed. It was quite . . . entertaining."

She thought the darkness fortunate, for it hid her heightening color. Vexed by her unaccustomed discomposure— and unwilling to allow this provoking stranger to prolong the moment any longer—Alysson gave him her back as she prepared to follow a different path.