Lord of Desire (61 page)

But she could thank him for the consolation he had once given her.

"You gave me hope that day," she said quietly. "You told me to make myself indispensable to my uncles, to make them want me, and I did. I still have your handkerchief."

The harsh emotion in Jafar's eyes suddenly abated, his gaze softening as he contemplated her. "I am curious to know how you implemented my advice."

"I became what my uncles wanted most—a traveling companion, a helpmate, a daughter."

"I'm glad that your term in England was not as bad as you feared."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that." Alysson regarded him with a wry smile. "I was an outcast from the first moment I arrived at boarding school with my Indian servant. Chand prostrated himself to pray to Allah and promptly was branded a heathen. I was considered an unholy terror."

Jafar's lips curved upward. "I can well imagine how you might have shocked some sensibilities. You were rather a contentious young lady, if I recall."

Alysson gave a graceful shrug. She still couldn't look back on that time with equanimity. She'd been a reckless, unruly, inelegant young girl back then, stubbornly determined to flout the disdainful social elite who had scorned her. "I didn't allow their rejection to bother me, not once my uncles came to notice me. I even became accustomed to being a byword."

She said it lighdy, but Jafar heard the underlying hurt in that simple admission.

"I wasn't totally without resources," Alysson continued. "A vast fortune can gain one entree into even the highest circles. I even had a presentation at court. Not that I was keen on the idea, but my Uncle Cedric thought it a great coup that I make my curtsies to the queen."

"A fortune can be an advantage," he agreed quietly.

Alysson fell silent, remembering. She had been raised to elegance and wealth, but money was not a cure for loneliness. Indeed, for her, money had never been the great blessing it was supposed to be. She'd quickly learned what a curse it could be to be so exceedingly
rich . . .
to be used by impoverished aristocrats and social climbers for their own ends, to pay the price in loneliness, never knowing who you could trust to be a true friend, never knowing who you could love. Yet it was because of that very wealth that society tolerated her. In spite of her wild ways, she could do little wrong.

Shaking herself mentally, Alysson struggled to refocus her thoughts. How had they managed to change the subject? They had been discussing him, not her.

"I wish I had known you were part English," she said finally. "It would have made my captivity easier to bear."

Her wistful tone affected Jafar like a blow, making his soul ache.

Guilt smote him as he thought of the countless wrongs against Alysson that could be laid at his door. He had taken her captive, terrified her, humiliated her,
almost
gotten her killed. He had made war on her race and come within a hairsbreadth of slaying the man she loved. He had nearly caused the death of her beloved uncle. He had taken her virtue and destroyed her good name in the eyes of her society, perhaps destroyed her life.

At die time, when he had first embarked on his mission of vengeance, he'd had entirely justifiable reasons for every savage action he'd
taken,
every uncivilized thing he had done to her. But now, what he wanted most to do was take her in his arms and console her, to beg her forgiveness.

He stared down at Alysson, wondering at the bewildering gentleness she inspired in him. He had never felt that so strongly, not for any woman but her. How easily she could endear herself to
him .
, . No, she had already done so. She
was
dear to him. But was she so dear that he could put her interests before his own? Was he willing to let her go? Without warning, the word
love
invaded his thoughts. Was it love he felt for her?

The question prodded him like a dagger, as did his next reflection. If he truly loved her, he would value her happiness above his own. If he truly loved her, he would set her free.

But his feelings for his defiant young captive were not something he wanted to scrutinize, just as her freedom was not a subject he wanted to face. He wasn't sorry when Alysson interrupted his musings with a pensive query.

"Your being part English . . . does your tribe hold it against you?"

"In the past they haven't, but some consider my motives suspect for failing to carry out my oath. One member of the council has charged that my heredity caused me to sympathize with the Europeans."

"That," Alysson said emphatically, "is complete nonsense. I've never seen you act the least sympathetic toward Europeans."

He smiled tiredly. "Well, the charge will have to be proven before the council. I will not give up my rule easily."

"Good."

Her obvious partiality warmed him, though her next
comment made that warmth fade
.

"You said our being here gave you greater bargaining power with the French, but I suppose your tribe would have been outraged at you if you had let us go?"

Jafar hedged, "That influenced my decision to keep you here, yes. I would have had difficulty defending my position if I released you before securing the freedom of as many of our war prisoners as possible."

Aware of his hypocrisy, but not wanting to explain his true reasons for keeping her captive, Jafar rose and went to the doorway. Alysson's next question, however, prevented him from leaving.

"Jafar . . . why didn't you want me to know who you were?
Why didn't you tell me?"

Halting, he turned to glance over his shoulder, his expression enigmatic. "If you learned my identity, you would be able to lead your fiancé to me, to my tribe."

"And now you think I won't tell him, that I won't betray you?"

Would you betray me, Ehuresh?
he
thought silently. Aloud, he gave a different reply. "Now I think it doesn't matter. I have Bourmont's pledge not to come after you, if and when he is released. He gave you up . . . once he had my assurances that you would not be harmed.''

Alysson looked down at her hands, but not before Jafar caught the flash of despair in her eyes at the knowledge that her colonel had abandoned her.

"What else could he do?" Jafar said quietly, conscious of the irony in defending his archenemy. "His troops had just suffered a major defeat. He had wounded men who needed medical attention. And I had just spared his life when by all rights I should have killed him."

She raised her head then, her luminous gray eyes troubled and questioning. "Why didn't you kill him?"

Jafar hesitated. "Because of you," he replied softly. "What else could
I
do?"

Alysson had a number of disturbing reflections to ponder during the course of the following week.
Jafar's background.
The decisions he'd made regarding both herself and
his blood enemy.
His possible impeachment.
His relationship with her.

He had given up his vengeance because of her. Not for Gervase, but for her. She was the reason he had betrayed his oath, and now his rule, his very future was at stake. It made her feel very humble.

As for their relationship, his revelations about his identity had not changed the circumstances between them . . . and yet they had. Knowing he was half English, she felt closer to Jafar, more attune to his thoughts and feelings.
Which was absurd, considering that he treated her no differently after their discussion in the library than before.
He still spoke French whenever they met in public, and he still played the considerate host, making every effort to entertain and please her.

Yet she was still his captive.

She still had no place in his life, no future. They were nothing like equals. Jafar was a Berber prince, an English nobleman, while her bourgeois blood was common red—
its
only claim to blue being her aristocratic French grandmother. She was also tainted by the smell of the shop.

And then there was the issue of their disparate backgrounds. Jafar might have spent a great part of his youth in England, but by his own admission, he hadn't fit in. She wouldn't fit in here either, not in this Berber culture, with its different religion and vastly different customs.

No, they had no future together. If she thought about it at all, it was only to scold herself for being a fool. Not in her wildest dreams could she imagine that Jafar would want an Englishwoman for his wife. Not with his aversion to all things European. Not with his tribe already questioning his motives. He would be suspected of siding with the enemy were he even to consider marriage to her.

Besides, Zohra had told her Jafar would wed one of his own
kind
. When Alysson subtly introduced the subject one afternoon in the kitchens, Tahar only confirmed it.

"Yes, the lord must take a noblewoman to wife. It is his duty."

"A Berber noblewoman?"

"Or Arab."

"Not English?"

Tahar looked surprised at the question. "The lord would not wed a foreign woman."

"But Jafar's mother was a foreigner, was she not? His father married her.''

Tahar shrugged fatalistically. "That was before the war."

Alysson heard the finality in that simple statement with an aching heart.
Before the war.

Of course the war had changed everything. It was the very reason Jafar had disavowed his English heritage. No, he wouldn't want a foreign wife. Foreigners were brutal murderers, the conquerors of his beloved homeland. And even if he could bring himself to overlook that overwhelming obstacle, Alysson reflected,
she
wouldn't be the woman he chose. Culturally he despised everything she represented, but personally, the marks against her were nearly as formidable. She was not at all like the women of Barbary. She could never be submissive and docile, toward Jafar or any other man. She had been too independent and strong- willed for far too long.

No, Jafar might desire her for the moment, but he couldn't possibly come to love her. He would use her body, if she let him, and that would be the end of it.

If
she let him.
She didn't know if she could bring herself to stay as his mistress, even if she were asked. But so far Jafar hadn't given her the slightest indication that he was considering such a longer-term relationship with her, scandalous or otherwise.