Lord of Desire (76 page)

What concerned her most, however, was not the vanquished Arab leader, but Jafar. What would he do now that his commander had surrendered? Would he accept defeat, or would he carry on the war against overwhelming odds? Or was he even now being taken prisoner? Would she even know of his fate? The uncertainty was driving her to distraction.

Oh, would this interminable evening never end? Alysson lamented, clasping her gloved hands together to hide their trembling.

Just then she met Gervase's solemn gaze. Unable to maintain her pretense of equanimity a moment longer, she murmured something to her uncles about needing air and made her way quickly toward the wide doors, pressing through the throngs of faceless people.

When at last she stepped into the coolness of the terrace, Alysson drew in a deep calming breath, which in itself was a. mistake. The moonlit courtyard below was filled with masses of scarlet bougainvillea and laurel roses, and countless other flowers that would continue to bloom even in midwinter. The sweet fragrances brought to mind memories of other scents, of other exotic nights when she had lain in Jafar's arms.

Feeling all over again the anguish of her hopeless passion.
she
leaned against the balustrade and bowed her head, wishing that the numbness that had once shielded her would return to deaden her pain.

It might have been an eternity later when Jafar stepped out of the shadows, her name on his lips. With a start, her heart pounding, Alysson turned to find him standing merely inches away. Like that first time nearly three months ago, he was dressed in elegant evening clothes, tailored in the European style.

"
Jafar ,
. ." Her whisper was barely audible, the quiver in her voice betraying the trembling, uncertain joy she felt at the sight of him. Hardly daring to believe he was truly here, she drank in the reality of his presence. He filled up her vision, his eyes deep and quiet and searching,
his
face still and intense.

They stared at each other tor a long moment before Jatar finally broke the silence. "I had thought by now you would be gone from Algiers,
Ehuresh."

Vaguely realizing he had spoken in English, Alysson shook her head. She couldn't think about that or anything else when his life was at risk. "Jafar, please . . . you shouldn't be here. The danger is too great. You have to leave."

"What is this,
chérie?
Is it possible I detect a note of concern in your tone?"

"Yes! Yes, I am concerned for you. If Gervase discovers you here—"

"Ease your fears, Alysson. The colonel himself invited me to attend the celebration."

She looked at him, bewildered. "I don't understand . . . You've spoken to him?"

"At length.
He considers himself to be repaying the debt he feels he owes me."

Again Alysson shook her head, not understanding. But no explanation was forthcoming from Jafar. Instead, there was a longer pause, while he seemed to struggle with his choice of words.

"There is something I must ask you,
Ehuresh,"
he said finally. "The colonel seems to think . . . that you love me. I desperately want to know if it is true."

She returned Jafar's searching gaze, unable to look away. His amber eyes were grave and vulnerable, not at all like the man who had once professed hatred for his father's murderer and vowed revenge.

"And if it is?" she whispered.

In that moment his eyes filled—with tenderness, hunger, longing, and more than a hint of uncertainty. She read each emotion as clearly as if it was her own—because it
was
her own.

"If it is true," he replied hoarsely, "then I would have to confess my own
love . . .
for a woman I have long since come to admire and respect."

Alysson parted her lips soundlessly. Wild hope was bubbling in her, but her throat was too constricted to speak. Helpless to respond verbally, she answered in the only other way possible, with her heart; she moved into Jafar's embrace. As his arms folded around her, she leaned weakly against him, shutting her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder.

Jafar could feel her trembling as he bent close, could feel the wetness on her face against his cheek. For a moment, though, he simply held her tightly against him, his cheek pressed to hers. Then, drawing back, he gathered her face in his hands, his hard palms curving to fit the delicate contours.

"Only you can ease the storm raging in my heart, Alysson. Tell me you don't hate me . . . Give me hope that one day you could come to love me."

"Yes . . .
Oh, Jafar, yes—"

Before she could complete the words, his lips were suddenly raining soft, desperate kisses on her chin, her cheeks, the moistness seeping under her eyes. She clung to him, sobbing, laughing, until finally he raised his head, his expression all seriousness.

"Marry me, Alysson."

"M-marry you?
You want me to
marry
you?"

"Yes, my heart. I want your hand in marriage. I'm asking you to be my wife, Alysson, to share my life and my home, to bear my children, to grow old at my side."

She stared at him in shock, before a sudden bleakness replaced the incredulity in her eyes. "But your tribe, Jafar . . . they'll never accept
me . . .
an infidel, an Englishwoman."

"That is not so, Alysson. They will accept you without question.
Because of your bravery, your courage.
A woman who can vanquish a lion is a bride fit to carry the children of a Berber
amghar
in her womb. That is what is being said about you among my people."

The knowledge that the members of his tribe had been discussing her fitness as wife to their lord should have disturbed Alysson, at the very least annoyed her, but all she could feel was relief.
Immense relief.
And happiness.
The thought of bearing Jafar's children made her weak with joy.

He must have misunderstood her hesitation, though, for his voice went low and quiet. "If you say you cannot live here with me, in my country, I will understand. We can live wherever you wish . . . England, France . . . India. It matters not to me, as long as I have you."

Her eyes filled again with tears. It did matter to him, greatly, she knew, but he was prepared to leave his homeland, to give up his entire life, his country, his struggle, simply for her sake.

"Do not weep, beloved," he pleaded in his own language. "I cannot bear to see you cry."

"I'm not crying," she replied shakily in English. "And yes, we can live here, Jafar."

"Then . . . you will marry me?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll marry you."

He still didn't seem convinced. Gently, almost tentatively, he stroked the wetness under her eyes with his thumbs, brushing away her tears. "It won't be as disagreeable as you think, Alysson. I don't want to take away your independence or your freedom. I won't try to change your passionate nature to fit our culture. Your spirit is one of the things I love most about you. Nor would I ever ask you to give up your religion. It is not against the Koran for a Muslim man to marry a Christian woman. We can be married in a Christian ceremony as well as a Muslim one, in order to satisfy your uncles and my English grandfather." He stopped, searching her face intently.

Her tremulous smile must have encouraged him, for his intensity relaxed the slightest degree. "As for our future children, we can strike a fair compromise, I think. They will be raised in the Islamic faith, but will study Christianity as well, so that when they are old enough they may choose for themselves. Would that be agreeable to you?"

"Yes, I'm sure that would be fair,
but . . .
are you truly certain you want an English wife?"

Jafar's mouth curved in a wry twist as, for the first time, he allowed a trace of amusement into his expression. "If I have sunk so low as to consort with the French, especially the man against whom I once swore vengeance, I can take an English wife."

"What do you mean, 'consort with the French'? Are you speaking of Gervase?"

"It seems your colonel wants me to join the
Bureaux Arabes."

Leading her to a marble bench then, Jafar sat beside her and told her of Boumiont's proposal, and of his own growing conviction that accepting the offer was the right decision. He was certain he could gain the council's support when he put the question before them.

"So, what do you think?" he concluded.
"Would that please you, my heart?''

In response, Alysson reached up to stroke the lean curve of his cheek. She still could hardly believe she wasn't dreaming, that he was truly here, telling her this. "Yes, if would please
me . . .
it would please me very much. You could do so much good for your people, Jafar, if you occupied a position of authority in the French government. For their sake, perhaps you could put your differences aside."

He gave a soft sigh that held perhaps a trace of bitterness. "It isn't easy to stomach, making peace with one's enemy."

She knew he must be thinking of Gervase. "Do you hate him so much, then?"

"Not so much any longer. And if I am honest, I can admit that much of my hatred stemmed from jealousy.'' Jafar's gaze probed hers. "All this time I thought you loved him."

"No . . .
I just didn't want to see him hurt. It . . . it is you I love.''

A moment of silence stretched between them, before Jafar took her hand and drew it to his breast, directly covering his heart. She could feel its steady pulse beating strong and sure. "And I love you, Alysson, so much that I ache with it."

She gave him a long searching glance, a question lingering in her eyes. "If you love me," she asked at last, "then why did you let me go?"

''I thought you would be happier with Bourmont,'' Jafar said simply. "And in any case," he added quietly, "I had to allow you the choice. You had to come to me freely, of your own accord. If I had forced you to remain, I would have been no better than the savage heathen you thought me. Yet I
hoped . . .
I told myself that if you loved me enough, you would make the decision to stay."