His hard mouth twisted in the semblance of a smile. "Such language is not becoming to a young lady, ma belle."
Her fingers clenched into fists. "I should have killed you when I had the chance," she muttered.
"Yes, you should have."
The amiableness of his answer made her glare at him. "Next time I won't miss!"
Those were brave words, a threat made in a fit of defiancé, and he gave them the respect they deserved: he merely shrugged. "Instead of cursing me, you should be thanking me. I did you a service, taking you away from Bourmont. I assure you, you do not want to wed him. I warned you of it the other night."
"The other night you were speaking nonsense, raving about murderers."
"I never rave." His hard gaze found hers. "And it was not nonsense."
The sudden lethal note in his low voice made Alysson
want to shudder. "Why do you call Gervase a murderer? What has he ever done to you?"
Her Berber captor made no reply.
"You will never succeed with this! Gervase will rescue me—and he'll bring the entire French army with him!"
He regarded her with a chilling smile. "I sincerely hope the French army does come for you, the good colonel most of all. I will be pleased to welcome him."
Whatever courage Alysson had left quailed before that smile. She lapsed into brooding silence, becoming lost in thought as she pondered his words and contemplated her fate.
Beside her, Jafar watched his lovely captive with reluctant admiration. She had not treated him to the display of tears or pleas for mercy he had expected. Instead she had fought him, challenged him, demanded answers to her questions.
And in spite of her silence now, he knew she had not given up. She would defy him at every turn. And she would interrogate him again about his plans, his motives.
He had not yet decided how much he would tell her. She would never understand the cause that drove him. Killing for revenge was not civilized by her standards. But he was no longer the civilized Englishman she had met that day seven years ago. Nicholas Sterling was someone of his past.
Upon his return to the Kingdom of Algiers, he had joined the resistance against French domination as he'd intended. And in the years since, hed regained the leadership of his father's tribe through tenacity and sheer ironhearted determination. He'd had to fight for his birthright and prove his abilities. Now he was caid—chief administrator of his province, a position he had earned. As such, he had sworn allegiance to the Sultan of the Arabs, Abdel Kader.
But his second major goal had been thwarted. Until now he had been denied the opportunity to avenge his parents' deaths. By the time he'd left England and returned home to Barbary, General Louis Auguste de Bourmont, the man he had sworn to kill, was already dead. But his vow of vengeance remained foremost in Jafar's mind. The bitter memories that haunted his dreams would not let him forget.
The details of that terrible day he still remembered vividly. Even now, seventeen years later, he could still recall
his helpless rage at seeing his parents taken from him so brutally, still feel his fierce hatred for the general who had ordered their senseless slaughter.
No, never would he forget the name of Bourmont.
Only now, though, had the chance to avenge his parents' murders presented itself. The general's son had come to Barbary.
The moment Colonel Gervase de Bourmont had set foot on African soil, his life was forfeit; the son would pay for the father's sins.
The notion was not at all uncivilized in the Berber culture. To Jafar's people blood vengeance was a duty, the only honorable course for a Berber chieftain to take.
The only question had been deciding how he would carry out his vow. He could, of course, have killed the colonel on the streets of Algiers, or in his offices. It would have been simple to send an assassin to accomplish the task. Yet this job was one he was obligated to perform himself.
He had few qualms at plunging a knife into the heart of his longtime enemy's son, or firing a bullet into the colonel's skull. But there would have been no justice in allowing the Frenchman a swift death. No justice, and no satisfaction, either. He wanted the French jackal to suffer the way his mother had suffered, to know the agony of the blade, to contemplate death as his lifeblood drained away.
And how much more satisfying it would be to draw the French army into an engagement, to strike a blow for the failing Arab cause. To lure Gervase de Bourmont and his soldiers into the desert, where loyal Arab troops would engage them in battle.
He could have taken the colonel prisoner, of course, instead of Miss Vickery; the same end would have been accomplished. But how much more profound the distress for the colonel to know that the woman he loved was in danger, in the power of his mortal enemy.
And now the trap was set, with the colonel's lovely fiancée as bait.
Jafar's gaze again found his captive. He had spoken the truth a moment ago. He'd done her a service by taking her away from Bourmont. Better now, before the marriage could take place, for he would only have made her a widow later.
He'd done her another favor as well, though she would never know it. He had spared her Indian servant's life. Such a devoted follower would have fought to the death to prevent his mistress's capture. It had been a kindness to render the man too ill to travel. That, too, had been accomplished with ease. The Arab guide had been well paid to ensure that both Miss Vickery's servant and the lieutenant in command of her escort would not be in the way.
After that, her abduction had been child's play. All had gone as planned . . . except for the young lady herself, Jafar amended with a grim smile. His throbbing arm testified to the accuracy of her aim. He should have heeded her claim of being a good shot, should never have underestimated her courage. She was full of surprises—nothing like the maidens of Barbary, either Berber or Arab.
No, she was proud, lovely, defiant . . . Defiant even in fear, he thought, remembering the stormclouds in her eyes as she'd railed at him, remembering also the despair when she'd discovered herself his prisoner.
Seven years ago those anguished gray eyes had had the power to move him. Even now they had managed to strike a tender chord in his heart.
He had to guard against the protective instincts she aroused him, Jafar warned himself silently as he again set the horses into a gallop. Already she had made him question the wisdom of using her in his quest for revenge.
She could never persuade him from his purpose, certainly.
But still, he had to take care.
Chapter 3
The pace was grueling, her captor scarcely slowing even when they began to climb the hilly country of the Tell. Alysson's hopes sank with each swift mile, each foot of elevation. Her French escort would never find her in the mountains. There were too many places to hide.
She stole a glance at the black-robed devil who had abducted her. He had changed direction slighdy, heading south and east, but his determination never faltered, and he still maintained firm control of her mount's reins.
Continuing to climb, they passed through forests and lighter wooded lands. An hour later the landscape suddenly turned barren. Chalk rock and red sandstone slopes ran between steep precipices and wild narrow ravines that spelled death to the unwary. The horses were forced to slow to a walk then.
Hot and weary, Alysson clung to the saddle as her mount negotiated a dangerous path strewn with loose stones. To think only a few short hours ago she had been eager to explore this fierce country.
A moment later, Alysson shook herself from her morose thoughts. She had to be brave. She had to accept that she was alone with only her instincts of survival to guide her. Rather than wait for an opportunity to escape, she would have to create one. He had allowed her to ride her own horse, that was something. And if she was his hostage, then surely he would not be so imprudent as to harm her.
Not that he seemed at all concerned about her welfare at the moment. Her thirst was mounting rapidly, and the cord that bound he
r hands had chafed her wrists nearly raw in places. She was feeling another discomfort as well, but every ladylike instinct quailed at mentioning it. By the time they descended into a bare valley surrounded by naked mountains, however, she decided there was no purpose in prolonging the torture any longer.
"Please, I have to stop."
At her abrupt announcement after so long a silence, her captor halted the horses. When his penetrating gaze found hers, Alysson resisted the urge to look away nervously. "Do you mean to make me perish from thirst? It has been ages since I last had anything to drink."
His hard mouth curved in what might have been a rueful smile. "I forget the pampered life you have led." He reached down to retrieve the goatskin water bag that was tied to his saddle and handed it to her. "Forgive me if I have no tea or chocolate to offer you."
Repressing a retort, Alysson accepted the goatskin from him. Raising it to her lips, she drank eagerly, finding the water tepid and strange-tasting but soothing to her parched throat.
When she finally handed it back to him, the Berber took a brief swallow himself, then again secured the bag to his saddle. He was about to proceed when Alysson gathered her courage.
"Wait!"
He hesitated, looking at her questioningly.
"I would like a moment of privacy," she said stiffly. She endured his long scrutiny, feeling the warmth of acute embarrassment but refusing to give in to it.
Fortunately he understood without further explanation, for he gave a brief nod. "In a moment we will stop to water the horses. You may have your privacy then."
Alysson had to be content with that, although where they would find water in this godforsaken place, she had no idea.
But he was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes they came upon a deviation in the barren rocks where the vegetation grew lush and thick. A shallow but steady stream of water gushed from a crevice in the rock, Alysson saw with surprise. An underground spring.
She watched as her captor dismounted and came to her side. When he raised his hands to her waist, Alysson flinched from his touch, not liking even this small contact with this savage. It made her too aware of how vulnerable she was, alone with the man, at his mercy. Worse, it made her too aware of his hard male vitality, of the trembling agitation he made her feel.
The cynical smile that curved his mouth was almost a taunt, as were his murmured words. "Surely you do not fear me? Not the young lady who boasted of her unconcern regarding the dangers of the interior.''
Alysson raised her chin in a brave show of defiancé. "I had not expected such treachery as you and your fellow scoundrels showed me."
"Now you know better." His fingers closed firmly about her waist. When her body stiffened with resistance, he added in that calm low tone, as if soothing a frightened child or a skittish horse, "You have no need to fear me. Not as long as you obey me."
Obey him? She would sooner scratch his eyes out—which she would, at the first opportunity.
Steeling herself against the disquieting awareness he aroused in her, she suffered him to lift her down from her mare, but she broke away as soon as her feet reached the ground.
She was weaker than she realized, though. She nearly stumbled in her haste to be free. When his fingers tightened on her arm to steady her, Alysson twisted from his grasp, her pulse accelerating in alarm. "Don't touch me!"
He let her go without argument. With a slight shrug, he turned to gather the reins.
Shaken, breathless, Alysson watched warily as he led the horses to the spring so they could drink. Gingerly then, she shook out her weak limbs and stretched her sore muscles, at the same time looking around her, searching for a private place in which to take care of her needs, or better yet, an avenue of escape.
Even as the thought formed, a wild idea occurred to her. She could not hope to elude him on foot, but if she could manage to steal her horse . . . It might be grasping at straws, but she had to do something.
She stole a glance at her fierce captor. He seemed to be paying her little attention. Indeed, his whole attitude suggested supreme confidence, even arrogance. No doubt he was certain she wouldn't have the nerve to attempt an escape, or that he could catch her if she did try. Well, she would show him he wasn't dealing with a frail female who fainted at the first sign of adversity.
But first she had to improve the odds.
Forcing herself to adopt a more conciliatory manner, Alysson approached him warily. When he turned, one eyebrow raised in question, she held out her bound hands. "Do you suppose you could release me? I cannot manage . . ." She faltered, avoiding his golden gaze, as if explaining how awkward the fastenings of her breeches would be with her hands tied embarrassed her. Which it did; the blush that rose to her cheeks was not at all fabricated.
He stood looking down at her for a long uncomfortable moment. Alysson refused to look at him directly, but she could feel him taking her measure. To her dismay, she felt like squirming beneath his intent scrutiny. What was it about this man that unnerved her so?
When the silence drew out, she risked a glance up at him. His face, overshadowed by that black turban, showed no indication of what he was thinking.
"Where can I possibly go?" she asked with a helpless little nod that indicated their rugged surroundings.
When he still made no reply, she tried once more. "Please . . . the binding is hurting me."
That at least brought a response; abruptly he caught her arm, holding her wrists up for his inspection. The slight scowl between his brows as he eyed her chafed skin indicated what? Alysson wondered. Suspicion? Anger? Remorse?
Without commenting he reached inside his burnous and drew the curved dagger from his belt. Alysson couldn't manage to stifle a gasp as the wicked blade flashed in the late-afternoon sunlight.
"Be still," he ordered. His tone was harsh, but his face softened minutely as he cut the woolen cord from her wrists, freeing her.
As soon as he was done, Alysson pulled away and rubbed her sore wrists. "Thank you," she said gratefully.
"Make haste, mademoiselle," was all her captor said in return. "We have a long way to go before nightfall."
For once Alysson did as she was bid. Slipping behind a craggy boulder, she attended to her personal needs quickly. He was waiting with the horses when she returned. Like before, he helped her to mount the gray mare, but unlike before, Alysson gave him no resistance—until he turned away to secure the mare's reins to his saddle.
It was the moment she had been waiting for. With a frantic lunge, she grasped the reins and pulled with all her might, ripping them from his hands, startling a low oath from him. The instant they broke free, she used them to lash at the black stallion's hindquarters, trying to drive it away. Even as the animal shied, she spurred her own horse into a gallop. She had difficulty guiding the mare with reins only on one side, but direction seemed far less critical than speed.
For the space of a heartbeat, she tasted the sweet glory of freedom. Then Alysson heard a sharp whistle and glanced frantically behind her. The stallion had whirled and returned obediently to its master, coming to a skidding halt before him.
Scarcely pausing to gather the reins, the Berber leapt into the saddle and came after her, his black robes streaming in the breeze.
Alysson redoubled her efforts, but it was hopeless. In a matter of moments, her pursuer caught up to her. This time, though, he plucked her from her mount with the ease of a hungry thief picking a ripe plum, and dragged her onto his saddle in front of him.
Wildly twisting, she screamed at him, flailing her arms, beating at his face and chest with all the strength she could muster, trying to break free of his grasp. "Vile coward, waning on women!"
Her struggles were to no avail. Abruptly halting the stallion, he wrapped both his hard arms about her, pinning her own at her sides, imprisoning her in an unyielding embrace.
"Devil! Fiend! Monster!" she sobbed against his chest, still refusing to admit defeat.
"All the more reason
to do as I say," he hissed in a low, hard voice.
"Let me go!"
"No, mademoiselle. You cannot be trusted with your own mount, so you will ride with me."
"No, never! I won't!"
The pressure of his grip increased, tightening about her ribs until she thought he might crush the very breath from her lungs. “Will you yield?''
What choice did she have? Finally ceasing to struggle, she managed to nod in surrender.
His fierce embrace immediately eased.
Gasping for air, she closed her eyes in defeat. She lay there awkwardly, half-sitting, half-sprawling in her captor's lap, her face and right shoulder pressed against his chest, her heart still pounding. She refused to acknowledge the stinging tears that were running down her cheeks, yet as he urged the stallion into a walk, in pursuit of the mare, Alys- son's thoughts gave her no peace. What good had her attempt at escape done her? Not only hadn't she succeeded, but now she was required to suffer the indignity of sharing a mount with this savage brute. Her discomfort was acute. The Berber saddle was not fashioned to accommodate two riders. The high pommel was digging uncomfortably into her left thigh with each step the stallion took.
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