Yes, yes, it would matter, Jafar wanted to shout. The thought of this woman giving all her love to his blood enemy sent a cold knot of raw jealousy and despair coiling in the pit of his stomach. She couldn't love another man that deeply. She belonged to him.
The vehemence of his possessiveness took him aback. He had never before found a woman whom he had wanted for his own. For the past seven years, his time had been consumed with fighting and fulfilling his tribal duties. He'd seldom had the leisure to indulge his sensual nature, and never the inclination to pursue the business of getting sons to follow him and inherit the leadership of his tribe. Against tradition, he had not established any concubines in his harem or acquired any wives. He'd taken his pleasure among the sultry courtesans of the neighboring Beni Ammer tribe or the Arab beauties of the wandering Ouled Nail nomads, never keeping one long enough to bore him or plague him with the jealousies and cunning stratagems for attention that females so often engaged in.
Alysson Vickery was the only woman he had ever wanted to possess. Not possess in the Eastern sense. Though Berber society was far less restrictive than Arab regarding the female sex, in Eastern cultures women were considered merely the instruments of a man's pleasure, the bearer of his children. But Alysson would mean more to him than that. He sensed that she might touch him, fulfill him, satisfy him in some way he'd never been satisfied before.
Jafar reached up to fondle a lock of her hair, his fingers caressing it. Nearly dry now, it was fragrant with the sweet- smelling herbs that he had used in the rinse, and it stirred his senses.
Indeed, just looking at her now made him ache to kiss her, to take her. She would be wild as a hawk in her love- making if she ever came to give herself to him freely. Freely. He wanted that more than anything except his vengeance. He wanted to see the same love and devotion on Alysson's face that his English mother had felt for his Berber father, the same desire. He wanted Alysson's eyes smoky with passion, her slender body swollen with his child . . .
A tight band suddenly wrapped around Jafar's chest at the breathtaking vision. His child. His sons, who would possess their mother's fiery courage. His daughters, who would have her passion and independence—
Abruptly his fantasies came crashing back to earth with a violence that shook him. There could never be children between them. His vow of revenge must be fulfilled. He would have to kill the colonel, her fiancé. And in doing so he would destroy any chance that Alysson would yield to him willingly.
She was still watching him, Jafar realized, and with a questioning plea in her eyes. Suddenly he no longer wanted to know how deep her feelings for Bourmont ran, or how intense the love she felt for the colonel was.
"No, it would not matter how much you loved him," Jafar said, his voice low and hoarse.
When her pleading look turned to anguish, the torment in her eyes was nearly more than he could bear. His hand moved to her cheek, a gentle touch grazing the flesh. "I cannot forsake my duty, even for you."
His own eyes were dark with regret and a glaze of passion that Alysson didn't want to recognize. She stared at Jafar numbly. "And I cannot," she whispered, "sit by and do nothing while you plan to murder the people I love."
Unable to hold her gaze any longer, he looked away.
The bleak chill of despair came seeping back into Alysson's soul once more in full force. Turning, she shivered.
At her trembling, Jafar became aware that the shadows were lengthening and the temperature rapidly dropping as the sun slipped behind the horizon.
"Come," he said quietly. "It grows cool."
Lifting her in his arms, he carried her back inside—but not to the bedchamber. Instead, he settled her among the silken cushions in the main room, then busied himself retrieving a blanket with which to cover her, lighting an oil lamp, closing the tent flap against the evening air.
Not for the first time, Alysson was struck by the consideration and care he showed her, the extreme tenderness that contrasted so dramatically with the determined, ruthless man she knew him to be. Just now, the lamplight shone on his gilded head and muted the hard lines of his face, disarming and softening.
Against her will, she lay there watching Jafar, studying his austerely handsome features, as if she might find the key to the enigma. It was almost as if he were two different men. One forbidding, hard, dangerous. The other gentle and compassionate . . . and almost vulnerable, in a way she couldn't begin to fathom. There was something lonely about him. More than that, there was a sadness in his soul, as if it held dark secrets that he could share with no one else.
Then she remembered the tale of his childhood. What would it be like to watch one's parents murdered so hideously? To be forced to watch their brutal tortures, unable to raise a finger to aid them? How could someone as proud and authoritative as Jafar endure such helplessness?
She couldn't hate him for wanting to avenge their murders, or for wanting to protect his people from the rapacious French. She couldn't hate him at all . . .
Alysson closed her eyes, deliberately shutting out this softer image of Jafar, yet unable to dispel her intense awareness of his nearness. A desolate smile of irony touched her lips. Sometime during the past days of pain and fear and despair, she had given up her futile attempt to despise him. And she very much feared that in the end, she would learn to want him, just as he had predicted.
Chapter 14
"They come! They come!" Mahmoud exclaimed as he rushed into Jafar's tent the following morning. "The French troops—they come!"
Straggling to sit up on the cushions where she'd been resting, Alysson stared at the boy in alarm. She had thought that when the time came for battle, her concern would only be for Gervase and her Uncle Honoré. But at Mahmoud's shouted revelation that the French army was on the march, the first thing that entered Alysson's mind was fear. Fear for Jafar. She had never before considered that Jafar might be wounded or even killed in the fighting. As a Berber warlord, he seemed so powerful, so invincible. And yet he was mortal. Bullets and sharp steel would penetrate his flesh as they would any other man's.
Raising a calming hand, Alysson momentarily pushed aside her disturbing reflections about Jafar and tried to question Mahmoud. He was nearly dancing with excitement, despite his crippled foot.
"Allah be praised! We will make a razzia on the French jackals!"
A razzia was an attack, Alysson eventually managed to learn. The Berber scouts that had been sent out to observe the enemy's movements had returned with a comprehensive report. A column of French cavalry had been sighted near- ing the mountains to the west. The force consisted of hundreds of mounted troops and an artillery train with at least two cannons. Alysson wondered if those guns were meant for a siege—a reasonable precaution if they expected her to be held hostage in the mountains.
Mahmoud did not know much else about the French army's intentions, or about his lord's plans. He thought it was a French general who led the column, but Alysson was certain Gervase had come as well.
"Those son of swine! Blacksmith's blood!" the boy cried, raising his fists in the air.
Knowing she would get little more useful information from the impassioned youth, Alysson made her way on shaky legs to the tent entrance, where she met a scene of bustling activity. The Berbers were making preparations for the battle to come, outfitting their mounts with weapons and food. Already tall saddles were bristling with arms and other accoutrements, while the horses' caparisoned bridles sported blinders, which would prevent the animals from being distracted by surrounding objects.
Alysson stood watching silently, her heart in her throat. The peaceful Berber camp had instantly become an instrument of war.
Yet how could she blame them? War was the only thing these sons of the desert understood. To them, war was survival. And total loyalty to their lord was a duty. They would live or die for him, as he commanded.
Saful, particularly, was a loyal servant, Alysson knew. Directly in front of her, the blue-eyed equerry was saddling
several mounts, one of which was Jafar's favorite black stallion. It appeared that Saful would accompany the Berbers into battle. Naturally he would be anxious for war. Not just for glory, Alysson suspected, but rather to redeem himself for his failure to guard her.
Just then she saw Jafar striding rapidly across the camp toward his tent. Not wanting to face him, she retreated inside to a far corner.
Her precaution was wasted. Jafar entered the tent, his eyes searching the shadows, and Alysson knew he was looking for her.
Spying her, he came to a halt. His face was taut as he stared at her, his eyes restless.
She thought he meant to say something, but without a word, he crossed the room and went into the bedchamber. In a few moments, he returned, dressed completely in black—full trousers, soft boots, tunic, burnous and turban.
“I will leave twenty of my men here in the camp for your protection, and that of the other women," Jafar said as he finished buckling the scabbard of a jeweled sword around his waist.
Alysson didn't contradict him, though she felt certain his men would not be for her protection, but rather to guard her. Jafar's next words took her aback.
"They have orders to escort you to Algiers, if it should happen that I don't return."
She stared at him in shock, startled more by hearing him voice her unspoken fear than his promise of safe escort. The stark realization that she might never see him again filled her with dread.
If he didn't return . . .
Her throat tightened. She couldn't bear to think of such a possibility. Despairingly, she averted her face, not wanting him to see the fear in her eyes. She had wanted to plead with him to spare Gervase, but the words were overshadowed now by the absurd desire to beg Jafar not to die himself.
For a long moment she felt his gaze on her, searching and intent, while a keen tension filled the silence between them.
Finally Jafar crossed to her side. She stood frozen, immobile, as slowly, hesitantly, he took her hands in his. "Alysson . . ."
She wouldn't look at him.
Again she thought he intended to say something, perhaps to repeat his reasons for seeking vengeance against Gervase. But he couldn't justify his violence to her, any more than she would be able to accept Jafar's death. There was nothing more to be said.
In the end, he gave a sigh and released her hands. Murmuring a brief farewell, Jafar turned slowly on his heel and left the tent.
The ache caught Alysson unaware. Could she bear to let him go away thinking that she hated him, that she didn't care whether he lived or died?
She tried to run after him, but her weak legs wouldn't allow her. Instead, she stumbled to the entrance, where she came to a sudden halt.
It was a sight to behold—nearly two hundred Berber warriors on their prancing steeds, their highly burnished weapons flashing and sparkling in the noonday sun. They looked as fierce and indomitable as the land they lived upon. In the faint breeze fluttered the green banner of the Holy War, alongside Jafar's own standard of red and black.
Jafar was already mounted on his magnificent black charger, his demeanor commanding and as intent as a desert hawk.
Please, she begged silently. Please take care.
He had started to turn the stallion when he caught sight of Alysson standing there, looking up at him with mute wretchedness. Jafar tensed, dreading to hear the words on her lips. She would ask him to spare her fiancé's life, and that he could not do. He waited, while the grit churned up by the horses' hooves swirled around him.
"Please . . ." she whispered, her voice so low that he strained to hear. But the words choked in her throat, and the remainder of her plea was lost as tears welled in her lustrous eyes. Faltering, she pressed a hand to her quivering mouth.
Jafar felt his heart wrench with a bitter emotion more powerful than anything he'd ever felt. He didn't need to hear the words; she was pleading for Bourmont's life, he could see it in her eyes.
Abruptly, he whirled his mount.
He didn't look at her again as he took his place at the head of his troops. With effort, Jafar managed to pretend that he hadn't seen the despair on her pale features, hadn't noticed the heartrending trembling of her mouth. With grim determination, he even attempted to dismiss her from his thoughts as he focused on the battle ahead.
But as he rode out of camp with his army of warriors, he was aware that Alysson's haunted gaze followed him all the while.
Against all inclination, despite his most determined efforts, her gaze continued to haunt him. Even on the eve of battle, Jafar couldn't forget the wrenching pain of leaving her behind.
It tormented his thoughts some twenty hours later, when he was ensconced with his men on a plateau of the Ouled Nail mountains. Jafar lay on his stomach, overlooking the narrow gorge below, a field glass pressed to his eye. His Berber warriors were scattered among the mountain ridges and crevices, waiting eagerly for the engagement to come. Beside him was his chief lieutenant, Farhat il Taib—the same red-bearded Berber who had acted as interpreter when they'd first accosted Alysson Vickery and her party nearly a month ago.
Alysson . . . his vibrant, defiant captive. She would never forgive him for what he was about to do. She would—
"They come, lord?" Farhat questioned softly.
Jafar was grateful for the interruption of his tortured thoughts. "Yes.", A quarter hour more, perhaps, and the enemy would appear blow.
He passed the glass to his lieutenant, then glanced over the heights, searching the shadows made by the glaring sun. The black burnouses of the Berbers blended well with the shadows as they waited under ledges and behind rocks. Like himself, his men were seasoned fighters who had seen several campaigns, but Jafar's strategy now was very different from the first battles Abdel Kader had fought against the French.
In the early years of the war, the Arab forces had proved victorious in driving back the rapacious French. Abdel Kad- er's army had exceeded 40,000 troops, while his cannon foundry and manufactories had supplies his Berbers and Arabs with the munitions of war.
But that was before they'd had to fight the likes of General Thomas-Robert Bugeaud, a marshal of France and commander of the French forces in Barbary. Bugeaud had revolutionized French warfare by mounting his infantry troops. With vastly superior numbers, he'd dealt Abdel Kader several stunning defeats, then set about the ruthless, wholesale destruction of the Kingdom of Algiers and the widespread massacres of her peoples. Abdel Kader's once-powerful army was reduced to partisan resistance, confining themselves to harassing the enemy, cutting off communications, executing sudden and unexpected sallies.
Jafar had developed his current battle plan along these lines. He commanded a smaller force by half than Gervase de Bourmont, but he had the element of surprise on his side, and a keen knowledge of the mountains. He and his men occupied the principle pass of the Nail, a narrow defile through which one could emerge from the High Plateau into the Sahara.
With great care, Jafar had planted the rumors that Alysson was being held captive here in the district of the Ouled Nail tribe. His plan was to oblige the colonel to enter the mountains by the gorge, where the constricted space would preclude the possibility of cavalry movements. Once Bourmont had passed below, Jafar's men would send an avalanche of scree and boulders into the gorge, cutting off the colonel's retreat. When the battle started, the Frenchmen would be entangled among ravines, trapped amidst precipices.
As for the vast remainder of the French troops, Khalifa Ben Hamadi would keep them occupied by falling on the enemy's flank. Here in the gorge, the Berbers would be led by Jafar's chief lieutenant, Farhat. Jafar wanted to be entirely free to meet his longtime enemy the colonel face-to- face.
"It is as you said, lord," Farhat murmured, handing the spyglass back to Jafar. "The colonel is in the lead."
Jafar held the glass to his eye, running it over the French troops as they filed through the mouth of the gorge. There were some eight hundred men, all mounted, most wearing lightweight blue unif
orms and kepis with neckcloths. At the rear rode a detachment of men dressed like the native Bedouins—a crack cavalry unit of Arab spahis employed by the French army.
The column was armed with two howitzers, yet the colonel's forces would never have the chance to fire their cannon; Jafar's warriors would prevent it. They stood ready to fire at his signal on the slender column as it wound through the rocky pass.
Jafar's glass swept nearer, over the leaders, and his jaw muscles clenched as he found the face he was seeking.
Bourmont. The name whispered like a demon through his mind.
Yet, oddly, he couldn't summon the fierce hatred that had always accompanied the thought of his blood enemy. Rather he felt numb, except for the tight knot in the pit of his stomach, and a dull ache in the vicinity where his heart should be.
How could that be so? For seventeen years he had waited for this moment. For seventeen years vengeance had driven him. Vengeance for the torturous murders of his parents.
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