Chand must have understood her guilt, for his dark eyes were full of sympathy. "You have not to blame yourself, memsahib. These peoples of Barbary have been fighting the French foreigners before you came to this country, and they will continue to do so when you have gone."
She took comfort from his logic. And perhaps he was right. She was not to blame for every battle between the Algerines and their French conquerors, and not this battle, either. The deep-rooted animosity and bitterness had been festering for years. Jafar would have used any excuse to fight the French, if not on this occasion, then another. His quest for vengeance had demanded restitution. His hatred of Gervase . . .
Alysson drew a ragged breath, trying to summon her courage. She dreaded hearing about Gervase, but she had to ask. "And Gervase . . . Colonel Bourmont? Do you know what became of him?"
"No, I regret that I do not know. We were cut off from those troops under the Bourmont Sahib's command."
She closed her eyes, relieved he hadn't said that Gervase was dead. While there was uncertainty, there was still hope.
"You are weary, memsahib," Chand admonished in his sternest tone. "Why do you not seek your bed? I will see to your uncle."
Again Chand was right. There was little more she could do here at the moment. Besides, she had to see Jafar.
Nodding agreement, she bent and lightly kissed her uncle's ruddy cheek, then did the same to Chand's, much to his embarrassment. "You must try to get some sleep, too," she ordered. "I will return first thing in the morning to relieve you."
"Where is it that you will stay?"
Alysson hesitated. Naturally Chand would be concerned about the sleeping arrangements—and not only because he needed to know where to find her if Honord took a turn for the worse. Rather because it was Chand's custom to curl up each night before her door. She had long ago given up trying to prevent what he believed was his duty; her father had commissioned him to protect her, and protect her he would. And guard her virtue, as well.
A blush momentarily touched her cheeks. How could she confess to Chand, who had looked after her since she was a child, indeed had cherished her like his own child, that she slept in her captor's tent, that she had shared intimacies with Jafar which only a wife or mistress shared with a man?
"I have been given the use of a tent," she prevaricated.
"You will be safe, memsahib?"
The worried note in her servant's voice was a familiar sound. In reassurance, Alysson forced a smile. "Yes, I will be quite safe. And so will you, I promise." And she would do everything in her power to keep that promise, she vowed.
The victory celebrations had died down as she crossed the encampment, so her progress was unimpeded. There was no guard, either, to hover over her or prevent her escape. But there was no need, Alysson realized. She would never leave Jafar's camp now, not as long as her uncle was held prisoner, too. Perhaps that was precisely what Jafar had planned by bringing Honoré here, after all.
She found Jafar alone in his tent, standing at the far corner of the room. A single oil lamp burned overhead, wrapping the room in a soft welcoming glow, but Alysson hesitated at the doorway. For a moment she simply drank in the sight of him. She shouldn't feel so relieved by Jafar's safe return, she knew. Not when she had no idea what terrible fate had befallen Gervase. Not when Jafar might very well be a cold-blooded killer. Yet she couldn't dispel the warmth stealing into her heart.
Even so, she was unsure how to approach Jafar just now. He stood with his back to her, his golden head bowed—in the attitude not so much of a man in deep thought, but of a man suffering some heavy burden.
Indeed, Jafar was suffering . . . his thoughts tormented as he grappled with painful emotions. Unbidden images haunted him as he reflected on his actions of the previous day.
After the battle, he'd searched for Alysson's uncle among the dead and injured, and found him seriously wounded, enough to warrant immediate care. Coming to a swift decision, Jafar had given the order for the elderly gentleman and the Indian servant to be escorted back to the encampment. He had seen the questioning looks on the faces of his men at his decision; they were puzzled and disgruntled by the command to welcome a Frenchman into their midst. But they would not dare to dispute him.
It was perhaps not the wisest action to have taken, but he would make the same decision again. The old man's life would have been gravely endangered on the long march back to Algiers, without rest and proper care.
"Accursed fool," Jafar swore at himself softly, bleakly. Two months ago he would not have regretted the death of one more Frenchman. But that was before he had met Alysson Vickery. The aid he had rendered to her wounded uncle he had given for her sake. He knew enough about her to be aware of the deep love she bore for her uncle. And after all the pain and despair he had brought her, he was determined to give her this much.
Alysson.
Resolutely, Jafar closed his eyes, trying to banish the haunting images of his young captive. Yet he couldn't forget his first sight of her tonight . . . all sleep-tousled and ar- ousingly beautiful, despite the lines of fear on her pale face. Had any of that fear been for him? Had she been even the least bit anxious about him? Or was he only imagining the relief in her eyes when she'd looked at him through a mist of tears.
He hadn't imagined her concern for her uncle, though. Her distress over the elderly man's injury was palpable. Seeing it, Jafar had found himself fighting a fierce yearning, the wish that she would care that much for him. When he'd seen the tears streaming down her face, all he'd wanted was to take her in his arms and soothe her pain. Pain he had caused.
Those tears had scalded his conscience, a fiercely unwelcome emotion considering how he'd already flayed himself with guilt and disgust for turning his blade aside at the final moment. For not having the will to carry out his plan of vengeance.
Why, why had he abandoned his vow?
There was only one answer. Alysson. That, too, he had done for her sake. Because of her, he had spared the life of the man she loved. Because of her, he had disHonoréd his Berber name, his birthright.
Jafar's fists clenched convulsively. It was what he had always feared, what he had struggled against for years, his English blood taking preeminence over his Berber heritage. Never, though, had he dreamed he would break the blood oath he'd held as dear as his own life.
And now, Jafar thought bitterly, now he was left to face the enormity of his failure. He had betrayed both his vow and his tribe. Most of all he had betrayed his father's memory. And he would have to pay the price.
Despite his current position as his tribe's overlord, he would be required to answer for his actions. His was a democratic society, but Berber warriors followed only a man they respected or feared. It was not his way to inspire through fear, though. He was not some petty despot, to force obedience by might of arms. If he could not command the loyalty of his tribe by merit, then he did not want to rule.
But then, perhaps he did not deserve to rule now, after letting his blood enemy live—
"Jafar?"
His head came up abruptly; he hadn't heard Alysson's soft tread.
When he swung around and locked gazes with her, she was startled by the dark emotion shadowing his features. His lean face bore the marks of suffering.
"What is it?" she asked in alarm, moving quickly across the chamber to his side.
Immediately his expression became shuttered, his eyes lidded, withdrawn, secretive.
Her own eyes bright with concern, Alysson reached up to touch his stubbled cheek, wanting to comfort him.
It was the first spontaneous caress she had ever given him. It was a gesture of simple compassion.
Jafar abruptly drew back, as if her touch might wound him.
Alysson slowly let her hand drop, feeling dread return to curl in her stomach. When she searched Jafar's hard face, she could find no trace of the gentleness she'd once seen there. She knew she should demand at once to be told what had happened to Gervase, but it was a subj
ect she couldn't bring herself to broach. The truth was she was afraid. Afraid to face the possibility that Gervase was dead, that Jafar was responsible. And so cravenly she continued to put off the question.
A tense silence stretched between them . . . Alysson not knowing what to say to the hard, enigmatic man standing before her, Jafar waiting for her to ask about the fate of her fiancé. He could read the unasked question in her eyes: What of Gervase? What have you done to him?
Jafar's fingers slowly clenched into fists as he fought the onslaught of stinging jealousy. He should tell her, of course. He should allay her fears at once and let her know that her beloved Gervase was unharmed. But he couldn't bring himself to say the words, for then he would see her love for his archenemy confirmed in her eyes.
But her question, when it finally came, was not about Gervase de Bourmont.
"Why have you brought my uncle here?" Alysson asked quietly.
It provided only marginal relief to Jafar that she hadn't voiced her fears about Bourmont. He did not want to discuss her uncle, either, or his reason for bringing the elderly Frenchman here. For doing so would be to expose his weakness, his vulnerability. Alysson herself.
Fortunately, as a Berber warlord, he was not compelled to give her his reasons. He was still her captor; she was still his to command.
Jafar turned away abruptly, impatiently striding across the carpets to the bedchamber.
Alysson followed. At the curtain, she paused, watching as he began unbuckling his elaborately embossed sword and scabbard. "Why, Jafar?"
"Because it was my wish." The words were harsh, gritted out between his teeth.
She hesitated, struggling to fathom his anger. "Jafar, please . . . my uncle is an old man . . . and now he's severely wounded. Have you no pity?"
He cursed softly, while his fierce gaze sliced to hers. "I showed him pity, Ehuresh. Would you rather I had left him to die on the battlefield?"
"No . . . of course not."
Alysson twisted her fingers together in agitation. She was immensely grateful for the care Jafar had shown her uncle, but that couldn't ease her fears about how Honoré would fare as his prisoner.
She took a deep breath. She would not plead for herself, but she would pay any price to spare her uncle the ordeal of captivity. Yet she had only one thing to offer that Jafar might want. She swallowed hard. Could she humble herself to become the consort, the concubine of this vengeful Berber lord, a man she didn't know—But she did know Jafar. She knew that sometimes he could be tender and caring. She knew he could be fierce and unforgiving. She hoped he could be merciful . . .
"You once wanted me in your bed," she whispered, her voice so low he could barely hear. "You said you wanted me to submit to you. Very well, then. I will yield to you. I will call you master, whatever you wish . . . if you will only let my uncle go free."
Even in the faint light, she could tell she had struck a nerve, for Jafar's jaw suddenly hardened. But although he turned to stare at her, he still remained silent.
Alysson's gaze probed his anxiously, trying to read his granite expression. Did he no longer want her as his lover? The hardships of the past weeks could not have enhanced her physical charms, but Jafar's sexual desire for her once had seemed ardent enough to overlook her recent loss of weight now.
"Do you want me to beg, is that it?" Moving closer, Alysson came to stand directly before him. "Should I go down on my knees? I am not above begging you for my uncle's freedom, or that of my servant."
Startled by her offer, furious that she would consider humbling herself so, Jafar gazed down at her with glittering eyes. "My answer is no."
His face had darkened ominously, in a way that was almost frightening, but she wouldn't give up.
“Don't you understand? I am willing to bargain with you. Their freedom in return for mine. Release them and I will surrender to you of my own accord."
"A Berber warlord does not bargain with women!" he ground out, taking refuge in his position.
"In your culture, perhaps women have no power to bargain, but in mine it is done all the time! I mean it, I swear to you. It will be just as you wanted. I'll bow to your will. I won't defy you any longer."
His expression was no longer shuttered now. There was raw emotion in his eyes; his stance was rigid, his face drawn as though in pain.
And it was pain. Pain and guilt. He should release her, Jafar knew. An honorable man would have done so at once. Yet he couldn't bring himself to let Alysson go—for reasons he didn't want to admit even to himself.
Certainly, he had ample justification for continuing to hold her captive. Keeping Alysson and her uncle in his power would strengthen his bargaining position with the French. Yesterday at the battle's end, he'd taken the defeated Bourmont prisoner, to be exchanged later for Arab prisoners of war. But until the negotiations were final, he couldn't afford to give up the slightest advantage. Moreover, his tribe would never sanction setting his European captives free without recompense. Not now. Not after his failure to carry out his blood oath.
They were flimsy rationalizations, Jafar knew, but they were preferable to acknowledging another, far more damning reason he had to keep Alysson here.
He couldn't bear to let her return to the arms of another man.
Especially one man, his blood enemy.
Jafar closed his eyes, his lips twisting at the bitter irony. He wanted to laugh at this trap he had devised for himself, but he couldn't find the remotest humor in his present circumstance. It was a situation he himself had made possible—by betraying his oath of vengeance. If he had carried out his vow as he should have, he would not now be facing this bitter dilemma.
Yet there was really no decision to be made. The one thing he was not capable of doing was letting Alysson leave him. She was his, by Allah, his.
But she wasn't his. That was the hell of it. Because he had let his mortal enemy live, the young woman standing so anxiously before him could never belong to him.
Fury and despair welled up inside Jafar, making him want to lash out at her, to punish her for causing such weakness in him. "Are you so anxious to share my bed that you would sell yourself to me?" he demanded caustically.
Her chin came up abruptly at that. Her gaze was direct, defiant, in direct contradiction to the promise she had just made about no longer defying him. "I am anxious to spare my uncle any more hardship. If that means selling myself, then yes, I am willing."
Willing. That was what he had wanted, Jafar reflected. He had wanted her complete surrender, and now she was offering it to him. Her body for her uncle's freedom.
What kind of man accepted terms like that? What kind of man could walk away from such an offer? He didn't know if he had the strength of will to resist what she proposed.
Dragging in a deep breath, he managed to maintain a semblance of control as he forced a reply. “The fate of your uncle does not rest in your hands."
"Jafar, please—"
"No! I will not discuss it! I won't bargain with you this way."
She was silent for a long moment. Jafar stared down at her pale, beautiful face, feeling the pain in her questioning, pleading gaze, yet unable, unwilling, to end it.
"You wouldn't . . . hurt them, would you?" she asked finally.
The tremble in her voice smote Jafar with guilt. "No," he answered gruffly. "Of course I wouldn't hurt them."
"But you won't let them go?"
"No."
“Why? Because you need them here? Because you need me here? Do you still require my presence here to have your revenge?"
It had nothing to do with revenge, Jafar thought with vehemence—and was surprised by his conviction. When had he stopped thinking of using Alysson in terms of revenge? The moment she had threatened to take her own life with a Berber rifle? When she'd lain so near death from the venomous scorpion's bite?
He stared down at her, recalling with agonized clarity the lament of a Berber love poem he had heard years ago, about how terrible it was to d
esire and not possess. He had scoffed at such sentiments then. But that was before he knew Alysson, before he knew this burning need to take her and make her his, to brand her with his possession.
Alysson watched his silent struggle, trying to comprehend what it meant. "Will you at least tell me what you intend to do with us?"
Taking a step back, Jafar abruptly turned away. "You will accompany me to my home, where you will remain until your uncle's wounds heal."
"I . . . I don't understand."
"Your uncle will recuperate more comfortably in the coolness of the mountains. And there I can provide the amenities he and you are accustomed to." He hesitated before adding, "You will be my Honoréd guests."
Alysson shook her head bitterly. How like Jafar to couch his command in terms of a polite invitation. "We will be your prisoners, you mean."
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