Neither Alysson nor Jafar shared in that joy. Neither could banish the terrible feeling of despair that assailed them at the thought of the bleak future.
It had never happened before in the memory of Jafar's tribe. A woman had killed a lion!
How brave the infidel woman was! How courageous! How remarkable! She had killed the ezirn and saved the life of the lord!
The entire next day was spent in celebration and feasting, to honor Alysson's skill and daring, to sing her praises. The woman being honored, however, missed much of the celebration, for she was making preparations to leave with her uncle and her Indian servant on the morrow. The khalifa himself was to escort them part of the way to Algiers.
In actuality, there were few preparations to make. Alysson had only her clothing to pack, and most of that was accomplished by an ecstatic Chand. She spent the time, however, seeking out the people who had served her and cared for her during her captivity, those who had come to mean a great deal to her in the past two months . . . Tahar, the gentle young woman who had shared advice and kindness. Saful, her faithful guard. Gastar, the old healing woman who had saved her life. Mahmoud, the crippled, proud young boy whose emotional scars ran deeper than the scars on his poor face.
Of them, all, Mahmoud had become most dear to her. Despite his hatred for the European race, Mahmoud had accepted her and made her captivity easier to endure, albeit grudgingly at first. He had been her link to both to the world and to the strange culture into which she'd been thrown. He'd answered her curious questions about his people and volunteered stories on his own. More importantly, he'd fulfilled her longing to hear about his master. He had even tried to protect her from the spells of a Berber sorceress. How could she not feel tenderness toward a child who had come to her defense in the face of threats from a witch?
Or was her fondness for Mahmoud because she saw something of Jafar in him, something of the bitter, angry boy that Jafar once must have been?
Standing before Mahmoud, Alysson could hardly get the words to say good-bye past the ache in her throat. "I would like to thank you for your excellent care of me these past weeks," she told him in an unsteady voice.
Mahmoud wouldn't meet her gaze. "It was nothing. It was my duty to serve you as my lord commanded."
Despite his sullen, muted response, Alysson believed
Mahmoud might miss her almost as much as she would miss him. She held out the lion's paw that Saful had retrieved for her. "Perhaps you would accept this as a token of my appreciation."
The boy stared at the gift with distrust, before his scarred face suddenly came alight with an expression of awe. "Oh, lallah . . ."
Almost fearfully, he accepted the amulet and stood regarding it with reverence. Then clutching it to his skinny chest, he gazed up at her. "You do me great honor."
Alysson smiled through a haze of tears. She wanted to take Mahmoud in her arms and hold him, but any young man who considered himself a warrior, as Mahmoud did, would likely be offended and embarrassed by such womanly displays of affection. She settled for giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Afterward, she returned to her room. She tried to sleep for a few hours, but the sounds of revelry coming from the village and the savage pain in her breast kept her awake.
Beneath the mound of quilts of her sleeping mat, Alysson lay curled in a tight ball. God, how could she bear to leave Jafar? How could she endure the agony that was making her heart bleed? She felt as if it were slowly being ripped in two. And it seemed as if there was nothing in this world she could do to mend the torn pieces.
She went to him that night. She couldn't stay away.
The hour was late—well past midnight—and the household was long asleep as Alysson made her way through the darkness toward the lord's quarters. The guards let her pass. She entered Jafar's rooms quietly, through his library. The door to his sleeping chamber was open, and she could see a faint light issuing from within.
The glow was cast from a single, low-burning hanging lamp, Alysson saw as she paused at the threshold. Jafar's bed was a Berber bed, not Arab, with a wooden frame supporting layers of rugs and cushions. It stood in one corner beside a large carved chest of sandalwood inlaid with ivory. A brazier glowed in another corner, warming the room.
Jafar was not asleep. Rather, he was standing near the
high grilled window, staring down at the floor, at nothing. When Alysson took a step toward him, his head turned swiftly, like that of a wild animal sensing danger, his hand automatically stealing to the dagger at his waist.
Alysson caught her breath in a soft gasp at his action. The low sound lafar made was sharper, harsher, when a moment later she let her burnous fall from her shoulders. She was clad in silk so sheer that the curves and shadows of her body were clearly visible beneath it.
A still, breathless quietude filled the room as they stared at each other.
For a brief instant Alysson thought she'd imagined a look on Jafar's hard features that was almost vulnerable, a vulnerability that sat oddly on that arrogant face. But she was not imagining his fatigue. Seeing Jafar like this, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes weary, Alysson wondered if he might actually be feeling an inkling of the throbbing pain that was savaging her.
There was no indication of it when his voice came softly stealing through the silence. "You shouldn't be here, Ehuresh. ''
"I came . . . to say good-bye . . ." Alysson faltered, hearing the hope and hollowness in her own voice.
He moved toward her then, coming to stand before her. Capturing her face carefully between his palms, he gazed down at her, searching the shadows that made her eyes pools of mystery.
"What is it you want of me?" he asked hoarsely. No longer indifferent, his tone held a note that suggested emotion was crushing each syllable.
Alysson's heart began to pound painfully. What did she want of him? She wanted to love him. She wanted the touch of his mouth so much that she was willing to take the hurt with it. She wanted memories of him to sustain her through the bleak years ahead. She wanted to believe, just for tonight, that things could be right between them.
"I want to remember you . . ." she whispered as she raised her lips for his kiss.
With a harsh groan, Jafar accommodated her. Dragging her into his arms, he brought his mouth crashing down on hers.
It was a kiss of desperation, Alysson realized dimly. She could feel it in the way Ms mouth ground against hers, lit the fierce penetration of his hot tongue, in the thwarted thrust of his hard body—and she could see it in his blazing, searching eyes when abruptly he pulled away.
Those eyes were wild, fierce, naked in intent, as he tore at her diaphanous robes and his own djellaba. They remained wild as he scooped her up and carried her to the bed, then followed her down. Without pause, his hands tangled in her hair as he attacked with his mouth, as he covered her with his body.
There was no gentleness in him. She wanted none.. It was a naked moment of truth between them, a moment when need reigned supreme. His need to stamp her with his ownership, Her need to be taken.
His demanding fierceness sparked an answering wildness in Alysson. Blindly her hands sought his thick hair, while her body reacted with animal passion, straining, arching against bis powerful loins.
And then she was being filled by him, with his desperation. Her head thrashed from side to side at the heated carnality, at the intensity of desire so searing she thought she might perish from it. When the desperation became too much, she clawed at his back, sobbing his name, pleading for him to end her torment. In response, lafar caught her hips and pushed deeper, driving harder, until the frantic woman beneath him was shuddering under his deep thrusts. Her sharp cry of passion shattered his ragged control. Jafar went taut and reared back, letting her name burst from his throat in his own hoarse cry.
Afterward they lay gasping, entwined, the fury of heartbeats settling into a less violent rhythm. Eventually, Jafar drew slowly away, as if separating himself from her was like te
aring his limbs from his body.
Feeling similarly, Alysson turned weakly on her side so she could watch him. lafar lay sprawled on his back among the lush cushions, one arm thrown over his forehead, Ms eyes closed.
Her fearless Berber lover, she thought with mingled anguish and yearning. Slowly, shamelessly, Alysson Jet her eyes roam over him, drinking in the beauty of his body, his sleek muscled length dusted with golden hair, gleaming darkly in the lamplight. He was much like the lion she had hunted in the mountain, though not as savage. A wild and tawny beast, only half-tamed.
Purposely her gaze rose to Jafar's shadowed, sensual face. She wanted the memory of his face engraved in her mind.
She didn't regret coming here to him, Alysson thought silently. She had made love to him because she wanted to, because she needed to, because there were too many years stretching out ahead of her like a barren desert.
Just then Jafar stirred. As if he'd sensed her watching, his hand flexed into a fist, though his eyes remained shut. "So, Ehuresh, now you may remember me as I am . . . a cold, heartless brute . . . a savage heathen."
The bitterness in the soft laughter that accompanied his remark raked at Alysson's heart. "No," she whispered.
Abruptly his arm lowered and he turned his head to look directly at her. His eyes contained the fierce rebellion of a caged hawk, she saw, but it was a rebellion that ineffectually hid other, more powerful emotions. Alysson was startled by the torment she saw in his eyes. There was no mistaking it.
This was Jafar as he truly was, Alysson knew. A man torn by conflicts. She could feel the despair in him, the vulnerability, the bitterness.
"No," Alysson said fiercely, defiantly. "You aren't cold and heartless . . . you aren't a savage. You are just a man . . . fighting for what you believe in, against overwhelming odds."
His lips twisted in the semblance of a smile. Ah, Ehuresh, he reflected bleakly. Even in this you defy me. Yet an unwanted ache tightened in Jafar's chest at her passionate defense of him. She did feel something for him after all, he was certain. Perhaps a part of her even found this leavetak- ing a torment as he did—the physical part that he'd taught to feel passion. But what he wanted from Alysson went far deeper than mere possession of her body. He wanted her heart. And that he could never have.
Slowly he reached up to draw a gentle finger along the delicate line of her jaw. Stay with me, he thought silently, hopelessly.
Ask me to stay, Alysson pleaded just as silently, gazing miserably into his eyes.
Will you marry him when you return?
Why are you letting me go?
Jafar saw her eyes fill with questions, questions he knew she was too proud to ask, but at the remembrance of his blood enemy, he had to look away. He was sending Alysson back to her fiancé, back to the arms of the man he should have killed. The despair that had smoldered in his heart during the long weeks just past clawed at him now with savage force.
Despair. It was not an unfamiliar emotion to him, but he hadn't expected this kind of deep wound, this kind of raw agony. He'd never imagined, either, just how completely his defiant young captive would fill his life, his heart. Yet she had. And now he would be alone and empty again when she left. The agony washed over him again as he wondered how would face the years of stark emptiness ahead.
How could he find the strength to let her go?
And yet how could he not? In the long run, she would be far happier with her own kind. He had to remember that. Once she returned to her own people, she would forget him. In time her ordeal as his captive would fade to nothing more than a bad dream.
Against his will, Jafar's bleak gaze found Alysson's. There had been so much anger between them, so much pain and passion, so many things said and unsaid. But there was no changing the past. It was much too late.
And the dawn was coming too soon.
Wordlessly Jafar reached for her again, drawing Alysson into his embrace. All he could do now was see to it that she never forgot him.
"You will remember me," he promised harshly against her Sips. "You'll carry with you the feel of my hands . . . my body on yours . . . the taste of my mouth . . ."
And then there were no more words as Jafar set out to fulfill his vow. Neither he nor Alysson voiced the tormented thoughts that were uppermost in their hearts. But during their fierce lovemaking, they said silently with their bodies what they would not say aloud.
Chapter 25
Alysson was well-protected on the lengthy journey back to Algiers. The khalif himself provided her escort, along with Jafar's chief lieutenant, the red-bearded Farhat il Taib. Jafar would trust no one else with her safety.
The rain fell in torrents as the armed party negotiated the treacherous mountain passes, but Alysson hardly noticed the bone-deep chill. She felt numb all over, except for the awful hollowness where her heart should have been.
The journey took three days, the slow pace in deference to the rain and her Uncle Honoré. Honoré's ribs had not mended well enough for him to ride so he was carried by litter.
The miserable rain had stopped by the time Ben Hamadi left them near the outskirts of Algiers. The bright, cloudless sky once again glowed with a golden clarity particular to the Mediterranean, while the deep verdure of the hills surrounding the city provided a jeweled setting for the dazzling white seaport overlooking the harbor.
In contrast, the steeply sloping streets were dark and narrow. Alysson found it hard to repress a shudder once she had passed through the walled gates and descended into the town. Algiers with its history of treachery and despotism and cruel bondage now seemed oppressed and shut up—far, far different than when shed first laid eager eyes on it.
It was with great weariness that she drew her mount to a halt before the Moorish house she and her uncle had hired for the season. Numbly, she sat waiting for Chand to help her down. Had it only been a few short months ago that she had set out from here for the desert, in search of passion and adventure? She had found both, much to her sorrow.
So wrapped up in her misery was Alysson that she only vaguely heard a familiar voice shouting at her in English,
"Alysson! Where in the name of God have you been?"
Startled, she raised her gaze to the tall man in European dress who had rushed out of the house. "Uncle Oliver!" she breathed.
The next instant she found herself being dragged from her horse and crushed in a bear hug. Laughing and crying both, Alysson returned her Uncle Oliver's smothering embrace with all the strength she could muster.
A moment later, he abruptly held her away, his penetrating blue eyes searching her face. "Are you well, girl?" he demanded. Not giving her time to answer, he turned to Honoré with a scowl. "What do you mean, allowing her to be abducted by an Arab devil?"
There had never been any love lost between her British and French uncles, Alysson knew, bat never had their subtle enmity been less welcome. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she came to Honoréd- defense. "It wasn't his fault, Uncle Oliver! He tried to talk me out of going, but I wouldn't listen—just the way you never listen when your mind is set on an expedition."
“It never would have happened if I had been with you, by God."
Honoré, his face flushed, meekly accepted this scolding as he tried to climb out of his litter. Seeing him wince with pain and clutch his ribs, Alysson moved quickly to bis side, at the same time throwing a furious glance over her shoulder at Oliver.
"I'm entirely aware of your vaunted skills, Uncle, but the outcome would have been no different had you been there, except that you would likely have gotten yourself killed! As it was, Uncle Honoré did everything in his power to save me—in fact, he was wounded trying to rescue me. The least you could do is help him, instead of ringing a peal over his head.''
Oliver's fierce expression relaxed the slightest degree, though he made no apology as he went to Honoréd assistance. "Well, come inside then, you deuced old wine- maker, Cedric will want to examine you."
"Uncle Cedric is here, too?
" Alysson asked in amazement, her temper cooling.
"Yes, yes, come inside and you can tell us everything."
In short order, Alysson and Honoré were swept into the house, to be greeted by her third uncle, the physician from London. Cedric's embrace was a bit less violent and more reserved than his brother's, but just as loving. Alysson was surprised and humbled that he'd been so worried for her that he traveled all this distance for her sake. Until now nothing could drag him away from his precious hospital.
The new arrivals were given time to wash and refresh themselves before being subjected to an interrogation. An hour later found them all gathered in the long reception chamber—Uncle Honoré lying on a divan, the other two uncles sprawled on cushions. Too agitated to sit down, Alysson remained standing.
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