Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

  "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 myse
lf that if you loved me enough, you would make the decision to stay."

  "I wanted to stay, Jafar, but I was afraid—for your sake. I didn't want to come between you and your tribe, to cause more trouble for you. I saw how you were tried for showing mercy to Gervase, and i couldn't bear the thought of harming you further. I still can't. Are you certain your tribe won't object if you marry me? I thought you had to marry for political reasons."

  "I still do. But you must understand the Berber concept of politics. Until now I couldn't offer you the marriage you deserved without betraying my duty. But if I ally myself with Bourmont, then my taking you to wife would not be compromising my responsibility as amghar to strengthen our tribal alliances. By Berber law, it is permissible for an amghar to marry outside tribal affiliations, even with an enemy, in order to extend the range of possible allies. Not only permissible, but encouraged. In this case, it would be highly advantageous for me to form an alliance with you, a foreigner who has the ear of the head of the Arab Bureau."

  She hesitated. "Is that why you want to marry me, to use me as an alliance?"

  She said it lightly, with a hint of exasperation, but Jafar caught the uncertain note in her voice and smiled grimly. "Come here," he commanded brusquely, not waiting for Alysson to obey before pulling her into his arms.

  He lowered his head then, taking her lips with a determination that left her reeling and totally reassured. His mouth retained the same possessiveness, the same hot fierceness it always had whenever he kissed her.

  By the time he finally ended the kiss and allowed Alysson to draw breath, her cheeks were flushed and her lips swollen and tender. Yet she didn't care. She wanted his fierceness, his jealous passion. Indeed, she hoped the savage nature of his lovemaking never changed.

  Jafar smiled in satisfaction as he surveyed her dazed expression, his own eyes gleaming hot and dangerous. "I do not kiss my allies like that, Ehuresh, or take them as lovers."

  "I should hope not," she said with a small, shaky laugh. "That was . . . very persuasive."

  Making a futile attempt to regain her composure, she smoothed the disheveled folds of her gown. Abruptly Jafar's gaze dropped to the neckline of her bodice which demurely covered the swell ot her breasts but left a tantalizing display of silken skin naked to his view. Desire flared up in him swiftly, uncontrollably, as he remembered the taste of those taut peaks, that sweet flesh.

  Yet when the increased volume of revelry from the crowded ballroom finally registered, Jafar shook himself. Releasing Alysson entirely—if reluctantly—he eased away so he wouldn't have to touch her and face such temptation.

  "I would like nothing more than to carry you away from here, Ehuresh," he said huskily, "to undress your exquisite body and make love to you all night long . . . but I expect it would be best if I first sought out your uncles and gained their permission to wed you."

  Having focused on the opening part of his provocative comment, Alysson had difficulty finding the voice to contradict him. "That isn't necessary, Jafar. I don't need my uncles' permission to marry."

  "Even so, I would prefer their blessing."

  "I expect they will be glad to give it. Their biggest concern is for my happiness. I imagine if you give your word that you won't abduct me again or make me your prisoner of war, they will be willing to accept you as my husband and welcome you into the family."

  The lightness of her tone seemed to lift a great burden from Jafar's heart. "I suppose," he returned dryly, "I could swear to behave in a civilized fashion."

  "Not too civilized, I hope," Alysson murmured. She didn't want Jafar to change. He was a man as proud and as fierce as the lions that roamed his mountain retreat, untamed and unlikely ever to be tamed. And she wanted him to remain that way. No doubt in the future she would frequently find him arrogant, difficult, possessive, dominating, and entirely infuriating, as she had in the past, but she wouldn't trade that future for all the riches in the world.

  "Still," he was saying, "I want to assure them I intend to care for you to the best of my abilities." Jafar hesitated again, his amber eyes showing that vulnerability that so touched her heart. "I cannot promise you anything but an uncertain future, Alysson. I can only swear that I will do everything in my power to make you happy."

  Finally allowing herself to believe in his sincerity, that

  Jafar loved her, that this moment was truly real, Alysson raised her lips again to touch his briefly, tenderly. "That is more than enough," she vowed softly. "I don't want empty promises for the future. I only want you."

  The love reflected in her eyes, shining clear in the moonlight, filled him with a tenderness that threatened to shatter him. It took every ounce of willpower Jafar possessed to direct his thoughts back to the present.

  "I must go and find your uncles," he repeated in a husky rasp, "so that we may discuss the bride price. Which one will drive the hardest bargain, do you think?"

  Alysson shook her head, not understanding his insistence. "Jafar, you don't have to pay for me to become your wife, I tell you."

  "Ah, but I do, Ehuresh. It is our custom . . . and I don't want your uncles thinking I want you only for your fortune."

  She laughed softly again, this time with genuine amusement. "I'm certain they'll realize it is no such thing. As much as you despise foreigners, your marrying me could only be because of love."

  "What is important to me is that you realize it."

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise at his quiet tone. This humility was quite unlike him. She'd never known Jafar to lack that overwhelming confidence bred into him by generations of fierce rulers. Yet, after considering, she thought perhaps it might be wise to take advantage of the unprecedented moment.

  "I do have one misgiving of my own," Alysson remarked slowly. Despite the casualness of her tone, she was immediately aware of Jafar's sudden tenseness. "I think," she explained, tilting her head to one side as she looked up at him, "I could perhaps learn to address you as 'my lord,' but I honestly don't know if I could ever bring myself to call you 'master.' "

  His tension fading, Jafar gave her a smile that was one part tenderness and three parts seduction. "That was a foolish declaration that never should have been made—besides which there's not an ounce of truth in it. By Berber custom, I may be your master, but you rule my heart, Ehuresh. "

  "Is that so?"

  "Indeed, and I intend to spend the rest of our lives proving it to you."

  Her throat suddenly tight, Alysson gazed back at him with desire glimmering in her eyes. At her melting expression, Jafar inhaled a sharp breath. When she looked at him like that, with such naked longing, his blood quickened with such a rush of hunger that he wanted to take her right then and there. He wanted to bury himself so deeply inside her that neither of them could tell where the other began or ended.

  Helplessly, despite his stated intentions, Jafar reached for her again, his fingers closing possessively on her arms. "Ah, Ehuresh," he whispered, his warm breath caressing her mouth, "can you not see how very much I love you? What power you hold over me? You can conquer me with a glance, vanquish me with a smile from your sweet lips, crush me with the merest frown—"

  “Jafar, do you mean to shower me with meaningless flattery, or will you behave like a man of action and kiss me again?"

  At her challenge, he laughed, and the laughter stayed inside him as he lowered his head once more.

  It was a long time before either of them remembered their initial intentions of gaining a familial blessing for their passion, and a longer time still before they rose together and, hand in hand, went in search of Alysson's uncles.

  Epilogue

  Paris,1852

  Following his wife into their plush hotel suite, Jafar tossed his chapeau on a side table and began peeling off his gloves. With fond tolerance he watched as Alysson shed her own outer garments and restlessly threw open the windows to look out over the vibrant French metropolis. It was obvious she was still excited and keyed up after the day's revelry. Yet h
e himself was feeling the exhilaration of the moment after so many years of striving fruitlessly to negotiate his sultan's release.

  Events after the war had not gone as he'd hoped. Abdel Kader's surrender had been followed within a few weeks by a revolution in France and the end of King Louis-Philippe's reign. The new French government, in violation of the promise to allow Abdel Kader to seek refuge in a Muslim country, instead had imprisoned him and his family in France for nearly five years. During the entire interval, Jafar had spared no effort to free the emir, efforts which included persuading his ducal grandfather to petition the French emperor.

  But now Abdel Kader's treacherous detention on French soil was finally at an end. At the invitation of Napoleon III, Jafar and Alysson had journeyed to Paris for the celebrations and to pay their respects to the Arab leader. Alysson claimed to be enjoying herself, yet this was only the third day of parades and ceremonies, and already she was professing an eagerness to return to Algeria.