Lord of Desire (11 page)

Marshaling her courage, Alysson urged her racing mare forward, till she rode alongside the galloping stallion. Her captor turned his head slightly, one dark golden eyebrow raised in question. She started to shout at him, but realized it would be too difficult to make
herself
heard over the pounding hooves. Leaning forward as far as she could reach, she tugged on her mount's bridle, which made the mare swerve into the stallion. Thankfully, the Berber brought the grueling pace to a halt.

"What have you done to my uncle?" Alysson demanded in breathless English, forgetting that all their previous conversations had been in French.

Not a flicker of understanding crossed the carved mask of his features, but he set the horses in motion again, this time at a rapid walk.

"You . . . you savage brute. If you have harmed him, I swear I will see you hanged!"

"Either speak French or don't speak," the Berber answered in a mild tone.

Glaring, she took a breath and tried again in French. "Very well,
what—have—you—done—to—my—uncle?"
she said through gritted teeth.

"Not a thing. He was to be set free as soon as you were safely in my power."

Could she believe him? Alysson wondered, searching his face. His eyes were as bright as topaz, his gaze as intent as the sharp look of
a hunting
bird—and just as steady. They were not eyes that lied.

The tense set of her shoulders relaxed the slightest degree. At least that was some comfort; he didn't want her uncle. She didn't have to worry about Honoré as well as herself.

But Uncle Honoré would be frantic with worry for
her,
Alysson suddenly realized. She had to extricate herself from this situation before he worked himself into
a frenzy
.

But first she had to discover why this black-robed devil had abducted her, what he planned to do with her. Perhaps he might even be persuaded to release her, she thought with burgeoning hope. She hadn't yet tried bargaining with him.

"You don't have to go to the trouble of carrying me off," she said, trying to remain calm. "If you mean to hold me for ransom, I can tell you now, my uncle will pay a great deal of money to have me safely returned."

"It isn't money I want." Not a whisper of emotion was evident in his soft tone, or on his hard features.

"What is it then? What
do
you want?"

He didn't reply; his only response was a long, frustrating silence.

"The soldiers of my escort won't allow you to take me far. I expect they are directly behind us. They will hunt you down and shoot you like a dog."

"I doubt it." He shook his head as if remembering. "Such brave men your guards were, to give you up without a fight. They had no more discipline than sheep."

Though she had thought the same thing, his scoffing tone goaded Alysson into defending her French escort. "They weren't at fault! They had no one to direct them. Their commanding officer became ill—"

Even as she said the words, sick understanding dawned on her. The lieutenant had become ill only that morning. As had
Chand . . .
Oh, God . . . Chand.

Anguish etched her features as she cast him an imploring glance. "Chand . . . my
servant . . . please, tell
me you didn't have him poisoned?"

"No." He shook his head abruptly. "Your servant is unharmed. The right herb sprinkled in his food merely made him ill. In a few days he will recover completely. But it will be too late for him to find you."

Absorbing the import of her captor's revelation, Alysson stared at him with mingled dismay and contempt. He had planned her abduction down to the last detail. "You
bastard,"
she said with soft loathing.

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.