Lord of Desire (46 page)

With a silent oath, Jafar dragged the glass's focus from

Bourmont and aimed it further along the column. The knot in his stomach twisted as he found another familiar face, this one ruddy and round.

Alysson's French uncle.
And beside him, her Indian servant.

He had expected as much, though he'd hoped fervently they would remain behind. It was a foolish, futile gesture to accompany the colonel. They had no experience with war, with death. But he couldn't blame either of them for making the attempt. If Alysson had belonged to him, he too would have tried to save her.

Beside him, he felt Farhat tense. When the Berber pointed, Jafar followed the direction of his gaze. To the north, in the distance, rode Ben Hamadi's calvary, moving like a swift cloud over the plain, spurring storms of sand. In the wind streamed Abdel Kader's standard, white with an open hand in the center. The Arabs charged toward the enemy, a great sweep of them, though they had not yet been seen by the French.

Jafar nodded. "The time has come."

The time for vengeance.
The time for ending the blood feud.

He forced thoughts of Alysson from his mind, welcoming the chilling calm that settled over him.

Backing carefully away from the ledge, Jafar murmured his final orders to the men who would remain above. Then he and Farhat climbed down the steep slope, into the chasm where the horses stood. They mounted silently.

Then they waited.

In a few moments, the tension of silence was broken by the sound of steel-shod hooves echoing off rock.

Jafar raised his hand.

Presently a low rumbling noise filled the air as an avalanche of rock and earth tumbled into the pass, followed by startled French oaths and shouts of alarm.

Jafar's arm dropped sharply.

Immediately the Berbers commenced firing at the oncoming
enemy . . .
not directly at the Frenchmen but all around them, so as not to hit the colonel. The pleasure of killing Bourmont belonged strictly to their lord.

The Frenchmen were disciplined troops, however.

Warned by the noise and tumult of the avalanche, they reacted well to the ambush and brought their rearing mounts under control.

"Aux armes!
Aux armes!"
came
the cry from several of the leaders. In response, the cavalry troops regrouped in the crowded gorge, their column drawn up in a square, facing outward with rifles and bayonets, equally defended on all sides so as to resist a vigorous attack.

And it was vigorous. The Berbers charged with hoarse shouts, urging their mounts along the rocky pass, while those who had been concealed by the rocks rose up before them, swarming over the rugged ground, brandishing glistening swords and firing to shake the steadiness of the French column.

The gorge became closely packed with horses and men. Jafar preceded his warriors to the attack, plowing through the clustering files of French soldiers on his plunging charger, sweeping bayonets aside with his long blade. He felt at
ease,
cool even in the midst of battle, fearing neither bullet nor saber nor lance. His entire attention, his every nerve, was focused on finding the son of the man who had been his blood enemy for so many years.

Some five yards away, he saw Bourmont putting up a courageous effort amidst the flash of steel blades and the peal of the musketry. Beside the colonel, a volley caught a blue-uniformed man in the chest, while another fell, pierced by sharp metal. Jafar, surrounded by the screams of wounded horses, smoke wreathing around his head, pressed forward, deftly deflecting slashing enemy sabers and thrusting bayonets.

In the next moment the skirmish turned desperate for the French forces. They tried ineffectually to repulse the savage Berbers, who, incredibly, rode directly into their midst. Bewildered by the tactic, the French troops made a straggling and futile defense. Before the onslaught, their line was swept away, their formation broken.

"Alez!
Alez!"
Bourmont shouted. Obeying the order, his men leapt off their horses and gained cover to try to ward off the attack while they reloaded their weapons.

The Berbers reacted with cries of triumph. Their main goal had been to drive the enemy into the hills while their lord engaged the French commander in combat. Jafar took full advantage of the opportunity. Finally having a clear path, he charged the colonel, sword drawn.

Bourmont swung up his rifle to deflect the blow, but it never came. Instead, Jafar sent his stallion crashing into the colonel's mount. Suddenly unhorsed, the colonel leapt to his feet, drawing his own saber.

Jafar smiled in grim satisfaction. He sprang down from his stallion and attacked, vengeance driving him. The gleaming blades came together with a clash.

They fought hand to hand, violently, each straining for supremacy, both knowing this would be a fight to the death.

For a long moment neither man could gain the advantage. Bourmont proved to be a courageous adversary, but Jafar had the greater skill.
That, and the knowledge that justice was on his side.
He fought with all the fierce determination inside him—seventeen years of unassuaged rage and bitterness. His heart pounded with hatred, while blood lust surged in his veins, rivaling the explosion of gunshots.

Then abruptly the frequency of shots lessened, reduced to scattered fire.
In one corner of his mind, Jafar was aware of the sudden lull in the fighting. He could sense his men watching, and knew the battle was over. By now his warriors would have taken many of the French
troops
prisoner, and followed the others who had retreated in confusion.

Over the clanging of swords, he could hear another welcome sound. Beyond the avalanche of earth and boulders, shouts of joy resounded along the gorge. They came from Ben Hamadi's troops as the major contingent of French troops wavered, broke ranks, and fled from the victorious Arabs.

Jafar redoubled his efforts. With a fierce thrust of his arm, he sent the colonel's saber flying and Bourmont stumbling to the ground. The colonel lay there frozen, his chest heaving with exertion as he stared up at the savage black- robed Berber above him.

Jafar raised his sword to deliver the fatal blow. "Know you that I avenge the blood of my father!'' he called out in French, his voice a harsh cry that echoed off the rocky walls of the gorge.

Gervase de Bourmont stared up at him, unmoving. Jafar's
arm hung poised in the air as he met his enemy's dark gaze. There was resignation but not fear in the eyes riveted on him.
A man who sees his own death with regret but not trembling.

Perhaps it was trick of light, but the image before Jafar wavered and changed. Masculine features became feminine. Dark eyes faded to gray. Lustrous gray, filled with despair.

For the briefest moment, Jafar shut his own eyes tightly. But Alysson's haunting image remained; the memory of her anguish smote him.

Alysson.

Her tears.

Her torment.

Her love for this Frenchman.

With a cry akin to agony, Jafar brought the blade crashing down. Yet at the last possible instant his aim swerved. He made no contact with human flesh. Instead, the sword point thrust deep into the earth, a scant four inches from the colonel's head.

Chapter 15

T
he commotion startled Alysson from a restless sleep.

 
Was that rifle fire she heard?

Groggy and disoriented, she glanced in alarm around the darkened tent, only to realize it was the dead of night. So why did the bustiing sounds of activity make it seem that the camp was awake and stirring?
Jafar.
Had he returned? Her heart began a slow, painful pounding.

Abruptly Alysson struggled to her feet and groped for a garment to pull over her chemise. Then she hastened to the tent entrance. Within her, fear vied with weariness for supremacy. She hadn't slept at all two nights ago after Jafar
had ridden off to battle with his warriors, and tonight she had only managed to nod off from sheer exhaustion. Nor had she entirely recovered her strength from her nearly fatal bout with fever.

When she raised the tent flap, her gaze swept the chaotic scene: horses and men returning from battle.
Women and retainers rushing out to greet them.
Some firing
muskets in welcome, some waving flaming torches, all chattering excitedly. Had the Berbers been victorious?

Alysson dug her fingernails into her palms, her breath arrested as she searched the crowd for the man who held her fate in his hands.
Jafar, her captor.
Had he survived the battle? Had he succeeded in carrying out his blood vengeance?

Then she spied him, moving toward her on his black stallion, accepting as his due the rejoicing and the glad cries of his people. On some vague level of consciousness, Alysson was aware that the slow, painful strokes of her heartbeat eased the slightest measure. He was alive. He had returned to her unharmed.

Her throat aching with unshed tears of relief, she focused her gaze on Jafar, on his lean, proud face, a face that against all expectations of reason and prudence had become dear to her.

A silence seemed to descend over the camp as he drew his mount to a halt before his tent. Alysson couldn't speak. She simply stared at him. Jafar, too, was silent. He sat looking down at her, his expression hard and remote in the torchlight, and totally unreadable.

She desperately wanted to know about Gervase, about the outcome of the battle, but she couldn't force herself to ask and hear the dreaded answer. She couldn't face knowing he was
dead,
any more than she could face knowing Jafar was his killer.

Suddenly, Alysson caught the weak sound of a snarled oath from a short distance away.
An oath that was delivered in French.

For an instant she swayed on her feet, not daring to believe. But that cursing, plaintive voice came again out of the darkness, a voice as dear to her as Jafar's.

"Sweet
heaven . . ."
she whispered through a mist of mingled hope and fear. "Uncle Honoré."

She moved blindly across the camp, tripping and stumbling over the long skirts of her burnous until in a. gesture of impatience she jerked them up. She saw her favorite uncle through a haze of tears, recognizing the thinning silver hair shining in the torchlight. Honoré was
lying
on a stretcher, one end of which was drawn by a horse, the other dragging the ground. It was the kind of device appropriate for an invalid, or a wounded man. And his voice was feeble, even though he was busy swearing in pithy French that these heathens were trying to kill him.