Lord of Desire (8 page)

Lifting the hem of her filmy skirts, Alysson turned and ran along the path and up the stairs, seeking the safety of Gervase's house. When she reached the curtained doorway, she threw an agitated glance over her shoulder, searching the garden below.

He still stood there, watching her, a sleek shadow in the night.

Quivering, Alysson made her escape. She, who feared nothing and no one, fled as if a real murderer were on her trail.

The man she left behind in the garden court stood there a long while, shifting through the inchoate emotions assailing him.

First, the unwanted attraction.
He'd thought he had shed any lingering penchant for things European—clothes, horses, women. When he'd returned home to Barbary and resumed his name of Jafar el-Saleh, he had eschewed any trappings not of his own culture. Relentlessly he'd rooted out all traces of his old life, crushing even the desires he had learned during his banishment in England, in an effort to purify his thoughts and deeds and actions, to make
himself
worthy to lead his tribe. But that determination had wavered a short while ago as he'd stood outside the reception hall, watching Alysson Vickery through the filmy curtains. And later, when she'd made her way down toward him in the courtyard, the sight had taken his breath away. The pale gossamer of her gown shimmered as she floated down the steps, her bare throat and shoulders gleaming in the faint light. She was a natural temptress, alluring and provocative. He had felt the quickening of a raw flame leaping in his loins.

The second unexpected sentiment was surprise. He'd been startled to recognize her, to realize the vision of loveliness was the little ruffian who had once pelted him with acorns, the same girl he had comforted years ago. But it was she, Jafar had no doubt. He could never have forgotten those huge, rebellious gray eyes. Here in the garden, they were no longer filled with pain. Instead, they held pride and a sharp intelligence that was unusual in a woman. There was an open, forthright quality about her gaze that contrasted keenly with the submissive deference of Eastern women.

Yet she still possessed the same defiant spirit he remem
bered. A defiancé that was both intriguing and infuriating. In one stroke, she had managed to rouse both his passion and his male pique. He had never before been treated so dismissively by a woman, but tonight not only had she challenged him to kiss her, she had laughed at him as well. How he had wanted to respond to that challenge! He'd found himself fighting down the insane impulse to bend his head and slowly, endlessly kiss the irreverent laughter from her soft, inviting lips.

Next in his surfeit of unwanted emotions was unease. It disturbed him to realize that
she
was the fiancée of the man he intended to kill. It disturbed him more that she would be his means, the instrument of his revenge. He had done his best to warn her, as had the colonel, but she'd scoffed at the dangers. She meant to go forward with her plans to explore his country, despite the risks. In bemusement, Jafar shook his head. Not only was the young lady courageous but strong-willed. It had been written in every line of her slender body, in the lift of her arrogant, yet surprisingly delicate chin.

And last, regret.
He regretted having to involve her in his personal vengeance.

But not enough to forsake his purpose.

A muscle tightened in his jaw as he renewed his resolve. No, he would not change his plans because of her. He had waited too long for this moment.

Quelling his misgivings with ruthless determination, he turned and disappeared into the night shadows.

C
hand was ill.

The second morning of their journey, Alysson's Indian servant was stricken by a mysterious malady that re
sulted in an ailing stomach and a low fever. The lieutenant in charge of their escort, too, suffered the same complaint. The cause of their illness no one knew, but conjecture was that they'd eaten something that disagreed with them. No one else in their party took sick. Not Alysson, nor her uncle, nor their Arab guides, nor any other of the French troops sent to guard them.

Alysson wanted to cancel the expedition entirely, knowing any enjoyment for her would be spoiled as long as Chand was ailing. But for once Uncle Honoré overruled her. As long they had come this far, Honors declared, they might as well visit his prospective property before returning to Algiers.

It was decided that Chand and the lieutenant would remain there at the campsite, with an Arab servant to care for their needs. If they recovered quickly, they could catch up to the party; if not, they would all return to Algiers together, and scotch the lengthy trek to the desert.

Alysson had to be content with the new plan. But still she worried about Chand who, like her, normally was never ill. His unexpected affliction filled her with a vague foreboding, coming as it did on the heels of that absurd warning by the savage stranger in Gervase's garden two nights ago. She managed to repress a shiver at the memory, but as she said farewell to her faithful servant, she wondered what more would go wrong during their journey.

Chand clearly shared the same concern, for his strangely pallid face was contorted more in woe than in pain. "Allah, forgive me," he breathed. "I have failed you, memsahib."

"Goodness, Chand, you are not to blame for becoming sick."

"You will take care?"

"Of course I will—if you promise to do the same."

It was nearly noon by the time they broke camp and started on their way. Alysson rode beside her uncle. The day had already grown hot, although yesterday morning when they'd ascended the steep green hills behind Algiers, it had been quite chilly. They'd made good time then, considering the number of horses and pack mules in their party; by noon yesterday their procession had descended from the high, hilly coastal region where evergreen trees predomi
nated, to the broad and fertile valley that the French colonists had settled.

The Plain of Algiers was precisely what Alysson had been lead to expect—miles of graceful undulating farmland, hemmed in by mountains. Here trees of wild fig and olive grew in abundance. Today, like yesterday, they passed acre after acre of orange groves and well-cultivated fields sown with barley and wheat and millet. Watching the harvest ripening under the African sun, Alysson felt her mood lift somewhat. Her Uncle
Honoré
's vineyards would prosper here.

As for herself, she would never be content to settle in such a tame region. Her gaze traveled farther south across the rolling landscape. In the distance, she could see the lower slopes of the mountain range known as the Tell Atlas. It was there that she longed to explore. There, and beyond, where the wild country lay, the remote steppes of the High Plateaux, and the barren desert.

She had dressed appropriately for such rugged terrain, in a severely tailored jacket of blue serge, short blue pantaloons, and a stout pair of boots. A wide-brimmed felt hat protected her face from the burning sun and her eyes from the dazzling glare. Her masculine attire was less a matter of convenience than of necessity. In the thick woods and mountain heights she would eventually encounter, the long skirts of a riding habit would be sadly in the way.

Likewise, she rode astride, eschewing a sidesaddle for both comfort and safety. Her mount, a gray Arab mare, had proved a delight—spirited but manageable.

They had been riding only a short while when she first noticed the horseman. He was some distance off the road they traveled, half-hidden by the shadows of a tamarind tree. He wore native dress—black robes and turban—and sat un- moving upon a powerful black horse, watching them. Alysson couldn't help but glance over her shoulder as they passed.

And hour later, her attention was again riveted by the horseman. This time he was poised on the crest of the hill above them, making a dark silhouette against the azure sky.

Both rider and horse were as still and silent as the desert.

Alysson felt a prickle of alarm as she noticed the long- barreled rifle slung over the horseman's shoulder. Her apprehension was absurd, of course; Arabs always carried such weapons. Still, her hand surreptitiously sought the double- shot pistol in her saddlebag.

The next instant proved her caution well-founded, for the horseman suddenly unslung his gun. Instinctively her fingers clenched around the pearl handle of her own weapon.

Yet she was given no cause to use it. Whirling, the dark figure set his horse to a gallop, the skirts of his black burnous flying straight out in the wind as he disappeared over the crest of the hill.

A moment later she heard the sharp report of the gun.

When her French escort immediately reached for their rifles, her Arab guide raised a soothing hand. "He hunts for boar," the guide informed them.

The French soldiers relaxed. Alysson did, too, somewhat, while her elderly uncle muttered a Gallic invective, directed at inconsiderate savages who had nothing better to do than frighten peaceful citizens.

It was late afternoon when the road threaded between two high hills covered with a wild tangle of Barbary fig. With her thoughts centered on Chand and his strange, sudden illness, Alysson was unprepared when a volley of rifle shots exploded all around them.

The next moment, a horde of black-robed Arabs burst from the shelter of the trees, galloping in a wild path around them, brandishing swords and muskets.

The chaos was instantaneous, the attack so sudden that the French troops had time only to form a protective circle around Alysson and her uncle. She herself was occupied controlling her mount and imploring Uncle Honoré to keep his head down, trying to make her voice heard over the shouts and gunfire.

It was a moment before the clamor quieted. When the haze of dust and heat finally settled, Alysson found herself, her uncle, and their French escort surrounded, with three dozen Arab muskets pointed at them.

None of her party seemed to be hurt, she saw with relief. Her uncle's face was red with anger and her own breath was too ragged, but they were both unharmed. Assured of Honoréd safety, she focused her attention on her attackers.

They all wore black robes, while their heads and faces were wound in long black scarves. Their eyes glinted through the slits, as did the blades of their long curved swords thrust without scabbards in their belts. Alysson was quite glad she had the protection of the French soldiers. Because of them, she wasn't afraid . . . yet.

Then she spied the dark horseman, the same man she'd seen twice earlier that day. Her heartbeat took on
a
erratic rhythm. Had he been following them?

He rode a great black beast with a high curved neck and long flowing tail, and like the others, his features were hidden in the wrappings of his scarf.

When he issued an order in a low commanding tone, she couldn't recognize a word. It wasn't Arabic, she was certain. Perhaps it was the Berber language, which she didn't speak at all.