Lord of Desire (39 page)

Alysson gazed into the general's fathomless dark eyes, not quite knowing how to respond to this bit of politeness. Certainly he would not want to hear about the trials of her captivity, nor would it do her cause any good to curse or revile Jafar before this powerful man.
Especially since he might very well hold her fate his hands.
Keenly aware that Jafar's hand rested possessively at her waist, she forced a civil reply.
"As well as can be expected under the circumstances, Excellency."

He gave her a gallant smile. "I shall look forward to becoming better acquainted with you later." Then, dismissing her with a wave of his hand, he reverted to Arabic to discuss with Jafar the arrangements for his forces.

Alysson gritted her teeth at this imperious treatment, thinking that the
khalifa's
obsequiousness resembled Jafar's at his most obnoxious. Mahmoud, however, seemed quite impressed that the general had spoken to her at all. Khalifa Sidi Ould Ben Hamadi was one of the leaders of the Holy War against the French, and it was a highlight of Mahmoud's short life to have touched the robe of the mighty man. The young servant sang Ben Hamadi's praises all morning long, until Alysson was ready to consign both Mahmoud and his precious
khalifa
to perdition, along with His Royal Munificence, Jafar el-Saleh.

Indeed, not only was she not pleased by Ben Hamadi's arrival, but the appearance of an Arab general in Jafar's camp disturbed her greatly. She could only assume his presence had something to do with Jafar's plan to lure the French army into battle. Why else would the khalif have brought so many forces bristling with arms? Mahmoud either did not know, or would not tell her.

She would have liked to ask Jafar, but he was occupied elsewhere—accommodating his guests, Alysson supposed. The entire camp was busy making preparations for a banquet to be held that evening in the khalif's honor. A hunting party that was sent out returned with the bounty of several gazelles, and a whole sheep was spitted and roasted for the occasion. All this Alysson learned from Mahmoud, for she was not allowed to leave Jafar's tent, or even look out the entrance. Saful was guarding her as if his life depended on it. Which perhaps it did, she thought wryly, remembering Jafar's lethal expression when she had tried to escape yesterday.

To her surprise, Mahmoud kept her company the entire day. Possibly because he felt sorry for her, Alysson suspected, though he didn't once mention his lord's fury at her yesterday, or how Jafar had tied her up after her attempted escape. Mahmoud was more forthcoming than usual, though, and he voluntarily gave her another lesson in the Berber language.

He also kept giving her odd glances, as if trying to determine the answer to a puzzle. Finally he came right out and voiced the thought that apparently had been bothering him.

"Why do you not turn away when you view my face, mademoiselle?
The highborn ladies of the French look upon me with fright and disgust when I show myself."

The question caught Alysson off guard and filled her with dismay; Mahmoud's disfigurement obviously troubled him deeply.

She regarded him solemnly, longing to console him. "My uncle in London is a doctor," she answered truthfully, "and I sometimes visited him at his hospital. I saw countless victims of smallpox there, many whose faces were disfigured worse than yours."

"Worse? Did they not frighten you, either?"

"At first, perhaps, but I grew accustomed to seeing them."

"I did not think it possible to grow accustomed to such ugliness."

The note of quiet despair in the young Berber's voice tore at her heart. And oddly, it made her think of Jafar. But there was a similarity between them, she realized. Mahmoud was much like Jafar must have been as a boy, his soul branded by bitterness and hatred. His scars were more visible, that was all.

Swallowing the tightness in her throat, she chose her words carefully. "There are more important things than appearance, Mahmoud. Your scars don't make you a better or worse person. It is who you are inside
that matters
. Courage and compassion, kindness—those are a test of man's worth, not how attractive he is."

Mahmoud gazed at her wide-eyed for a moment,
then
ducked his head. "But with my face, I will never find a bride. No female would wish to marry a man who looks as I do."

"I don't agree in the least," Alysson said, trying to keep her tone light. "Why, your scar might even prove to be an advantage. When your bride marries you, you can be sure it is because she loves you for yourself, not for any other reason. Trust me, I know about such things. All my life I've had to beware of suitors who only wanted me for my fortune. You won't have to deal with that uncertainty at least.'' She paused, reaching out to touch his hand gently. "Someday you will find a woman worthy of you, Mahmoud. I'm sure of it."

The boy looked away then, coloring with sudden embarrassment. Out of consideration, Alysson changed the subject and resumed the language lesson, but she knew she had comforted him, at least to a small degree. She wished she could do more.

Mahmoud's concerns momentarily made Alysson forget the magnitude of her own problems, but they shortly came back to her in a rush. She was not invited to dine at the banquet, but to her surprise, she was asked beforehand—or rather, ordered politely—to the
khalifa's
tent.

It was apparently an important occasion, for Tahar not only interrupted her many duties to help Alysson dress, but insisted that she wear the finest garment in her wardrobe, a caftan of rich forest-green brocade, with a haik of ivory silk to cover her hair.

Jafar was already present when she arrived at the large, ceremonial tent, but his enigmatic expression told her nothing. Flustered more by his cool look than by his illustrious companion's formal reception, Alysson did her best to ignore Jafar entirely. When Ben Hamadi
Honoréd
her by offering her a cup of the sweet mint tea, she accepted with a gracious smile.

She had hoped she might question the general about his reasons for coming here, but he evaded all her leading queries with the skill of an experienced diplomat and proceeded in his far-from-perfect French to tell her about the Sultan of the Arabs, Abdel Kader.

"It has been fifteen years, Miss Vickery, since Abdel Kader was proclaimed Commander of the Believers. There was no one better suited to champion Islam against the infidels. His
family were
sherifs, descendants of Mohammed.
His father, a marabout—a holy man.
In only a short time, Abdel Kader rallied to his standard all the tribes of the kingdom."

Alysson murmured some polite reply, remembering the first time she had heard of Abdel Kader. The valiant Berber chieftain had been viewed then with awe and admiration in the salons of Paris. But that was before the
Armee d'Afrique
had nearly gone down in defeat.
Before whole divisions of French troops had been annihilated by the fierce Berbers and Arabs.
Afterward society hostesses no longer had raved about the handsome, dashing, romantic sheik.

But she didn't want to hear about Abdel Kader. She wanted to know what military strategy Jafar and Ben Hamadi were planning to use against Gervase.

Unable to help herself, Alysson gazed across the low table at Jafar, aware that her anguish was written on her face for him to see. Jafar, in turn, was uncomfortably aware that her large, lustrous, troubled eyes were turned upon him.

"We pray Allah to smooth and prosper our affairs," Ben Hamadi droned on. "Just as you Christians pray to the prophet
Aissa . .
. Christ, as you call
him . . ."

Not listening, Alysson gave a start when Ben Hamadi interrupted her thoughts.

"I trust I have not bored you, Miss Vickery," the khalif said solemnly. "To have discomfited so lovely a young lady would be a shame to my beard."

Dragging her gaze away from Jafar, Alysson managed a faint smile. "Forgive me, Excellency. I am
Honoréd
that you would share your confidences with me. It has been a long day, though, and I find I am exceedingly weary. If you will please excuse me, I will seek my bed."

She suspected she had violated proper etiquette by asking to be excused, but with the throbbing headache that had developed behind her eyes, she couldn't bear to listen a moment longer to the khalif's effusive exultation of his sultan.

Fortunately he did not take offense, but instead nodded his dismissal. Not looking at Jafar, Alysson escaped into the cool night air with a feeling of relief.

As usual, Saful escorted her back to her tent,
then
settled himself at the entrance. Alysson wandered around the tent disconsolately, a black depression weighing her down, along with
a desperation
near panic. She had to act soon, but what could she do? The only way to protect Gervase and her uncle HononS was to escape in time to warn them of the treachery Jafar planned. But all her attempts at escape had been inept and disastrously unsuccessful. She was guarded day and night, and after her last aborted effort, Jafar probably would keep her bound in future, as well. If she did manage to leave the tent and find a horse, there would be a dozen pairs of eyes watching her—

Except now.
Now, when most of the camp was at the banquet.
Now, when her nemesis Berber captor Jafar was occupied.

Her hopeful gaze flew to where Saful sat just outside the tent. He had his back to her as he carved on a piece of wood. At the moment, he was the only one who would prevent her from leaving.
If she could render him senseless . . .

Slipping into the bedchamber, Alysson changed her clothing as quickly as she could, donning pantaloons, blouse, long-sleeved bolero, and her riding boots. She was shaking with anxiety and hope, she realized. Willing her heart to stop pounding so erratically, she retrieved the earthenware wash pitcher and hid it behind her back as she cautiously approached Saful.

She didn't want to hurt him, for he had been kind to her in his way. Yet she had to do it. Never would she have a
better opportunity. She raised the pitcher high above his head.

Some sound must have alerted him at the last moment, for he started to turn. Closing her eyes and biting her lip, Alysson brought the pitcher down on his head, flinching at the dull, sickening thud the weapon made. Saful collapsed without a sound.

She stared down at him for a startled moment, her stomach roiling. Slowly, forcibly, she bent down to check on him. She hadn't killed him, Alysson realized with a ragged sense of relief. He was still breathing.

Making herself back away, she collected a hooded black burnous from the bedchamber. In the darkness perhaps she could pass for a Berber woman. Now she had to find water and food for her journey. In the next tent, she came upon a full goatskin bag of that precious liquid. Several tents over, her search revealed both bread and fruit, which she wrapped in a cloth. What she thought would be the hardest task, however, proved the easiest. Tethered in front of the very next tent, she found a small, friendly mare who wore a halter of hemp.

Trying the water bag and cloth filled with food together, Alysson draped the bundle over the mare's back like a saddlebag. Then, untethering the horse, she led it quietly from the camp. She wouldn't dare risk trying to mount just now.