Lord of Desire (41 page)

Praying it would help, Jafar pulled the sash from around her waist and tied it tightly around her thigh. Without giving her further time to protest, he made a shallow incision in her flesh, then another, forming an X over the wound. Alysson clenched her teeth to hold back a cry. The pain obscured the indelicacy of being tossed on her back, her leg bared to this man. She tried weakly to direct her thoughts elsewhere as Jafar bent and closed his mouth over the wound, but the effort was too much.

For a long moment, he drew on the poison,
then
spat it out, repeating the process again and again. He tried to shut out her sobs of pain and the desperate way her fingers clutched his shoulders. He would have given his eyes if he could have spared her this, but it was the only way to save her life.

Finally there was nothing more he could do. He drew

away
, gazing helplessly down at her. She lay unmoving, her eyes closed, her face pale.

Haltingly he slipped his arm beneath her shoulders and gathered her against him. Her lack of resistance attested to her fading strength of will.

"Alysson," he said in a voice that was low and fierce and yet trembled, "we have to return to my camp. We have to find you medicine to counteract the poison."

To his surprise and relief, she didn't protest. At her weak nod, he lifted her in his arms carefully, holding her as if she were a precious piece of porcelain.

"Jafar . . ."
She grasped weakly at a fold of his burnous, but he had to bend his head to hear her. "I
had . . .
to try
. . .
to escape."

"Yes. I know. Now sleep,
Temellal.
Save your strength."

He wasn't sure she heard, for she had fainted in his arms.

He never knew how he made it back to camp that day. Afterward, he could only remember snatches of time, the agonizing miles, the pounding hoofbeats,
the
blood thrumming in his ears, the chill, mind-numbing fear that it would be too late to save her.

Yet the cold determination that had ruled his life for the past seventeen years would not let him give up. He drove the stallion relentlessly, calling on the courageous animal to give its last ounce of strength. The shiny black coat was sweat-streaked and flecked with foam, the powerful, churning legs beginning to labor, by the time they reached his camp. And Alysson was burning up with fever. Barking orders right and left to his men, Jafar carried her unconscious form into his tent, laying her gently down on his bed. Then needlessly he repeated his sharp command to summon an old Berber woman with her healing herbs.

The woman, whose name was Gastar, came, but Jafar never left Alysson's side.

"Dhereth,"
Gastar proclaimed when she examined her patient, her wizened face drawing into a scowl.
Very bad.

"Save her," Jafar said simply, his hoarse voice almost a plea.

"If Allah wills."

Gastar packed the wound with powder of
alhenrta,
and forced a tincture of opium down Alysson's throat, but Jafar
could not put his trust only in the desert remedies that had been used by his tribe for centuries, or even his fervent prayers. Late that evening, he also resorted to a European cure to bring down the fever, a phial of sulfuric ether that he had saved from one of his trips to Algiers. With trembling hands, he forced Alysson to drink a spoonful.

He nursed Alysson himself, even though Gastar was more than willing. He poured liquids between her lips and made her swallow by stroking her throat. He bathed her nude body with cool water over and over again. When she shook with chills, he gathered her tightly against his nakedness, trying by sheer nearness to infuse her with his own strength. When she writhed in pain, Jafar soothed her, murmuring gentle words of encouragement in English as well as French and Arabic and Berber.

His heart contracted in pain every time he looked down at her pale face, her bloodless lips as she barely breathed. She was so ill, her skin so scalding hot to the touch. The
thoula—
the fever—was burning her alive. He was responsible for this. If he had never taken her captive to use for his own single-minded purposes, she would not be lying here now, in this critical condition, fighting for her life.

By the third day the ether was gone, but her life still hung in the balance. Jafar was conducting his vigil by her bedside when his forgotten guest, the Khalifa Ben Hamadi, asked permission to enter.

Jafar raised his head sharply, his thoughts abruptly interrupted. Carefully, he drew the blankets up to Alysson's chin, covering her slender body that was so wasted by the fever. Then he bid the khalif enter.

Ben Hamadi glanced briefly at the sick woman,
then
averted his gazed politely as he tendered the appropriate flowery greetings to Jafar in Arabic. In turn, Jafar offered him the hospitality of his humble abode and wishes for peace and the blessings of Allah, for once experiencing impatience with the customs of his people. Although Alysson's fever had lessened, her life was still in jeopardy, and until the danger had passed, he had no time to waste engaging in meaningless chatter.

The keen-witted Arab general must have sensed the ten
sion in him, however, for he settled himself cross-legged on the carpeted floor, his gaze resting intently on Jafar.

"
I would not dared have been so rude as to intrude into your privacy, my brother, but we must discuss our affairs. The prisoner has been occupying your time of late, and, I suspect, your thoughts."

It was a subtle rebuke, Jafar was aware. For the past four days he had totally neglected his duties, yet he couldn't bring himself to care overmuch. And at the term "prisoner," a surge of anger joined his impatience. The word was so cold, so indifferent, and came nowhere close to describing the relationship he had with his defiant young captive—or what he felt for her.

Aware of the need to curb both anger and impatience, Jafar forced his reply to remain even. "I could not leave the Englishwoman's side while she is barely alive, Excellency. I do not want her death on my conscience. It would be a stain to my honor, and that of my tribe, if I did not see to the safety of a captive. Moreover, she is an innocent in this affair. If I can help her survive, I will."

"Her death—or life—is in the hands of Allah."

"Sometimes it is wise," Jafar said with deliberate enunciation, "for men on earth to aid Allah, in order that His will be carried out.''

The khalif's dark eyes narrowed, but Jafar returned his gaze steadily. What he'd just said was close to blasphemy in their religion, but he meant every word. He blamed himself for allowing harm to come to his captive. Because of his iaxness in letting her escape, Alysson had nearly died— and still might. He could not let it happen.

Ben Hamadi must have realized his determination, for he shrugged gracefully and changed the subject. "Your plan is working,
sidi.
The rumors you planted in the ears of the French have been fruitful. Colonel Bourmont has left Algiers for the desert with a large force."

Jafar simply stared, aware of a feeling of vague surprise. His longtime enemy the colonel had not even crossed his mind during Alysson's illness—which was unique. Until now, not a day had passed since the murder of his family that he had not cursed the name of Bourmont.

"The French troops will reach us within the week," the Arab noted, "perhaps less."

A week.
Perhaps less.
In only that short while he would have the revenge he had sought for seventeen years. Why then could he not summon the anticipation, the sweet
satisfaction, that
should have accompanied such a revelation? Jafar glanced down at Alysson, at her ravaged form so still and unmoving . . . and he knew the answer.

"I will take the young woman with me," Ben Hamadi added, "if she lives."

If she lives.
Jafar clenched his teeth, refusing to consider the possibility that she might not. But like it or not, he was obliged to discuss his English captive's fate with his guest, a discussion they had already begun the evening of Alys- son's escape.

Ben Hamadi had never intended to remain in Jafar's camp. Shortly before the French army arrived, they would separate their forces and wait for the right moment to strike. For that battle, Jafar would lead the attack, while the Arab general's troops circled around to assault the French flanks and prevent escape.

As for Alysson, Ben Hamadi had proposed they transfer the English prisoner to his own large encampment, where she would be kept with his women until she could be escorted back to Algiers. Despite his instinctive objections, Jafar had not dismissed the suggestion out of hand. Alys- son's safety might be better assured were she well away from the battleground. But the most pressing reason, the overwhelming one, was his growing awareness that he was losing objectivity where Alysson was concerned. More than once he had let his fierce desire for her affect his judgment, had let his heart rule his head. He would do better to sever this dangerous attraction at once, before he found himself making decisions based not on what was best for his people or his country, but on what a fiery English captive asked of him.

Now, however, with Alysson so near death's door, he scotched the khalif's plan entirely. Ben Hamadi would protest, but Jafar would not turn her over to be cared for by anyone but himself. Not now, when he owed her his most valiant efforts.

"She cannot be moved, Excellency. Even if . . . she survives, she will be too weak to travel in the near future. I will see to her welfare here."

"You need have no fear, my brother. While in my charge, she will receive the best of care."

"I will not give her up."

There was a long silence, while the general scrutinized Jafar with his keen black eyes. "It will not do to become overly fond of the foreign woman," Ben Hamadi said finally, a gentle warning.