Lord of Desire (56 page)

Of course, the best protection by far would be marriage—

Jafar grimaced as his conscience smote him yet once again. An honorable man would make reparations by marrying a young lady he had compromised. But making Alysson an offer of marriage was out of the question. He'd spent the last seven years of his life trying to rid himself of the taint of his English heritage, to put that part of his past behind him, and wedding an Englishwoman would destroy any hope of succeeding.

But of far greater moment was his duty. As
amghar,
he was obliged to put the interests of his tribe first. When eventually he did marry, it would be to the noble daughter of a neighboring tribe, in order to strengthen his alliances against his enemies, most particularly the French.

Fulfilling that duty was even more imperative now, after his betrayal on the battlefield. Jafar's jaw hardened at the remembrance. When he arrived home, he would be called to account for his actions before the tribal council. But even if he were somehow vindicated for forsaking his blood oath, he could never forgive himself for his failure. And he
would not
allow himself to betray his tribe again.

No, he knew where his duty lay. He could never consider taking a foreign wife.

But if Alysson married someone else, immediately upon her
return . . .

The thought made his stomach churn, yet Jafar forced
himself
to consider the possibility. Would his archenemy the colonel still be willing to marry a young woman of sullied reputation? But yes. No man in his right mind would give up Alysson Vickery for so paltry a reason. Certainly
he
wouldn't. After he killed the bastard who'd defiled her, he would never consider it again.

But then perhaps he was no longer in his right mind—at least not where Alysson was concerned. For her he had broken a sacred vow, had disHonoréd his name and his people. And when the decisive moment had come, he'd behaved just like the savage barbarian Alysson had accused him of being. Look at him now. He was carrying her off to his mountain stronghold, where he meant to keep her until he could make himself give her up.

Even that would not be enough, but it would have to do.

He would use the time wisely. His duty permitting, he would do everything in his power to make her feel at home among his people. More than that, he would spare no effort in making her forget her love for his blood enemy, Gervase de Bourmont.

With grim determination, then, Jafar dismissed his morose contemplations. Still, one cynical question persisted in nagging at the edge of his thoughts.

Was Alysson his captive, or was he hers?

On the second day of the journey, in the afternoon, the caravan entered the mountains. On the far side of the first peak lay a rich plain, then another mountain,
then
another fertile valley, alternating until the rugged ridges and masses became dominant.

The sun remained just as glaringly bright, but as they climbed in altitude, the desert heat fell away. The low scrub of juniper and brambles was succeeded by a primeval forest of holm oak—evergreens which resembled huge hollies. By

the
afternoon of the third day that prickly foliage gave way to venerable cedars.

Staring up at the feathery tops of the ancient giants, Alysson took a deep breath, drinking in the pure clean air of the highlands. Her spirit felt lighter than it had in weeks. Yet how could it be otherwise, with magnificent mountains, jagged and purple, towering around her, with larks and swallows soaring high overhead? She dismissed the danger of the mountain path beneath her horse's hooves; it could hardly be called a road.

An hour later, as they passed through a narrow winding defile bounded on both sides by high precipices, Mahmoud found her.

"The lord bids you ride with him," the boy said.

Alysson's heart skipped several beats. With a glance at the curtained litter where her uncle was sleeping, and an apologetic smile for the now-scowling Chand, she rode to the head of the column.

Jafar, his expression strangely sober, waited for her. She hadn't spoken intimately with him in nearly three days, not since the night of passion they had shared, but he didn't seem inclined to talk now. His silence puzzled her, but even that couldn't spoil Alysson's high spirits. She was content merely to be near to him.

It was late in the day when she forgot herself long enough to comment. At the moment the steep assent snaked along a narrow ridge, while to the left was a sheer drop of some three hundred feet.

"I suppose it's fortunate that I don't suffer a fear of heights," Alysson remarked with a cautious glance beyond Jafar.

"Is there anything from which you do suffer fear,
ma belle?"

Her eyes came up quickly at his curious question, but she couldn't read his enigmatic look. "Oh, indeed," she answered lightly. "In the past month, I've learned to treat scorpions with a very healthy respect."

He smiled at that.

"These mountains," Alysson said, wishing he would keep smiling at her like that, as if she were clever and a bit precious, "are barely accessible. I should think it impos
sible for anyone to get in or out unless he
were
invited. An enemy wouldn't stand a chance of passing through here unchallenged."

Jafar nodded. "The Biban Range provides a natural defense. In every successive invasion of this province, the Berbers have abandoned the plains but successfully defended their homes in the hills."

"Is that where we are, the Biban
mountains
?"

"Yes."

She waited for him to volunteer more information, but when he didn't Alysson fell silent again. It was a comfortable, companionable silence, though, not one that she felt obliged to break.

The sun was sinking below the horizon when they rounded a peak that overlooked a broad valley. Below lay acres and acres of already harvested fields—or rather terraces—quilted with barley and wheat stubble. Above the mountain farmland, hugging the rugged
slope,
stood a town. There looked to be several hundred houses, built on ledges rising one above the other, Alysson noted, while the whole was surrounded by thick walls flanked with massive watch- towers and an abundance of trees. Strongly fortified and gleaming golden in the setting rays of the sun, the settlement presented a forbidding and splendid sight.

"These are the lands of the Beni Abess," Jafar said in a low voice.

Hearing the taut note in his tone, Alysson turned her head to find him watching her intently. He seemed tense, almost as if he were waiting for her approval. She thought back over what he had just said, wondering if it had some special significance that she'd missed. "It's magnificent," she said finally. "The lands look very prosperous." Oddly, he seemed to relax.

She had only spoken the truth, Alysson reflected. As she rode closer, she could make out the groves of walnut, apricot, and fig that surrounded the walled town. Below, where a thin river roared in its narrow channel down the mountainside, a waterwheel churned—obviously a mill where grain was ground. Above, she could see wreaths of gray smoke curling upward from stone chimneys on the flat roofs of the houses.

No doubt it was suppertime, Alysson thought, and yet suddenly people began to pour from the town in great numbers, to greet the returning lord. In short order a large crowd had formed—men, women, children, dogs—and the excited shouts and laughter created a din that was deafening.

The crowd was also colorful. The men wore vivid woolen djellabas and burnouses, the women dark robes with brightly hued girdles and haiks attractively arranged to cover their hair and shoulders—and of course an excess of silver ornaments.

Alysson had no doubt, looking at the proud, sometimes austere features surrounding her, that these people were Berbers. The unveiled women possessed white skin tattooed with elaborate henna patterns, while among the men she spied a variety of blue and gray eyes, flaxen hair, and red mustaches and beards. As the caravan passed, they greeted their lord with an eager respect, their bearing dignified yet deferential.

Their reception of her, however, was much different. Alysson noted a few bright-eyed and curious looks, but in the main, the Berbers' expressions were solemn, suspicious, or narrowed in what might actually be hatred. It made her uncomfortably aware that she was not welcome here.

Feeling suddenly isolated and alone, she unconsciously edged her horse closer to Jafar's—until she realized he was watching her. Abruptly she flashed him a brave smile that hid her discomfiture. "You should have told me I was to be on display," she murmured sotto voce. "I would have endeavored to dress like a model captive."

She couldn't tell from the wry twist of his lips if he was annoyed or amused by her subtle thrust, but at least it had the desired effect of getting him to look elsewhere.

Shortly they arrived at the town wall, which was built from uncut blocks of stone set in mortar. Stone watchtowers covered every approach, including this one which also boasted a massive gate with huge iron-studded doors. Within the gate was a wide flat area lined by trees, which in England would have been called the village green. No grass grew here, though, for the ground consisted of hard-packed earth.

Reaching the middle of the arena, Jafar brought the column to a halt and spoke a few words in Berber to the gathered crowd, repeating, Alysson presumed, the announcement of his warriors' victory over the French. They no doubt had already heard the triumphant news, but the resultant cheers echoed over the mountain range.

Alysson could not share in the excitement. When finally Jafar turned his horse to lead hers off to the left, she felt relieved. They passed several doorways and dozens of passages that seemed more like cool dark tunnels than streets. Beyond these, on the far side of the village, set slightly apart from the others, stood a huge stone structure that resembled a Moorish castle more than a house. It had to belong to some wealthy lord, Alysson surmised, for it boasted its own water supply. A sparkling stream ran in cascades down the rock cliff beside it, to disappear behind the high walls of the house.

Jafar drew his stallion to a halt before a large, intricately carved door and met Alysson's gaze. "Welcome to my home, Miss Vickery."

She didn't know whether to thank him or make some offhand remark about being his guest against her will. Before she could do either, however, the door was flung open and a blonde-haired woman danced into the street. Laughing in delight, she ran up to Jafar and began kissing his hands.

Tall and full-figured, the woman wore a long haik of blue silk, clasped at the waist in a blouselike fashion by a gold belt and jeweled buckle. Her arms and ears and neck were decorated with not silver but gold. She was beautiful enough to take Alysson's breath away. Far worse, though, was the way the lush beauty reminded her of the exotic courtesans she had seen at the oasis of Bou Saada.

Dismayed, Alysson tore her gaze away to stare at Jafar. Mahmoud had told her that Jafar had no wife, but this possessive female was definitely no sister. Her behavior was too familiar, too bold,
too
brazen.

This woman was Jafar's concubine, Alysson was certain.