Lord of Desire (71 page)

In response, the elderly Frenchman gave Alysson a long searching look, before his shoulders rose in a Gallic shrug. "I know nothing of the man's identity."

Oliver vented an explosive oath. "That is all you mean to say? What is this, a conspiracy to hide the truth? Why, for God's sake?" He turned his scowl on his niece. "I think I deserve an explanation after all the trouble you've put me to, my girl. I postponed an expedition to the Caribbean in order to come here and search for you."

"Well, forgive me for interfering with your pleasure!" Alysson snapped back.

"Alysson, my dear," Cedric put in more calmly, "we have been distraught with fear for you.
Of course you will understand if Oliver is impatient to discover just what occurred. He only wants to protect you."

She was immediately contrite, and yet she knew very well her Uncle Oliver's threat to shoot Jafar was deadly serious. She had to do something to persuade Oliver to give up his thoughts of revenge. There had been too much bloodshed and vengeance as it was.

"Uncle Oliver, I know you're concerned for me, and I am grateful, I assure you. But there is no need to drag this out any further. What
happened,
happened. It's over. He didn't harm me. He even showed us every kindness—"

"Not harm you? By God, girl, how can you stand there and defend that savage Arab?"

"He is not an Arab!" Alysson said through clenched teeth. "Nor is he a savage. He's far more civilized than most Europeans I know, including you, Uncle. In fact, he's a nobleman and the grandson of a duke, besides!"

At her impassioned declaration, Oliver's blue eyes narrowed. Alysson, realizing her mistake, abruptly bit her tongue. She had said far more than she had intended about Jafar—and far too much, if the calculating
look
on her Uncle Oliver's face was anything to judge by.

He stared at her for a long moment before speaking again. "I don't suppose we would be talking about Nicholas Sterling, would we?"

The look on Alysson's face was proof enough, despite her swift denial. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do," Oliver said slowly, anger and disappointment vying for expression on his face. "What I don't understand is why you feel you have to lie to me." He
shook his head sadly. "You've sever lied to me before, girl."

Alysson stared at him mutely, her throat achiag with regret.

Oliver shook his head again sorrowfully. "I've been on intimate terms with the Duke of Moreland for years, my girl, and I know enough about his grandson to add two and two. The boy's half
English,
and he threw away his heritage to come and live here. Moreland told me so himself. You know Moreland . . . we paid him a call that time I first brought you back to England to live."

Oh, yes, Alysson thought. She remembered that day vividly, the day she had first met Nicholas . . . Jafar.

Her uncle evidently did not expect her to reply just then, for he continued to muse aloud. "This Sterling
fellow .
, .
if
he's Moreland's grandson . . ." Oliver's look had been pensive, but that look slowly faded as a flush of anger slowly rose in his cheeks. "Then he's fully aware of the nature of the injury he's done you." His narrowed-eyed gaze lifted to spear his niece. "Any Englishman with the slightest pretense to honor who had compromised a young lady would offer her the protection of his name." His tone was stern, his scowl accusing.

"He isn't an Englishman," Alysson replied, her voice barely audible. "And if he had wanted to marry me, he would have asked me."

Oliver sarged to his feet.
“What he wants is nothing to the point! By God, he'll marry you if I have to drag him to the altar!"

"No!" Alysson's cry was like the sound of a wounded animal, her gray eyes haunted.

Her uncle stated at her in bewilderment. "What is going on here, Alysson? Why do you insist on protecting the man? He's terrorized you . . . wounded Honoré here . . . ruined your good name . . . I cannot understand why you don't want him brought him to justice."

"Because," she faltered, choking on her tears, "the French army will try to find him, and if they find him, they'll
kill
him, that's why!"

Oliver stared at his distressed niece in shock. The tears running down her face were genuine; Alysson had never been the kind of female to use tears to get her way.

"Please, Uncle . . .
promise
me you won't say anything
. . . please.
I'm begging you. Let it go."

Moving to stand in front of her, Oliver took her hands in his large, lean ones, holding them tightly. "Very well, girl," he said finally, helplessly.
"If it means that much to you, I won't pursue
it.''

"Yes, it means that much to me."

Her meeting with Gervase de Bourmont was far more difficult, and far more painful.

Alysson sent her Indian servant with a message for Gervase, informing him of her safe return and asking him to call on her at his earliest convenience. Then she dressed for the upcoming interview in her best day gown. After so many weeks of wearing the simple clothing of the East, she felt uncomfortable in the frilled petticoats, chemise, drawers, and constrictive corset that
was
de rigueur for a well-bred Englishwoman, but she owed it to Gervase to make her best effort.

When he arrived a scant hour later, she was waiting for him in the courtyard. At his approach, she rose from the bench where she'd been seated—but then hesitated, just as Gervase did.

They stood staring at each other for a long moment, in complete silence.

"Alysson . . ."
Gervase said finally in a low voice was that was husky, weary.

He looked older, she thought.
And tired.
There were harsh lines of worry at the corners of his mouth and between his eyes that had not been there before. More than that, he looked . . . sad.

She discarded all the polite reponses she might have made and simply spoke from her heart. "I'm so sorry, Gervase."

He shook his head abruptly. "You have no cause to be sorry. You were not to blame for that bloody—" He paused and chose another
word. ". . .
that
man's act of revenge."

"Yet I share some of the blame. You warned me of the
danger,
you tried to prevent me from going."

"I never suspected that madman would target you. You must believe me."

Alysson refrained from replying that Jafar was not a madman. "I do believe you," she said quietly instead.

As if he couldn't bear to meet her gaze, Gervase looked away. "I am the one who should be asking for your forgiveness."

"No. What happened was not your fault, either."

There was a long pause while the muscles in Gervase's jaw worked in anger. "How much did he tell you?" he finally asked.

She did not intend to disclose the details of her abduction, nor make the same mistake as she had with her uncle by alluding to Jafar's past. "Simply that he had reasons for making me his prisoner, reasons for his vengeance. He told me about the death of his parents at your father's hands."

The momentary grimace that flashed across the Frenchman's face was bitter. "Ah, yes, the great General Bourmont," he murmured.
"The conqueror of Algiers.
I've spent my entire military career trying to live up to my father's reputation . . . all the while knowing he was little better than a murderer. It is not something for which I'm proud."

"I know." And she did. She had known Gervase for many years. He was a kind man, a caring man.
Nothing at all like his father the general.
"You are not responsible for your father's sins, Gervase, any more than you are to blame for what happened to me. Besides, you did your best to rescue me. I haven't yet thanked you for that."

"Thank me for failing you? I would prefer that you didn't." The bitterness in his tone was harsher now.

"You did not fail me."

"I agreed to abandon you to him. What do you call that, if not failure?"

"I
call
it courage for making a difficult choice. I call it concern for the lives of your men. I call it plain, old- fashioned, much-welcomed common sense."

"Ah, Alysson . . ." He moved toward her then, eliminating the distance between them. Drawing her close, he folded her into his arms. She let her cheek rest against the comforting wall of his chest and gave a sigh as she felt him stroke her hair.

"I want you to know," Gervase said in an unsteady voice, "none of this changes what I feel for you. I still love you. I still want more than anything to marry you."

Alysson shut her eyes. He might
look
older than when she'd last seen him, but she
felt
older.
So much older.
And perhaps she was. She was no longer a mere girl, no longer an innocent in matters of the heart. She knew now the anguish of loving and being unloved in return.

Her newfound knowledge made her view Gervase's dilemma with compassion. And it made her all the more reluctant to say what had to be said.

"I can't marry you, Gervase," she declared softly. "It would not be fair to you. I shared his bed."

There was a long pause. "I suspected as much.
Mon Dieu.
Alysson, I would have given anything if I could have spared you that. It must have been a nightmare, being forced to endure his—" Gervase broke off, incapable or unwilling to complete the thought.