Algiers, North Africa
1847
Vengeance had been a long time in coming.
Jafar stood on the
darkened terrace outside the brightly lit chamber, calmly watching the man he planned to kill. The arched doors of the reception room, though open to the night, were curtained with a silken gauze. The sheer draperies lent a hazy glow to the glittering soiree within, muting the sounds of gay laughter and conversation. They also served a useful function, letting him see inside while preventing him from being observed by either the crowd of wealthy Europeans or their host, Colonel Gervase de Bourmont.
With one finger, Jafar held the curtain slightly parted. His face was set with cold determination as he silently studied his enemy. The colonel was a tall, dark-haired gentleman in his mid-thirties, a military man of striking good looks and a keen intelligence. Jafar had never met the Frenchman face-to-face, but the name of Bourmont had been branded on his mind for seventeen years.
And now, finally, the moment for revenge was at hand.
During the past few months, since Bourmont's arrival in Algiers, Jafar had become well-acquainted with the colonel's every movement. His spies had been unfailingly thorough. He knew down to the smallest detail every aspect of both the colonel's official and personal habits. What he ate for breakfast. Which route he took to his offices each morning through the narrow, twisting streets of Algiers. What horses he preferred. Which prostitutes he patronized.
The colonel's taste in women ran to full-blown, lusty beauties with generous curves and sultry looks. Which was why his choice of a bride was surprising.
Mar's eyes narrowed as again he shifted his gaze to the young woman standing beside the colonel. She was scarcely average height, with a slender waist that a man could span with his hands. Very definitely a lady, and most likely a virgin.
The moment he'd learned of Alysson Vickery's existence, Jafar had known she would become his means of revenge. Grim excitement filled him as he coolly appraised his quarry. Soon Miss Vickery would be in his power. Very soon. Her innocence would only work to his advantage, he thought with harsh satisfaction. The colonel would be that much more willing to protect her, to preserve her honor.
Tonight's events had merely confirmed the rumors of her impending engagement to Bourmont. The reception this evening had been given in her honor, and during the entire time, the colonel had paid court to her most assiduously, scarcely leaving her side.
Jafar could see how the colonel might be smitten with her. The young lady was obviously wealthy. She wore a gown of shimmering pale silk, delicate and Ml-skirted, the sculpted bodice encrusted with seed pearls. More lustrous pearls gleamed at her throat and in the rich chestnut hair that was arranged in a loose knot—a style unusual for its lack of ringlets. But it was not her jewels or unconventional coiffure or fashionable Parisian gown that commanded attention.
What drew the eye was her vividness, her restrained energy that he could feel even at a distance. She stood there radiating vitality and life, much like an oasis in the desert. And despite her graceful slenderness, her figure was as enticing as water to a thirsty man.
Unwilling admiration shone in Jafar's eyes as he took in the lush curve of her bare shoulders and firm, high bosom. The gown's decolletage was modest by European standards, allowing little more than a glimpse of pale, silken breasts. But the effect was tantalizing.
His gaze caught by the alluring sight, he wondered how those soft, ripe swells would feel beneath his palms, would taste against his lips.
A faint smile curled his mouth.
Perhaps before long he would know.
Alysson no longer had any doubt. Her Uncle Honoré was hiding from her.
Her suspicions had been aroused the moment Honoré disappeared from the reception line, leaving her to face the guests at Gervase's side. But only now, when she finally had a moment to herself, had she been afforded the opportunity to look around for her uncle.
There was no sign of the fainthearted, elderly Frenchman.
"You cannot escape the inevitable, mon oncle," Alysson murmured to herself, torn between amusement and exasperation. She would find her cowardly relative presently and wring an answer from him. He had postponed the decision as long as possible. Tomorrow would be too late.
Alysson unfurled her painted-silk fan to ply it against the heat, an occupation which helped hide her restlessness, while her searching gaze lingered on the throng of guests. She had arrived in Algiers nearly a full week ago, and as yet she'd seen little of the city that had been the refuge of pirates and a stronghold of Turks. Of the country, she'd seen nothing at all—and she could scarcely contain her impatience.
Not that her staid Uncle Honoré would ever understand her attitude. Her uncle had no conception of what drove her. A heart thirsting for passion, for adventure, was entirely foreign to him. He would never comprehend that this elegant gathering was not what she wanted out of life. This was not why she had come to Algeria.
By conventional standards, she should have been pleased with the soiree given in her honor. This evening she had been presented to royalty, a glittering triumph for a merchant's daughter. But for Alysson, an empty triumph.
With effort she maintained a polite smile as she surveyed the crowd of elegant Europeans. All pomp and glitter and triviality. Odd to think how desperately she had once longed to be a part of all this. There was laughter, but it was the shallow amusement of bored wives and cunning politicians. There was music, but it was the formal refrains of a French orchestra, not the strange, exotic rhythms of the East. The conversation, too, was conducted in French, consisting of meaningless chatter and spiteful gossip. Even the furniture was French, reducing the huge chamber with its Moorish arches and fretted work, delicate as lace, to the appearance of any other European ballroom.
Only the turquoise and scarlet tiles covering the floor in a floral mosaic looked appropriately Eastern. Alysson longed to slip off her elegant shoes and feel the cool tiles against her silk-stockinged feet. But she had promised her uncle to be on her very best behavior. And indeed, she'd kept her word. She had done nothing scandalous or wild in well over a month.
But enough was enough.
Furling her fan, Alysson circled the room in search of her uncle. She found him half-concealed by a potted palm, engaged in conversation with a French couple who had settled here in the new colony. Nearing sixty, Honoré was short of stature and inclined to portliness, with a head of thinning, silver hair, the top of which barely reached Alysson's ear.
Honoré gave a guilty start when he spied his niece.