"Still," he was saying, "I want to assure them I intend to care for you to the best of my abilities." Jafar hesitated again, his amber eyes showing that vulnerability that so touched her heart. "I cannot promise you anything but an uncertain future, Alysson. I can only swear that I will do everything in my power to make you happy."
Finally allowing herself to believe in his sincerity, that
Jafar loved her, that this moment was truly real, Alysson raised her lips again to touch his briefly, tenderly. "That is more than enough," she vowed softly. "I don't want empty promises for the future. I only want you."
The love reflected in her eyes, shining clear in the moonlight, filled him with a tenderness that threatened to shatter him. It took every ounce of willpower Jafar possessed to direct his thoughts back to the present.
"I must go and find your uncles," he repeated in a husky rasp, "so that we may discuss the bride price. Which one will drive the hardest bargain, do you think?"
Alysson shook her head, not understanding his insistence. "Jafar, you don't have to pay for me to become your wife, I tell you."
"Ah, but I do, Ehuresh. It is our custom . . . and I don't want your uncles thinking I want you only for your fortune."
She laughed softly again, this time with genuine amusement. "I'm certain they'll realize it is no such thing. As much as you despise foreigners, your marrying me could only be because of love."
"What is important to me is that you realize it."
Her eyebrows rose in surprise at his quiet tone. This humility was quite unlike him. She'd never known Jafar to lack that overwhelming confidence bred into him by generations of fierce rulers. Yet, after considering, she thought perhaps it might be wise to take advantage of the unprecedented moment.
"I do have one misgiving of my own," Alysson remarked slowly. Despite the casualness of her tone, she was immediately aware of Jafar's sudden tenseness. "I think," she explained, tilting her head to one side as she looked up at him, "I could perhaps learn to address you as 'my lord,' but I honestly don't know if I could ever bring myself to call you 'master.' "
His tension fading, Jafar gave her a smile that was one part tenderness and three parts seduction. "That was a foolish declaration that never should have been made—besides which there's not an ounce of truth in it. By Berber custom, I may be your master, but you rule my heart, Ehuresh. "
"Is that so?"
"Indeed, and I intend to spend the rest of our lives proving it to you."
Her throat suddenly tight, Alysson gazed back at him with desire glimmering in her eyes. At her melting expression, Jafar inhaled a sharp breath. When she looked at him like that, with such naked longing, his blood quickened with such a rush of hunger that he wanted to take her right then and there. He wanted to bury himself so deeply inside her that neither of them could tell where the other began or ended.
Helplessly, despite his stated intentions, Jafar reached for her again, his fingers closing possessively on her arms. "Ah, Ehuresh," he whispered, his warm breath caressing her mouth, "can you not see how very much I love you? What power you hold over me? You can conquer me with a glance, vanquish me with a smile from your sweet lips, crush me with the merest frown—"
“Jafar, do you mean to shower me with meaningless flattery, or will you behave like a man of action and kiss me again?"
At her challenge, he laughed, and the laughter stayed inside him as he lowered his head once more.
It was a long time before either of them remembered their initial intentions of gaining a familial blessing for their passion, and a longer time still before they rose together and, hand in hand, went in search of Alysson's uncles.
Epilogue
Paris,1852
Following his wife into their plush hotel suite, Jafar tossed his chapeau on a side table and began peeling off his gloves. With fond tolerance he watched as Alysson shed her own outer garments and restlessly threw open the windows to look out over the vibrant French metropolis. It was obvious she was still excited and keyed up after the day's revelry. Yet h
e himself was feeling the exhilaration of the moment after so many years of striving fruitlessly to negotiate his sultan's release.
Events after the war had not gone as he'd hoped. Abdel Kader's surrender had been followed within a few weeks by a revolution in France and the end of King Louis-Philippe's reign. The new French government, in violation of the promise to allow Abdel Kader to seek refuge in a Muslim country, instead had imprisoned him and his family in France for nearly five years. During the entire interval, Jafar had spared no effort to free the emir, efforts which included persuading his ducal grandfather to petition the French emperor.
But now Abdel Kader's treacherous detention on French soil was finally at an end. At the invitation of Napoleon III, Jafar and Alysson had journeyed to Paris for the celebrations and to pay their respects to the Arab leader. Alysson claimed to be enjoying herself, yet this was only the third day of parades and ceremonies, and already she was professing an eagerness to return to Algeria.
"How stuffy this room is," she exclaimed now, drinking in the crisp fall air. "I hadn't realized how much I've grown accustomed to fresh air. Or how much I would miss home."
Jafar smiled to watch her, his heart too full to vouchsafe a reply just then. He'd grown to love her more deeply with each passing day, if that were possible. In the intervening years of their spirited marriage, Alysson had presented him with two beautiful children—a son and a daughter—whom they'd left behind in England with his delighted grandfather. Both had inherited their mother's passion and independence, and Jafar loved them all the more for it.
"But I'm pleased we came," his wife was saying. "Otherwise, I might never have met your sultan. You never told me what a compelling man he is, Jafar. Or how humble. I felt so . . . special in his presence, like I was the only woman in the world."
"Perhaps because you are so special, my heart."
Alysson glanced absently over her shoulder, her thoughts still on the events of that morning. She'd finally had the opportunity to meet the charismatic Berber chieftain, Abdel Kader. A handsome and intelligent man, he was surprisingly young—in his mid-forties—with an incomparable grace and a fascinating smile that reminded her somewhat of Jafar. Alysson could very well see why her husband had been willing to follow him into battle, and why the French officials paid him such deference and attention now. Even Uncle Honord had been impressed. She'd felt inordinately proud when Abdel Kader had called Jafar "brother."