Captive (13 page)

Xavier smiled. Sweat streamed down his back. Tubbs whooped, his color returning. His men cheered. Timmy scampered out from behind the mainmast and danced a jig. And the
Pearl
burst free of the inlet, the red, white, and blue American flag flying.

The two ships were quickly engaged in battle. Broadsides were exchanged, but without any direct hits. The two captains danced around one another with the utmost care. Fifteen minutes became thirty. Thirty minutes became a full hour.

“I’ve taught you well, Peter,” Xavier said to the encroaching night.

He was exhausted. It was becoming hard to concentrate the way he must if he was to win this battle. He hadn’t realized it before, but he had suffered a knife wound in his arm on the beach. He had wrapped his kerchief around it temporarily.

His men, he knew, had also been pushed to their limits. They needed food and rest. And they had not taken on any water, their supplies were very low, and after this engagement they would need to resupply gunpowder and ammunition as well. Jovar, however, was not quitting. He was only firing when in range, and thus far, the
Pearl
had taken three hits, although nothing was irreparable. Jovar had learned both caution and patience.

The
Maja
had also taken three indirect hits. But she and her crew were well fed and fresh. And Jovar had yet to win a single battle with Dali Capitan.

And it was growing dark. If the battle did not end soon, Jovar would be at a distinct advantage, knowing these waters intimately. Xavier had only his Spanish pilot to rely upon—a man who had already proven himself untrustworthy.

Immediately Xavier turned to Tubbs. He could not believe he had not taken care of Fernandez earlier. “Jesus. Where is Fernandez?”

“I don’t know. He went down below when we were ambushed on the beach.” Tubbs’s eyes widened. “Cap’n, you don’t think… ?”

Xavier already knew who the traitor was. There was no other possibility. “Barlow! Find Fernandez and put him in irons. Now.”

The burly seaman quickly obeyed. Xavier and Tubbs watched another broadside from the
Pearl
narrowly miss the corsair’s stem. “Hold all fire,” Xavier said. They could not afford to waste their shots now.

Barlow returned to the forecastle. “Cap’n, sir, I can’t find “im.”

Xavier stiffened. Filled with consternation.

“The lily-livered scum-eating dog is hidin',” Tubbs growled. “I’ll string him up myself, I will, when we find him. If you let me, that is, sir.”

Xavier barked at Barlow, “Mount a search. He can’t be far.”

Barlow wheeled and hurried off.

Xavier had a very bad feeling. He turned to watch the corsair ship, which had veered very slightly leeward. “What are you up to now, Peter?”

And then he smelled the smoke.

Just as Tubbs cocked his head. “Cap’n—is something burning?”

Xavier whirled just as the cry “Fire! Fire below deck!” rang out.

He ran.

He met Allen at the top of the stairs. The young seaman’s face was pale. “In the hold, sir, and it’s bad! I don’t think we can put it out!”

Xavier turned, waving his men past him and down toward the hold. The very same men who moments ago had been
manning the cannons on deck were carrying buckets of water below. But he already sensed it was too late.

And then the
Pearl
bucked like a bronco.

Xavier had been in enough battles to know that she had suffered a direct hit, midhull. Beneath his feet, the deck tilted wildly to the starboard. Smoke began to cloud the narrow corridor below him. Someone screamed. And one thought was etched on his brain, searing him.

Betrayed.

He had been betrayed. And the Spaniard was only a paid lackey. Someone else was entirely responsible.

But who?

And why?

Tripoli
July 7, 1803

“
A
LEX!” MURAD CHARGED
into Alex’s chamber, slamming the door closed behind him. “The
Pearl!
It has been captured. Rais Jovar attacked and seized her off Cape Bon.”

Alex sat up slowly, staring at Murad.

“Did you hear me?” Murad said impatiently.

“Ohmygod,” Alex managed to whisper as her heart resumed beating.
“Ohmygod!”

It had happened. She had been waiting for this day for fourteen months—if not an entire adult, twentieth-century lifetime. He was here, here in Tripoli; they would finally meet. She would finally see him. In the flesh.

“What is going on, Alex? What is it about the
Pearl
that interests you so?” Murad asked, his gaze deep and probing. “What is it about her, captain, that interests you so?”

Slowly Alex stood up. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

“I would probably believe just about anything you told me, Alex, having served you for one year, two months, and three and a half days.”

Alex was removing her bedouin clothing from the chest and she paused, aware of the unnaturally rapid beating of her heart and her strange light-headedness. Tension. It was overwhelming.
She glanced at Murad. “You’re keeping track of the time you’ve been with me?”

He forced a brief smile. “I am counting the days only because of the ways you insist upon straining my patience and testing my very good will.”

Alex turned, holding her bedouin robes to her chest. She could not dwell on Murad’s behavior and what it signified now. Blackwell had arrived.

Murad’s smile disappeared. “Alex, we cannot go out of the palace now, and you know it. The entire town turns out for the return of a rais with his prize, and that includes the royal family.”

Alex began to strip, ignoring Murad.

“Jebal will be there. Oh, holy Allah, please convince her otherwise! And the bashaw and Farouk and only Allah knows who else! You are too easily remarked with that brilliant red hair!”

“My hair is not visible beneath this headdress, and you know it,” Alex said, suddenly very calm. She would see Blackwell within moments.
Ohmygod.

“Your eyebrows are red,” Murad snapped.

“I am going. If you are a coward, so be it—you stay.”

Murad’s eyes flashed. He murmured in Arabic, another plea to Mohammed, then, “I am not a coward for myself. Although, of course, if we are ever caught together outside of the palace, I shall be executed instantly. Will you watch me die for you, Alex?”

“Stop it. Don’t even speak that way in jest!”

“I’m sorry.” He moved to her, taking the tunic from her hands and sliding it over her head. “You’re right. I am your loyal servant.”

Alex did not reply, stepping into trousers. She sat to put on thick, plain leather sandals.

“Alex, why must we do this?” Murad whispered. Nevertheless, he handed her the kaffiyeh. He also stripped, turning his back to her as he did so.

Alex made sure not to look at him, for he was sensitive about having been castrated, putting the headdress on and wrapping the ends about her face. She waited until Murad had faced her in his bedouin garb. “Do you really want to know?”

He nodded, his gaze on hers.

“Because,” she said harshly, “I am in love with the captain of the
Pearl—
I am in love with Xavier Blackwell.”

Murad blanched.

By the time they reached the harbor, the corsair ship was just edging past the mole and through the bay’s bottleneck. She was firing a thunderous multigun salute. Murad was correct. The entire town had turned out to witness the return of Rais Jovar and his prize. A thousand Tripolitans lined the streets of the harbor, men, women, and children, soldiers, merchants, and slaves. They huzzahed and cheered. Some men jeered. The women and children laughed and danced. The firing from the corsair ship continued. The noise of the crowd and the ship’s cannons was deafening. One cannonball actually hit one of the palace walls, tearing a hole in it.

Alex gripped Murad’s hand tightly as they pushed through the throng so they could be in the first row of spectators on the very edge of the waterfront. “Alex,” Murad warned. “We are being noticed because of your radeness.”

Heads were turning. A woman grumbled in protest. But Alex did not care. She paused upon reaching the dock, breathless and perspiring. The corsair ship had entered the harbor now—and another ship, a larger American brig, was following. Alex’s heart skipped a beat.

“This is all wrong!” she cried.

“What is wrong?” Murad asked, glancing nervously about them. “Oh, God, Father of All Men!” he gasped. “Your husband is here, Alex!”

Alex didn’t hear, didn’t care. “The
Pearl
is supposed to be destroyed. It is not supposed to be taken as a prize. Blackwell destoyed her at sea.”

Murad tore his gaze from Jebal, who sat a white Arabian stallion tacked up in crimson velvet and real gold and silver, beside the chiaus, who was also mounted, not fifty feet distant from them. They were at the edge of another dock. However, both Jebal and the bashaw’s general were oblivious to the crowd; they had eyes only for the two incoming ships. “What are you speaking about, Alex?” Desperation laced Murad’s tone.

Alex was frantic. “The
Pearl
was destroyed before it reached Tripoli, Murad. I read about it in the history books.”

His gaze whipped to her face. “What history books?”

Alex realized exactly what she had said and she paled. She could not come up with a suitable answer.

“Are you feverish? Ill?” he demanded.

Alex shook her head, swallowing, her pulse thundering in her ears. “No, I’m fine.” She turned to watch the
Pearl,
now entering through the harbor’s bottleneck. Then she stared at the
Maja
again. It was coming close enough now for her to make out the figures of the many men standing by its railing. Her heart skipped alarmingly. Where was Xavier Blackwell?

“He’s coming this way!” Murad cried out. “Jebal is approaching, Alex!”

Alex looked up just in time to see Jebal riding leisurely in their direction. For a moment she thought that he had espied her and was coming purposefully toward her. She froze in real and sudden fear. She could not even breathe.

But he was only riding his steed to their dock, as it appeared that this was where the
Maja
would berth.

However, Jebal’s eyes did briefly turn away from the approaching cruiser, to skim the waiting throng.

His eyes skimmed right over her.

Alex was already shrinking away, ducking her head, expecting him to call out sharply to her. An excuse for her being there was already forming in her mind. But at that precise moment. Murad gripped her with a strength he had never exercised before, and before Alex knew what he intended, he had yanked her back into the depths of the crowd.

“We are going home,” Murad snapped furiously.

“No.” Alex began to struggle, looking over her shoulder, but she was surrounded by Moslems now, and she could not even see the harbor, much less the corsair ship—much less Xavier Blackwell.

Murad put an iron arm around her and dragged her away.

Alex wept.

Murad sat by her hip, unable to console her. His face was lined with worry, compassion, and regret. “I’m so sorry, Alex.”

She lay on her stomach, her face buried in her pillow. She had never known such disappointment before. She had been waiting for him for so long, and dear God, she had been within
moments of actually laying her eyes upon him. Only to be denied.

“I am sorry, Alex, so sorry, but I had no choice. I was protecting you,” Murad said seriously, his hand upon her shoulder.

“I know,” Alex mumbled. She turned her face onto one cheek so she could see him. “Don’t you see? That only makes it worse. Murad, I must see him.”

Murad was silent. The look in his eyes told her that he had grave reservations—and he appeared pained. “I don’t know how that will be possible,” he finally said.

“Where will he be taken now?” Alex asked.

Before Murad could reply, a knock sounded on her door and he answered it. One of her husband’s servants stood there: Jebal wanted to speak with Alex immediately. Alex sat up, frightened. Had Jebal seen her after all?

“My mistress is ill,” Murad told the slave. “As you can see, her head aches and causes her great anguish—she weeps from pain. Please ask her master if he might delay their interview until tomorrow morning. I am certain Ulli Zohara will feel better by then.”

Jebal’s slave left with the message. Alex shared a glance with Murad. “Do you think Jebal saw me? Or that someone else saw me and told him?”

“I hope not,” Murad said tersely. “Alex, you must stay away from Blackwell, and you must not leave the palace in disguise again.”

Alex’s jaw tightened and she did not reply. She would not even consider listening to Murad.

“What is going on, Alex?” Murad whispered, sitting beside her again. He groped for her hand.

Alex looked into his caring, long-lashed silver eyes. “I am in love with him. I have never felt this way before.” Alex stared pleadingly at Murad. “You have to help me. Murad!”

Murad rose and walked to the door, cracking it. Closing it, he went to all the windows, peering through the latticework shutters. Finally he stepped out onto the gallery outside of Alex’s apartments, which ran parallel to the interior courtyard. He faced her grimly, and spoke in a hushed tone. “How do you know him?”

“Are you worried about spies?” Alex asked.

“Yes. I am especially worried about Zoe. So? How do you know him?”

Alex stared at him, debating telling him the truth. She had an ally, but she desperately needed a real confidant. Yet he would never believe her. He would laugh when she told him that she was a time traveler—and that she had first met Blackwell in history books when he had been dead for 192 years. He would laugh even harder when she told him that she had stumbled across Blackwell’s ghost. Wouldn’t he? Alex wet her lips, flushing slightly. “We met in Boston once, just before I came to Tripoli.” Even though it was a half lie, she hated deceiving Murad.

Murad regarded her with penetrating eyes, skepticism, and undisguised disappointment. “Why do you lie to me, Alex?”