Captive (27 page)

Alex gasped.

He continued to stare. “If you have another explanation for your behavior, then now is the perfect time to reveal it.”

Alex found it extraordinarily difficult to think. The truth. It was the only reasonable explanation she had, yet it was hardly reasonable, it was far-fetched, ludicrous. But she loved him. This was not supposed to be happening.

“I am waiting.”

“I hate Jebal,” she finally said. “He is my husband in name only.” Blackwell’s expression did not change. “I am a captive like you. My choices upon arriving in Tripoli were few. I chose to marry Jebal instead of being consigned to the fate of a concubine or a slave. He has allowed me to grieve for my
first husband this past year.” She felt her cheeks growing warm. She thought of Pinocchio, and was surprised her nose did not begin to grow.

“That does not explain why you came to my rooms.”

Alex stared at him, unable to reply.

“I see. Let me guess. It has been a long time. You are a lonely woman, in a foreign land, in the need of ‘comfort.’”

He was making her sound like a whore. “No.”

“No?” He was mocking.

She shook her head.

He suddenly moved. Alex cried out when his hand closed on her elbow. She thought he was going to kiss her violently, like a bad-boy romance novel hero. Instead he shook her. “You are lying. Did Jebal send you to me now?”

“No!” she shouted. Tears filled her eyes. “I went to Neilsen today before I went to the quarries. I want to help you, Xavier. Neilsen has agreed to aid you in an escape, and if he is not allowed to visit you himself, Murad and I shall act as couriers between the two of you.” Her heart beat hard with hope.

His eyes widened. “Absolutely not!”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not going to trust you with my plans.”

And her hope turned into absolute dismay. “But—you promised me that you would not leave me behind when you escaped.” She began to shake.

His gaze settled on hers. “That was before I discovered who and what you really are,” he finally said.

“Ohmygod,” she said, for it suddenly struck her that
nothing
was happening the way it should, and that he might leave without her, and she might be trapped forever in nineteenth-century Tripoli with no way of even returning to the future.

“Do not cry,” he ground out. “Your tears are a weapon I refuse to entertain.”

Alex turned her head aside, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to cry like a helpless female.

“I will think about it,” he finally said.

She jerked her gaze to his.

His jaw flexed.

A heavy silence fell between them. It was then that Alex became aware of how harshly and rapidly his chest was rising
and falling, how rigid was his stance. He was as tense and agonized as she.

She tried to collect her wits. He was her destiny. He had to be. Why else would she have time-traveled? His supicions made sense. But she firmly believed in the power of love. And hadn’t love begun to blossom between them from the moment they had first met? This was merely a misunderstanding, one that could be unraveled. Years from now, perhaps, they would both laugh about it.

“I had to deceive you,” she whispered. “If Jebal ever found us together, he would kill you, and, Murad swears, me as well.”

Blackwell was silent, his gaze shrewd and penetrating.

Alex wet her lips. “I am a romantic,” she finally said, forcing a small, uncertain smile. “I had heard about you. About your exploits in the Quasi War, and of course, as Dali Capitan. I know about Blackwell Shipping, too. I … I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time. When you became a captive here, I was compelled to go to you.” She heard the pleading note in her tone.

A moment passed. “What, may I ask, is the Quasi War?”

“The war with France which ended in ‘Ninety-nine. You were a hero.”

“I have never heard it called that before.”

Alex swallowed. She had to be careful—this man was no fool.

“Are you attempting to tell me that you fell in love with me, sight unseen?” he asked abruptly.

Alex stiffened. She wanted to shout,
Yes!
She did not dare reveal herself to such an extent. She was already so exposed, so vulnerable.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” he asked coldly. “Nor do I believe in love at first sight.” He was savage. “You will have to do better than that, Mrs. Thornton.”

“Everything I have said is the truth,” Alex said, but she knew she was flushed. After all, there was no Mr. Thornton. But now was not the time to reveal that.

His smile was knowing. He saw, apparently, the lie in her eyes. “I suggest that you leave.”

Alex had never known such dismay, or such crushing disappointment. She looked blindly away.

He shoved past her. “Murad. Take her and go. And make certain that she doesn’t come back.”

“Let us go now, Alex. Jebal is probably looking for you as we speak,” Murad said softly. His voice was filled with compassion.

Alex shoved past Blackwell, determined not to cry. Murad wrapped his arm around her as she stumbled out of the cubicle. She had to look up, one last time.

His gaze was dark and penetrating, intense and disturbing. He did not say good-bye.

Blackwell stood staring after her as she weaved her way through the sleeping captives with her slave. He was aware of the tension filling his body so stiffly that his every joint ached.

He turned as someone came up behind him; it was the scribe, Quixande.

“Well, well,” he said softly. “You failed to mention to me that you knew this woman so well, Captain.”

“I don’t.”

Pierre regarded him.

Xavier finally tore his gaze away, for Alexandra had left the couryard, entering the tunnel, and she was no longer in sight. His heart felt heavy, his soul strangely bereft. “She says she is married to Jebal in name only,” he muttered. He did not believe it for an instant.

“I believe that is the truth.”

“What?” Xavier was surprised.

Quixande smiled. “An unconsummated marriage is a very big topic of gossip, Captain. In some quarters Jebal is a laughingstock. Not to mention that the bashaw wants a grandson.”

“He does not have an heir?”

“No. His first wife, Zoe, has only given him daughters.”

Xavier looked into the scribe’s dark eyes. “There is more, is there not? Something which you have not told me?”

“Yes.”

His pulse accelerated. “Feel free.”

“There is some speculation in Tripoli about her first marriage.”

“I do not understand.” But he had a dark inkling, one he did not like.

“There does not seem to ever have been a diplomat named Thornton stationed at Gibraltar.”

Xavier remained motionless.
Another lie.

“Indeed, no one seems to quite know the name of the ship she arrived in Tripoli upon. But then”—Pierre’s smile flashed—“no one seems to care.”

It struck him then. Clearly. She was a spy.

And Quixande read his mind. “Yes. Captain, obviously she is a spy, planted here just last year. But the question looms. For whom?”

T
HEY LEFT THE
bagnio behind them. “I almost hate him,” Alex said harshly. She wiped her eyes. “This doesn’t make any sense! Why the hell does he mistrust me so? He doesn’t even want to try to believe me.”

“You’re Jebal’s wife, Alex; worse, you are an American. Can’t you see how that must look from his point of view?”

“No!” But unfortunately, Alex could. “Murad, do you think he is in love with me? And that is why he is so furious with my deception?”

“No,” Murad said sharply, “I do not.”

Alex had to be honest with herself. She was more than hurt, she was frightened and heartbroken. What if Blackwell escaped without her? How could this be happening?

Alex and Murad hurried through the city, down one narrow, twisting dirt street after another, in silence now. The encounter she had just had with Blackwell replayed in her mind. She had to confront a very disturbing thought. What if she was not Blackwell’s destiny?

She shoved the notion aside. If she stopped believing in their love, she was probably doomed, trapped in Tripoli without hope. What she had to do now was win his trust, win his love, fight for what she believed in. And she could begin by proving herself his ally. By helping him escape even without his permission to do so.

The palace’s thick, forty-foot walls suddenly loomed before them. The numerous spires, towers, and minarets of the castle rose up abruptly behind the walls.

Alex and Murad froze. A group of slaves were working on the street in front of the wall where the tunnel’s secret entrance was, guarded by soldiers. Alex’s heart sank.

“We are going to have to go through the front gates,” Murad said tersely.

Alex nodded.

They paused at the front gates before facing the palace guards. “Let me do all of the talking,” Murad said tersely. “Do you understand, Alex?”

Alex nodded, her heart lurching. Reality faced her squarely now in the form of the two heavily armed janissaries who stood by the palace’s closed iron gates. Each soldier wore a huge, deadly scimitar, as well as a musket, pistol and a foot-long dagger. In the light of the full moon that shone above their heads, they looked fierce, barbaric, and capable of murder and mayhem. They were staring coldly at both Alex and Murad.

Alex thought about Blackwell’s wounded back. She thought about the slaves forced to labor in the quarries. The Tripolitans could be kind and warm, but they had no respect for human life, and if she dared to think otherwise, then she was a fool. Until today, she had not witnessed that side of Barbary before.

If these soldiers discovered that she was a woman, she would not be spared either their cruelty or their lust.

“Who goes?” One of the Turks came forward, staring at them through the dark night. Behind him, the courtyard was illuminated with numerous torches but otherwise deserted.

“Murad.” Murad flashed a white smile. “My mistress is Lilli Zohara, second wife to Hammet Jebal. Here is my written permission to have left the palace, and also to return.” Murad held out a piece of parchment.

The Turk took it, grunting, handing it to his comrade. They both eyed the document. Alex fidgeted. Unease assailed her. She and Murad were careful not to look at one another. It was difficult to breathe.

It was also unlikely that either soldier could read.

They both came forward. “Who is the other one?” the second Turk, shorter and far more brutish looking, asked.

“The letter states Ali’s identity. Another slave of our esteemed,
beloved, dearly kept mistress.” Murad smiled briefly, engagingly. He held out his hand and the soldier handed him the letter. “We were sent to visit a seer,” Murad said. “Our mistress yearns to know when her husband shall give her their first child.”

Alex almost choked.

Murad nudged her with his toe.

The Turks laughed. “All women are the same, thinking of nothing but pleasing their husbands,” said the first. “She had better pray to Allah for the child to come quickly, before Jebal grows weary of her and divorces her. They say his Italian concubine pleases him mightily—and she is drinking a special herb every day in order to conceive.”

Alex had always thought Paulina especially dumb. But in this matter, she had a sure instinct for survival.

“Really?” Murad said after a single heartbeat. “This is news indeed. May we pass?”

The soldiers had started to debate how long it might take the fifteen-year-old to conceive, yet now they sobered. One opened the high, thick iron
gates.
“Step into the light. Let us look at you.”

Alex’s heart flipped, hard.

Murad’s hand was suddenly on her elbow, tightly, in warning. He smiled and moved through the gates, taking Alex with him. He loosened the kaffiyeh he wore. Alex looked at his handsome, perfect features, unable to breathe, waiting for the Turks to ask her to move directly into the pool of torchlight—waiting to be discovered. But the first said, “I recognize him. You may go.”

Alex almost fainted with relief. Murad gripped her hand, pulling her forward, away.

“Halt!”

They froze.

The Turk smiled. “But I shall keep the letter. My captain is European and has strange ways. He likes to keep records; he has papers everywhere.” The Turk held out his hand. “What a waste of his time, I say.”

Murad, paler now, handed him the letter. His glance met Alex’s. The Turks turned their backs on them, closing the gates. Alex and Murad hurried into the palace, leaving the evidence of their deception behind them.

Alex and Murad squatted beneath the thick shrubbery where a tunnel ended. The sun was setting, and the evening had become cool and pleasant. Murad crept forward, peering through the thick branches, while Alex removed her bedouin robes, donning a simple tunic and gilet. “No one is about,” he said. He slipped out of the shrubs, Alex following.

“Murad, someone is waiting for us.”

“I see,” Murad said grimly, squinting at the shadow of a man standing on the gallery just outside of Alex’s apartment. “Allah forbid that it is Jebal,” Murad muttered.

Alex’s pulse was racing.

They approached. The overhanging roof suddenly cut off the blinding light. Alex breathed again when she recognized one of Jebal’s slaves, only to realize a moment later why he was waiting for her. Her heart plummeted.

The slave bowed. “My lord wishes your presence immediately, Lilli Zohara.”

“I’ll be right there,” Alex said dryly.

She and Murad slipped into her room. Alex ran right to the mirror. “Do I look okay?”

“Wash your face, kohl your eyes, and put on nicer clothing,” Murad said sharply, already moving to the armoire. “You will be the death of me, Alex. My heart shall stop one of these days because of your antics.”

“I had no idea it was so late,” Alex retorted, rushing into the bedroom. She had to shove all thoughts of Blackwell, her worry and disappointment, aside. She must focus now on soothing Jebal—and whether she would give him what he so clearly wanted.

It was easy to think of sacrificing her body for Blackwell when not faced with the immediate prospect. Now her stomach heaved at the very idea.