Captive (30 page)

Thank God Robert had died before ever being doomed to such a living hell.

It was the first time Xavier had ever had such a thought. Never before had he ever seen Robert’s violent, untimely death as positive, as an event to be thankful for. For the first time in almost two years, tears did not fill Xavier’s eyes as he thought about his younger brother.

Robert had been spared
this.

“Up with you, up with the lot of you,” the Turks began
shouting. Whips cracked. Someone cried out, someone else moaned. The slaves quickly got to their feet.

Xavier knew what awaited them now. He squinted at the huge block of stone, now tied to the sledge. The sledge was man-drawn.

The entire herd of slaves was moved into the traces attached to the sledge. Slaves had some choice about where they were positioned, and there was much jostling amongst them for advantage. Xavier immediately recognized that to be at the very back of the human herd, closest to the sledge, was the most dangerous place to be. If, on a downhill slope, the sledge slipped forward, out of control, the men closest to the sledge would be crushed first.

And there was a good section of downward slope between the quarries and Tripoli.

“Timmy, you and Tubbs go to the front,” Xavier ordered.

“I want to stay with you, sir,” Timmy protested, his blue eyes on Xavier’s face, his freckled nose wrinkling.

“To the very front,” Xavier said firmly. He shot Tubbs a glance and watched as the bowlegged first mate guided the thirteen-year-old boy to the front ranks, not an easy task. Xavier strode resolutely toward the back.

“You, Blackwell, halt.”

Xavier recognized Kadar’s voice and he turned slowly, which was not quite the same as halting. He tensed slightly, waiting for the lash of a whip.

But Kadar did not use his whip. “I want you in the front,” Kadar said, his black eyes gleaming.

Xavier was surprised, but he said nothing, nor did he move.

“To the front,” Kadar said, his tone becoming dangerous. “Someone has paid well for your welfare, Blackwell—but you know that already, don’t you? To the front. Where it is safest.”

Xavier walked grimly to the front. Did Kadar know that the bedouin boy was a woman? Did he know her real identity? He was grim. Alexandra might be working for Britain or France, but Jebal undoubtedly believed her to be his wife, and if her activities were ever discovered, she would be in serious jeopardy. Kadar could be bought far too easily. And even though he told himself that her fate was not his concern, he was disturbed. Somehow her fate was his affair, and he did
not wish to see her die—the victim of a barbaric Moslem prince.

He moved forward and found a place close to Timmy. At least this way he could keep an eye on his cabin boy and first mate, protecting them if need be.

All the men were in the traces, braced against the leather harnesses and ropes. The whips cracked. The Turks shouted commands. The slaves grunted and groaned, straining to move the sledge forward. For many moments, the sledge with its twenty-ton block did not budge.

“Harder, heave harder,” Kadar commanded, whips sounding.

Everyone cried out, pulling hard, and the huge wheels of the sledge suddenly turned. The sledge rolled forward.

The slaves had to move faster now as they pulled the sledge, which began to gain its own momentum.

There was a small incline ahead. Xavier judged it quickly, and decided it would not be a problem, as long as the slaves kept up a fast pace. He glanced at Timmy’s bright red face. “How are you doing, laddie?”

“Good,” Timmy huffed.

Xavier regarded Tubbs.

“Fine, sir, all thin’s considerin',” Tubbs replied.

The sledge moved a little faster now, but so did the herd of slaves pulling it. Xavier’s pulse roared. They were halfway down the incline—there was not going to be a problem.

And then Timmy tripped.

Out of the corner of his eye, Xavier saw him stumble and begin to go down. He moved like lightning. Acutely conscious of the mass of men behind him, and the sledge with its twenty tons of stone, Xavier stooped, reaching for Timmy, to drag him upright. The slaves behind him ran into him, causing Xavier himself to stumble slightly and miss Timmy, who fell to the ground.

Xavier saw it all then, the boy in the dirt, freckled face half-turned, raw fear in his eyes, and the thundering mass of humanity, which could not stop. “Timmy!” He righted himself while reaching down again.

“Cap’n!” Timmy screamed.

Too late. The men behind Xavier pushed him forward—while Timmy was trampled to death.

“
T
HERE WAS ANOTHER
accident at the quarries.”

Alex froze.

Murad laid his hand on her shoulder. They were in her bedchamber. “No, Alex, not Blackwell. The boy. His cabin boy. He’s dead.”

Alex’s heart began to beat again and she began to breathe. Then she recalled the child, a freckled nose, blue eyes, and carrot red hair. Exchanging a glance with Murad, she sank down abruptly on the bed. “Dear God.” It was all she could manage.

And she was filled with guilt, because she was so damn grateful that it was not Blackwell who had died. “Murad, the sooner we can escape the better.”

Murad stiffened. “It’s all easier said than done, Alex.”

She waved at him. “I know, I know, it’s practically impossible. Well, if I take a defeatist attitude, then we will fail.” She stared at her knees. “I wish he would tell me what he’s planning.” She thought of the dead boy again. “I have to go to him. Murad. I know he must be upset. Grief-stricken.”

“It’s obvious that he doesn’t trust you and he doesn’t want to see you, Alex.”

“Yes, that is obvious.” Alex stood. “But I have to try to comfort him.”

“Don’t do this again. We barely made it back into the palace the last time. Alex …” “Blackwell needs me.”

“No, Alex,” Murad said tersely. “You need him.”

He had borrowed a quill, ink, and parchment from Pierre Quixande. Ignoring the heavy drumming of his heart, Xavier penned long-overdue letters to his family in Boston.

Xavier paused. It was so hard to write to his wife, especially with a light tone, which he must maintain. The real problem was that they were strangers, with nothing to say to one another. It had always been that way. Even as children, he had found it difficult and taxing to converse with Sarah. Robert, of course, had not had that problem.

Somehow, he had always understood her, had been able to draw her out, make her laugh, and he would hold her when she cried. He had seemed to understand her, even when she lasped into one of her withdrawn, noncommunicative moods. The three of them had grown up together. Xavier had always felt left out when the three of them had played as children, and even later, in their adolescent years.

God, he still missed Robert. Would he always miss his carefree younger brother? Would there always be this deep, dark, piercing pain inside of his chest whenever he dared to think of him? How well he understood Sarah’s melancholia, He just could not understand her weakness.

He recalled the two of them on the night they had announced
their engagement to William and himself. It had not been a surprise. And they had been wreathed in smiles, holding hands. They had been a beautiful, perfect couple, and apparently a wonderful future had stretched out in front of them. Except fate had intervened. Robert had drowned because of the Barbary corsairs, and Sarah was a shell of a woman, lost in grief and depression. Life could be so cruel, so incredibly unfair. The parchment in front of him blurred as he stared down at his heavy scrawl. For a moment he thought his eyesight was failing him, and he was confused.

But then a teardrop splashed on the page, causing the D in
Dear
to run.

Xavier sucked in his breath, straightening, brushing his fist over his eyes. He was a man. Men did not cry. Life continued, always. He had his men to care for now. And his ship to destroy.

But he had failed Timmy.

Just as he had, truly, failed Robert.

Xavier gritted his teeth, his heart pounding hard now, and he dipped the quill in the inkwell and continued.

Xavier felt no guilt at telling Sarah such a lie. There was no point in frightening her and causing her to take to her bed for the next three or four months.

He laid the quill down and rested his head on his hands. The widow-spy’s green-eyed image came to his mind. He stiffened. How dare she intrude upon his grief now.

But he could not help but make the comparison. How brave and determined she was. So different from his frail, melancholic wife. Yet Sarah was good. Alexandra Thornton was calculating, clever, and deceitful. But who was she, really? And dammit, whom did she work for?
When you escape, I am escaping with you.

I am a captive just like you.

It was a ruse. Alexandra wanted to learn his plans, nothing more—she had no intention of actually leaving Tripoli. He was almost certain.

In any case, the escape plan was fraught with risk. Every aspect had to work perfectly. Like a jigsaw puzzle, not a single piece could be missing or the entire plan would fail. And failure meant death.

For escape attempts were severely punished in Barbary. With public execution. Leniency was rare or nonexistent. Death was a strong deterrent for the other captives who might be harboring their own plans to escape. Both Quixande and Neilsen had stressed the risks involved. Xavier had already assumed as much.

He sighed harshly, picking up the quill. He began the next paragraph of his missive by describing the beauty of the Barbary coast, then ended with a vivid description of the palace and its royal inhabitants. Sarah would be amused and intrigued. She would love the mere concept that the men and women wore so many beautiful, colorful, gem-encrusted clothes. It did not take much effort to entertain her. He signed the letter, “Your devoted husband, Xavier Blackwell.”

“Xavier?”

He froze, incredulous.
What was she doing here?

He had already stiffened, not just with his body, but with resolve, within his heart. Xavier stood and turned. Alexandra had removed her kaffiyeh. Her long-lashed green eyes were riveted to his.

She was the very last person that he wished to see.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to come here?”

“I heard. I heard about the poor cabin boy.” Her gaze remained on his, intense, searching.

His shoulders tensed. She was the very last person with whom he would discuss Timmy’s death.

She moved forward and laid her hand on his bare biceps. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.

He came to life, jerking his arm away from her touch with unmitigated fury. He hated her for being so damnably seductive when she did not even try. He hated himself for being so damn tempted. “Oh, come! Save the theatrics for someone more naive than myself.”

She gasped. “Theatrics? Damn you! I am appalled that a child has died. Appalled! And I imagine you are grieving for him. I came to offer my condolences—I came to comfort you!”

He saw red. “You didn’t come to comfort me, Mrs. Thornton. Now, did you?”

She blinked at him. “I do not understand.”

She turned to leave, but he shifted his body and barred the doorway. “Perhaps I do need comforting now, Alexandra.”

He saw the comprehension filling her eyes, which swiftly blazed. “Let me by.”

“Why?”

She stared at him. Her expression changed. Her eyes became soft—beautifully so. “The anger is easier, isn’t it? It’s always easier for a man to shout than to cry.”

He was taken aback. “I do not comprehend your meaning.”

She reached up and cupped his cheek. “Tell me what happened, Xavier.”

He was paralyzed by her touch, but only for a moment. “I can only take so much,” he snapped, and then he was hauling her up against him. She started to cry out, but his mouth smothered the sound.

He wanted to punish her for daring to even refer to Timmy, for being so goddamn beautiful, and for being treacherous through and through. For not being Vera, the beautiful and innocent slave girl. His arms locked around her. He seized her mouth. Tearing at it, forcing his tongue deep inside her throat. He was agonizingly aware of how soft she was as he forced her to ride one of his thighs. He was agonizingly aware that he had never, in his entire life, treated a woman so shamefully.

And he expected her to beat at him. He deserved a good pummeling for the liberties he was taking.

But she did not fight against him. She remained rigid and unmoving in his embrace. Some of his anger began to recede, and in its place came a new, wonderful awareness of the woman he held. Her back was straight and supple, her hips small, and her thighs, riding his, were surprisingly hard. But her breasts were full and soft against his chest, and her mouth was hot, sweet—he could not get enough.

Xavier was frightened.

And just as he realized this, she melted against him, her
mouth suddenly moving beneath his lips, her thigh suddenly pressing against his rock-hard erection.

He ripped his mouth from hers. Their gazes locked. He saw the shock and wonder in her eyes. Neither one of them spoke.

She finally smiled, the smile small and uncertain. Her palms slid up his bare chest. “Don’t stop now. Not now,” she whispered, and then she strained upward and began kissing him.