Captive (43 page)

She began to pace her bedchamber. She had just passed a sleepless night. She had discovered far too much while eavesdropping on her rival, and she had spent the night sorting through all that she had learned. Many answers still eluded her. But she had learned enough to destroy Zohara any time she wished.

Zoe smiled happily. It was beginning to appear that Zohara
was a spy. She had been discussing the commander of the United States Navy in the Mediterranean, Commodore Preble, with her new slave. She was amazingly well-informed about Tripoli’s state of war with the United States. How did Zohara know so much? She must be a spy; there was no other explanation. How delicious that was! And it explained so much, especially her sudden, inexplicable appearance in Tripoli two years ago. Jebal might very well execute her for her treachery and her lies. He would certainly divorce her, selling her off. But he would punish her cruelly first.

And she had already told Jovar that the Americans had war plans. He had been furious with her, though, for not knowing what those plans were, instead of being pleased. Zoe hadn’t minded his anger. His anger always made him massive and hard.

Zoe turned and stared at the two little books again. She could pay someone to translate them and keep silent. All of Zohara’s secrets were undoubtedly written there.

The bedouin woman’s haunting words suddenly returned to Zoe. The old woman had insisted that Zohara was from a different time, a different place. Zoe became very still.

Then she shook herself free of any doubts. It was absurd. And Zohara was a fool to have told Blackwell that she was a “time traveler.” It was beyond the realm of possibility that Zohara was from the twentieth century. She wondered why an intelligent woman who was a spy would make up such a stupid story and continue to insist upon it. Unable to fathom her motives, Zoe finally laughed and dismissed her speculations.

In fact, Zohara’s claims to be a time traveler were irrelevant, as was her being a spy. Because Zoe had discovered the astonishing truth. The tall slave was Xavier Blackwell.

Zoe wanted to shout and dance with glee. How wonderfully kind Fate was! Blackwell had returned. He would be, Zoe knew, the final instrument of Alex’s destruction.

They had to be lovers. They had been lovers once, a year ago, in the bagnio. Now it was up to Zoe to catch them at it again—and expose them to Jebal.

Jebal might forgive Zohara her political treachery, or merely allow her to live, but he would
never
forgive her for taking a lover, not ever, and Zohara’s fate would be death.

“
I
AM SO
sorry, Alex,” Murad repeated.

Alex stared, two thoughts competing viciously in her mind. Blackwell would never believe her now, and without the lamp, she would remain forever in the past, alone and rejected by him. Those two stark realizations paralyzed her.

“Alex,” Murad said, touching her hand. “Zoe must have sent those soldiers after me.”

Alex came out of her reverie, aware that Xavier was regarding her closely, suspiciously. Dread formed an unpleasant lump in her chest. “Yes, I imagine Zoe is behind this.”

“If Zoe is not behind the theft, then there are other, even more dangerous spies within the harem,” Murad pointed out.

Alex began to feel that she could not cope. She was overwhelmed. She walked over to the cushions and sat down and stared at a plate of dates. Now what should she do?

Murad followed her. “Neilsen told me that a Danish ship will be in port any day now. It continues on to Alexandria and Constantinople, but from there, it calls on Leghorn. You two should make your escape on it.”

Alex stared at him, then caught Blackwell’s sharp eye. “Any day now?” She should be thrilled; this was what she had dreamed of, her escaping Tripoli with Blackwell. Her hopes, dreams, and convictions had given her the strength to endure two years of captivity. Instead, she was frightened.

Blackwell came forward. “We will be on that ship.” He eyed Alex. “That is, I shall certainly be on that ship. Notify me the moment she is sighted off of the coast.”

“Neilsen said he would send word immediately,” Murad responded. His worried gaze remained upon Alex.

Blackwell crossed his arms. “What is in the sack that was so damned important that the two of you are actually green?”

Alex shot him a dark look. “My passport. And … a special lamp.”

“Any other papers that I should know of?”

She shook her head. “Just the evidence of the truth about me—which I wanted to show you. Zoe, or someone, has that evidence now.” Alex tried to imagine Jebal’s reaction to her passport, but failed. She had no idea if he would believe her, or if he would be furious with her for her deception.

Blackwell’s voice was hard. “This is very convenient.”

She jerked.

“Isn’t it?”

She was on her feet, breathing hard. She had had enough. She could not take any more. “You bastard! You think I’m making this all up, you think that I’m lying! That Murad is in league with me—that there is no proof and that there was no ambush?”

“That is exactly what I think,” Blackwell said flatly.

Alex shrieked. Enraged, she flew across the room, vaguely aware that her behavior was out of bounds. But her intention was to pummel him until he begged her to stop, until he admitted he was wrong, until he saw reason—until he came to his senses and realized that he loved her. She was so angry that her fist caught his jaw. He grunted. One instant later Alex was on her back on the bed, spread-eagle and held down by a man she had loved with all of her heart and was beginning, truly, to hate.

“Why in God’s name are you so angry?” Blackwell asked, his face very close to hers.

Alex ceased struggling. The words were hardly out of his mouth when Alex realized just how close his lips were to hers, that his full weight held her down as well, and that she could feel his thundering heartbeat. Some of her anger faded. A far more arresting emotion crested.

And he knew. He became utterly still, their gazes locked. Lightning flared.

Alex remained motionless, disbelieving, absorbing every single mesmerizing detail of every single inch of his hard, aroused body. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. It had become exceedingly difficult to breathe.

He was going to kiss her. He had to.

The pain of the past was entirely forgotten.

And Blackwell cursed. “Damnation,” he said, and he lowered his head, brushing her mouth with his. Alex stiffened; so did he. He lifted his head and their gazes met instantly.

And his mouth seized hers. Alex opened. As he relaxed his grip on her wrists, she flung her arms around his shoulders, her ankles hooking hard around his legs. The kiss took on a voracious life of its own. Their mouths fused. Their tongues met.

And the door slammed. With anger.

Alex jerked.

He tore his mouth from hers. “It’s only Murad,” he said harshly.

“Xavier,” Alex whispered, half of her mind forming a protest, the other half a plea. He did not listen. His mouth covered hers.

Alex had never wanted anyone more, and nothing had ever felt more right, but she was afraid. Yet he ripped his mouth from hers, his hands on her breasts. Suddenly he was shoving up the layers of her clothing, rubbing her nipples, which were hard and erect. Alex cried out.

Their gazes met.

His hand shot to the nape of her neck, anchoring her head by a handful of hair. Alex could not move, did not want to move. Giving her a smoldering glance, he lowered his head and took one of her nipples between his teeth. Perhaps because he was so excited, he tugged far too hard, and Alex cried out.

He gentled, licking her breasts, a moan working its way up from deep within his chest. He slid down her body. Alex heard herself murmuring, “Yes, God, yes,” as he buried his face between her legs. Her fingers clawed his head.

“I want to hear you scream my name,” he said. And Blackwell gripped her trousers and tore them down the center seam. Alex started. And then his mouth was on her.

He washed her with his tongue. His teeth seemed to grate her lips. Alex began to spasm violently, sobbing, but he did not stop. “More, Alexandra,” he ordered harshly, “give me more.”

His tongue was on her clitoris, stroking there, when he began to thrust inside of her with two fingers. The lights were just fading inside of Alex’s head. Her heart lurched, sped up. Her body stiffened. The vortex beckoned her again. “Xavier, oh God,” she begged.

His tongue thrust up hard against her, his fingers thrust even harder inside of her, and Alex shouted wordlessly, racked with ecstasy.

She lay boneless and limp on the bed, gasping for air. She finally managed to focus on him; he was standing beside the bed staring at her supine body—she was naked from the waist down, her tunic and gilet rucked up high enough to expose her breasts. He was stepping out of his trousers, but his eyes never left her. Shamelessly Alex looked at him, at every inch of his thin but muscular body, at his huge, fully engorged manhood. Her pulse was racing again. She could feel her own sex throbbing.

The corners of his lips seemed to curl. “I want you.”

Alex wanted him, too. But as he came down on the bed beside her she caught his arm, preventing him from moving on top of her as he wished to do. For one moment she held his eye, and then, her heart beating very fast, she leaned over him and nudged his penis with her face.

He froze.

“Let me,” she whispered hoarsely. Her breath feathered him.

“Alexandra,” he choked.

Alex slid down the bed, her tongue flicking out, over the plumlike tip. He gasped.

And then she rolled onto her back, her hands clutching his hips, guiding him up and over her. Beneath him, his knees on each side of her arms, she kissed the base.

“Oh, God,” he gasped.

Alex strained upward, her tongue just touching him. She could hear him panting loudly, his heavy breathing filling the room.

“Let me,” she said.

“You don’t have to.” He was hoarse.

Her reply was to open wide and suck the tip of his penis into her mouth. He cried out. And Alex began to suck him in earnest then. His thrusting rhythm increased.

“More,” Alex managed.

He thrust deep.

Alex wrapped her arms around his hips and sucked him hard.

A moment later he had pulled out. He grabbed a hank of her hair. For one split instant, their gazes met, his savage. He ground his mouth down on hers, forcing her lips open. Their tongues mated with violence.

He pulled away. His biceps bulged. His chest heaved. The veins stood out on his temples. He nudged her thighs farther apart and very deliberately, his eyes blazing into hers, he rubbed the tip of his penis against her.

Alex closed her eyes and let him stroke her, lease her, pleasure building inside of her in waves. He paused, throbbing against the entrance to her vagina.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Please,” she heard herself rasp.

He prodded gently.

She understood. “Blackwell,” she wept.

And he impaled her.

His entry was rough and knifelike, but she had been waiting forever to be rejoined with him and she laughed while she sobbed his name.

He pounded into her, his arms bands of steel around her, their heartbeats thundering as one. “Dear God,” he gasped. “Alexandra!”

His hands lifted her, her knees locked around him. Alex could not believe it, but she was climaxing before they had even begun. She cried his name again and again, heard him moaning helplessly. He began to convulse. She felt him ejaculating, wet and warm, she felt him quivering inside of her.

They held each other, shaking, breathing hard. Alex kept her eyes closed, her face buried in the crook of his neck. She was terrified of meeting his gaze, terrified of returning to reality. So she just held on.

“Jebal, I must speak with you,” Zoe said.

Jebal frowned. “Zoe, I am busy, can you not see?”

Zoe smiled politely at Farouk. She was thoroughly veiled so that the bashaw’s prime minister could not see her face. “It is very important, dearest husband, otherwise I would never interrupt you. But I have information about Zohara, information you must have.”

Jebal started, then nodded. “Excuse us for a moment, Farouk.”

The big man stood. “Jebal, we can finish our discussion later. I have other appointments as well.”

Jebal nodded and watched until Farouk had disappeared through the door. He faced Zoe. “What malicious slander do you intend to spread now?”

Zoe inhaled. “That is unfair!”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” She scowled. “Do you know that Murad leaves the palace constantly?”

“With his mistress’s consent, that is hardly a crime.”

“But that is just it. He is performing errands for her. But what errands, I wonder, would take him to Sven Neilsen’s?”

Jebal froze. “Do you have proof?”

Zoe licked her lips. “No. But he was there. My spies saw him leaving the Dane’s house.” She hesitated. “And he left the Dane with a package—actually it was a sack.”

“And I suppose that you know what is in that sack?”

“No, I have no idea,” Zoe said.

Jebal paced. His face was set, grim. He turned. “If you are lying, Zoe, dear, I shall have you bastinadoed.”

Zoe smiled. “I am not lying, Jebal. And as your wife, I thought it pertinent to inform you of the possibility that Zohara is a spy.” She stared coldly. “Have you never wondered just how she arrived in Tripoli?”

A muscle ticked in his cheek. He did not reply.

“But on which ship did she arrive? The slave trader did not know. No one knows. How did she arrive here, Jebal? And why? Why, Jebal?”

Slowly he said, “I have tried not to think about it. My own spies could not learn the name of the ship she disembarked from, so I dropped the issue.”

Zoe smiled.

Jebal’s jaw tightened. He strode for the door, and through it, Zoe rushing after him. “Where are you going?” She cried.

“I
am going to ask Zohara to explain what business her slave could possibly have with Neilsen.”

Alex lay motionless, her pulse beginning to subside. Xavier slipped off of her and lay beside her, also unmoving. One of his arms remained draped over her abdomen, beneath her breasts.