Captive (45 page)

Zoe wiggled against him; he was growing hard. “Let me go, Peter.”

“Why? You summoned me to fuck you.”

“Maybe I summoned you to talk.” She scowled. But pressed herself against him.

He laughed once, harshly, and released her. “Very well, we’ll fuck later. Let’s talk. Why are you so smug and self-satisfied? What have you been up to today?”

Zoe folded her arms. “Why should I tell you—when you are so mean to me?”

He also crossed his arms, amused. “Because you won’t get what you want from me if you don’t—and I shall give it to someone else, perhaps the German, Hilda.”

Zoe flew at him, fingers extended, her long nails glinting bloodred. Before she could rake her nails down his face, he caught her wrists. She struggled briefly and went still. “Zohara’s days are numbered.”

“Really? So you are poised to destroy your favorite enemy? I never doubted that you would, darling. But why should I care?”

“You should care because it is very likely that she is a spy.” Zoe smiled at him.

“Explain.”

“Her slave is in contact with Neilsen. This morning he went to the Dane and delivered a letter.” Zoe was not going to tell him about the sack. Just as she was not about to tell him that Zohara might also be a time traveler as well as a spy. Zoe was uncertain, but she was determined to unravel the puzzle one way or the other. But Jovar would laugh at her in a very condescending manner if he ever knew that she was even considering the possibility that Zohara was from the future.

“You did not intercept the letter?” he demanded.

“My spies were told to watch only.”

Jovar paced. His blond hair was almost the same color as the moonlight spilling into the bedchamber. “I am not surprised. We need to learn what Preble is planning. I shall plant spies within the harem as well. After their damned attack on the
Philadelphia.
I cannot allow him another victory.” Jovar’s jaw flexed. Zoe knew he was thinking about the public whipping ordered by the bashaw. He had not been able to sleep with her for two full weeks. “Does Jebal know?”

“He is suspicious, but not completely convinced.” Zoe told Jovar about how Jebal had ordered Zohara’s room searched. “You think she is a spy for the Americans?”

“Of course. Whom else would she be spying for?” Jovar said, pacing restlessly.

Zoe hesitated. She knew what Cameron did not know—that Blackwell was convinced she was the enemy—and spying for someone else. “Peter?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“Blackwell does not agree.”

Jovar started. “What?”

Zoe managed not to smile. “Blackwell. He thinks she is a spy—but not for his country.”

Jovar reached her in a stride and hauled her up against him, shaking her. Zoe cried out. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded viciously. “Blackwell vanished ten months ago!”

“No,” Zoe said breathlessly. “He is here, inside the harem.”

Jovar’s eyes widened. “You are sure? You have seen him?”

“Yes,” Zoe said with a hiss of satisfaction.

Jovar stared, but clearly he did not see Zoe. He was thinking about his dearest enemy. After a long moment, he released her. And he smiled, slowly.

M
URAD HAD PROCURED
some red wine for her. Alex had not drunk any alcohol since arriving in Tripoli two years ago, but in spite of that, she did not feel pleasant or comfortable or relaxed. Her heart raced wildly. She was trapped, about to pay the piper, and she knew it with certainty and dread.

Jebal watched her enter his bedroom.

Alex could not summon a smile. His threats rang in her ears. Nor could she stop recalling the vicious destruction of her bedroom earlier that day. She should have drunk more wine; she now realized that. Just inside the threshold of his bedroom, she paused, hugging herself. How would she survive their encounter? How she hated him!

She told herself for the hundredth time that it did not matter that she was going to go to bed with him. Soon, very soon, she and Blackwell would escape Tripoli and be free. What had begun as a lark and had turned into a nightmare would truly be over.

“I wish to apologize for this morning,” Jebal finally said.

Alex nodded. She would never forgive him.

“You are very beautiful tonight.” Jebal smiled slightly. “Red suits you, Zohara.”

Alex did not smile. Murad had dressed her. She had not wanted to wear crimson silk, but his eyes had flashed and he had said, “Your future depends on this night Your future—your
freedom. Please him, Alex, otherwise he may very well lock you up and throw away the key, and then you will never escape.”

Alex had worn red.

“Come. I am not going to hurt you.” Jebal smiled more widely now.

Alex walked forward. She was wearing numerous gold bracelets on her ankles, and they jangled with every step she took. She wore nothing beneath her two fine robes, the outer one being short and sleeveless and embroidered along the neckline and hem with seed pearls and threads of gold, and she felt spectacularly like a whore.

Jebal took her arm, his gaze moving over her breasts. She wore a tight, wide belt of solid gold, so her figure was lushly revealed. He lifted his gaze, and Alex saw the heat in his eyes. She thought.
If we are going to do this, we should do it now, and get it over with.

But the despair renewed itself. Jebal did not want a quickie. And Alex knew herself that she had to perform—that she must please him—make him happy with her. Yet she also knew that in spite of the consequences, she could not, would not, do as logic and common sense dictated.

Oh, God! If only that Danish ship had cruised into port yesterday!

Jebal slipped his arm around her. “In truth,” he said huskily, “you are ravishing. The most stunning woman I have ever seen.”

Alex remained mute. She no longer felt the effects of the wine. Her pulse pounded so hard, she felt ill. Jebal had her in his embrace now, and she could feel the tip of his phallus against her belly. Clearly he was already erect. She was nauseated.

“Do you wish to dine?” he whispered, his palms sliding down her back and pausing on her buttocks.

“No. I am not hungry,” Alex said tersely. She stood stiff as a board. His touch repulsed her. She could not go through with this. Suddenly she jerked away from him. “Don’t touch me!”

He was stunned, and then his eyes darkened.

Alex had fled toward the door, but two slaves barred the exit, so she stood there, trapped and shaking violently.

He marched toward her. “You refuse me?”

“Yes! I can’t. Jebal!”

“It has been two years, Zohara! Somehow, for two very long years, you have managed to elude me.” He was shouting. His face was flushed a dark, angry shade of red.

Inside, Alex was cringing. Tears filled her eyes. “I do not love you.”

He stared. “Perhaps,” he said, very slowly, “I shall force you to love me.”

Alex whimpered inaudibly.

His hands snaked out. He caught her chin ruthlessly; their gazes clashed. Alex’s was brilliant with tears. “You are a spy, aren’t you?”

“No,” she choked.

He ground his mouth down on hers. Alex was forced backward against the wall. He kissed her ruthlessly. She almost gagged, refusing to respond. She was filled with terror.

He broke away, staring furiously at her—and then his hand lashed out and he struck her hard across the face. Alex’s head snapped back, hitting the wall. Stars filled her vision. Her face throbbed with pain. And her head felt as if it had been split open.

Alex rushed into her bedchamber, shutting the door behind her and bolting it. Then she stood rigidly with her spine pressed against it, unmoving. Only a short time had elapsed since she had been summoned by Jebal, but that had been enough.

Her legs trembled, seeming incapable of holding her upright.

Her chest began heaving. Something inside of her felt explosive.
No,
she told herself,
no.

The door between their rooms opened. Murad appeared. “Alex!” He started toward her, concern, worry, love, written all over his face.

She held up a hand. Her voice was raw—with good reason. “I want to be alone.”

He froze. After a long pause, during which his gaze searched hers, he said, “You shouldn’t be alone. Let me help you. Let me sit with you, at least.”

Alex shook her head. Her self-control was precarious, at best. “Leave me,” she said, hoarsely.

Murad appeared agonized. Still he hesitated.

“Leave!” Alex cried out.

He jerked, his face rigid, and left.

Still Alex did not move. She looked down at the floor, the bright red color of her floor-length silk gown catching her eye. She suddenly gripped the material in her fist and tore it viciously. The tearing sound seemed loud and abrasive in the silence of her room. She sucked down a sob. She was not going to cry. She was a strong, adult woman, a woman with an agenda. She could handle what had happened, she could. Because soon she would escape, and never see Jebal again.
God damn him to hell for all eternity.

Alex thought she might vomit.

She thought she might claw the skin from her very body in order to cleanse herself.

“Alexandra.”

Alex froze.

Blackwell repeated her name.

Slowly she looked up.

He was moving toward her, his dark gaze riveted on her face.

“Go away,” Alex said in a raw whisper, meaning it with all of her heart—for he was the last person she wanted to see. She could not hold his gaze. She did not dare. Alex looked away.

“Alexandra,” he said urgently, harshly.

“No!” Not looking at him, she raised both hands, to ward him off.

He did not stop or even pause. He reached her and gripped her hands. Gently. Alex tensed every muscle she possessed. His hands were large, strong, warm—powerful. Slowly he pulled her hands down to his chest and cradled them there. His chest was heaving.

“Tell me that he did not hurt you,” he finally said.

Alex could not answer. She shook her head, her eyes on their locked hands, on the wall of his broad chest.

“Look at me, dear God,” he burst out.

Alex looked.

His eyes were moist. “I should have never let you go!”

Alex’s mouth began to tremble. Words, emotions, tumbled inside of her, seedling, writhing. “I … It …” She could not think, much less speak, coherently.

He crushed her in his embrace.

He was big and tall and powerful. The strength of his body was vastly reassuring, vastly safe—but it threatened the very foundation of her sense of self, of her self-control.

“Don’t,” Alex said, strangled, but she did not try to break free of him.

He rubbed her back, not gently, but urgently. “Tell me. I have to know. Because one day I will kill him.”

Alex, her face buried now against his chest, shook her head in negation. “No.”

“You’ll feel better if you tell me,” he said softly.

Her glance met his, wildly. She had never seen this side of him before. If only a different cause were the reason for exposing his sensitivity, his compassion, his concern. “I can’t,” she choked. “Maybe, one day, not now.”

“You did what you had to do,” Blackwell told her, his eyes glistening. “You had no choice. Do not blame yourself.”

“There are always choices,” she heard herself say, echoing his very own words spoken so very long ago.

“You had no choice,” he said very firmly. “You are a survivor.”

Their gazes locked. He spoke the very exact words she had spoken, not so long ago, when she had begged him to believe in her.

He bent slowly and kissed her forehead, very tenderly.

Alex felt all of the self-loathing then. She ducked away.

He was still, silent. Alex really hadn’t wanted to reject him, but she hated herself, hated Jebal, even hated him. She started to cry, trying very hard not to. The result was that a few tears streamed silently down her face.

He slid his arm firmly around her waist, as if to anchor her against him. “Bathe. You will feel better.” It was an order and a promise. She could feel his iron will. He would not allow his words to be false.

Alex nodded.

He guided her into the bathing room. Keeping one arm around her, he turned on the faucets and faced her. Suddenly
his hands were cupping her face. “Talk to me, Alexandra. Dear God, talk to me.”

“Yes,” Alex whispered, beginning to really cry, “he hurt me very much.”

“I’m sorry. I will kill him. I promise,” Blackwell cried.

Alex shook her head. “I hate this place. I hate him. I only want to escape.” She was clinging to his wrists.

“I will kill him anyway.”

Alex wept. She did not want to cry in front of Blackwell, but could not stop herself. And Blackwell folded her in his arms. Alex sobbed harshly, bitterly, in defeat, against his chest.

When the tub began to overflow, her fist opened. A bright, bloodred piece of silk fluttered into the water, where it was washed away.

She had stopped crying but had not bathed when Murad dashed into the bathing room. Alex now sat on the side of the tub, wiping her eyes, while Blackwell sat on a small stool, quietly watching her. The silence had become strangely companionable. They both looked up.

Murad looked from Alex to Blackwell, an odd expression on his face, then he said, “I just received word. The Danish ship has anchored outside of the harbor. She will berth tomorrow—and leave at first tide the day after that.”

Alex’s heart began to pound. Her gaze held Murad’s, comprehension sizzling between them, then moved and connected with Blackwell’s. He was on his feet. “That is very good news,” he said savagely. His eyes pierced hers. He smiled triumphantly.

Alex was also standing. She could hardly believe what was happening—could hardly believe that tomorrow they would make their escape.

“What the hell is that?” Blackwell suddenly said.

Alex heard the thundering noise of racing booted steps coming down the corridor outside of her rooms at the very same time. She stiffened with dread. Murad, also understanding, turned white.

The door to Alex’s bedroom burst open, slamming loudly against the wall. Alex was frozen, incapable of movement. Both Murad and Blackwell seemed equally paralyzed.