Captive (47 page)

Murad stared. His silver eyes were wild. “Perhaps I can rescue her. I need a few men to overcome the guards, that is all.”

Neilsen held up a hand. “You would fail, and we both know it. Alarms would go up immediately. We must rescue Blackwell.
We cannot, in good conscience, allow a heroic man like that to be murdered by these villains, and he does have a slim chance of success. I have already heard rumors that he will be executed tomorrow morning at dawn.”

Murad found it difficult to breathe—to think.
Alex could not die.
It was practically the only thought that he could focus on. Now he knew just how much he loved her. “They behead traitors and male adulterers in the public square behind the
bedestan,”
he said mechanically.

“I shall organize a group of mercenaries to rescue him from the beheading block,” Neilsen said decisively. “Paid soldiers on horseback. They can take him to the
Olga.
If they can outrace the bashaw’s men, and if I can convince the captain of the
Olga
to participate in the rescue, then, perhaps, we might have a very small chance of saving him.” Neilsen was grim. “If only the
Olga
were armed.”

“But what about Alex?” Murad cried.

“There is nothing we can do about Mrs. Thornton,” Neilsen said firmly. “But I suggest you leave Tripoli with Blackwell.”

“No.” Murad would not even consider it. Again he thought,
Alex cannot, must not, die.

A
LEX WANTED TO
see Blackwell. Desperately.

She paced her bedchamber, praying now for another visit from Zoe. She would sell her soul to the devil, or the other woman, if a visit could be arranged.

The day was passing with agonizing slowness. Alex hadn’t slept a wink, and she was aware of being incredibly exhausted—but she also knew she could not sleep, no matter how she might try. Too much was at stake. Blackwell’s life was at stake.

Alex found it very difficult to believe that she had traveled back in time in order to find Blackwell—only to witness his death.

Her door opened. Alex knew deep inside her heart that it would not be Zoe, and it was not. It was Jebal. “Come with me,” he said, two soldiers standing behind him, another two guarding her door.

Alex was frozen with dread. “Where are we going?”

His eyes were hard and bright. “My father wishes to speak with you.”

Briefly Alex closed her eyes, paralyzed.

“Come,” Jebal snapped.

Alex had no choice but to obey. She was still wearing her torn crimson clothing from the night before, and she slowly crossed the room. Jebal turned and marched down the corridor.
Alex following. The two armed Turks fell into step behind her.

They left the women’s quarters. Jebal’s section of the palace seemed unnaturally still and silent, as if everyone were deeply in mourning. Alex was aware of panic trying to form in her breast. Stolidly she kept tamping it down. She needed all of her wits about her now.

They entered the public domain of the palace. Alex was sweating.

Jebal passed through the open arched entry of the bashaw’s hall. Alex tripped while following.

The bashaw sat on the dais on his throne. Farouk and Jovar stood beside him. And then she faltered, stricken. In chains, Blackwell stood with four soldiers on the side of the dais. He was staring directly at her.

Alex met his brilliant gaze, her heart beating wildly. He was alive. She scanned him quickly—he did not appear to have been beaten in any way. He stood tall and proud, wary and alert. She was flooded with joy and relief.

Jebal suddenly took her arm, his grip vicious. Alex realized her feelings must have been openly revealed upon her face. She met his blazing eyes, flushing, as he yanked her forward. She stumbled and he jerked her upright.

She bit her lip so she would not cry out. She knew he wanted to hurt her.

The bashaw stood. “So. We have a pair of spies inside my home.”

Alex shook her head. She did not dare glance at Xavier now. But images were tumbling through her mind. Images of the two of them being beaten, bastinadoed, and tortured with the whips and metal devices she had seen hanging on the walls of the guardroom of the bagnio. Her knees knocked together.

“A pair of spies—a pair of lovers,” the bashaw said coldly.

Alex looked into his black eyes and saw an infinite capacity for cruelty there. “No. I rescued Black—”

“Silence!” the bashaw roared. “You will speak when I ask you to!”

Alex bowed her head, but not before darting a glance at Blackwell. His eyes were also blazing. It struck her then that he hated seeing her treated this way. It struck her then that even though he might not know it, he loved her very much.

But it was too late.

His lids lowered. When they lifted she read the message written there—
caution,
it said.

The bashaw spoke to his son, his prime minister, his navy admiral. “What shall we do with these traitors?”

“Kill them,” Jovar said simply, as if there were no other possible choice.

Farouk stepped forward. “Add them to the stakes now being wagered. Preble will seek to negotiate the release of the
Philadelphia’s
crew again. He must. Inform him now that we also have the heir to Blackwell Shipping—and an American woman. The Americans are very fond of their women—we can gain much gold for her. Perhaps they will agree to lift the blockade.”

“No!” Jebal said angrily. “They have betrayed us—they have betrayed me!” He turned his furious gaze on Alex. “And she might be with my son—or with
his
son.”

Alex trembled and shared another brief, potent glance with Blackwell. He suddenly said, very calmly, “Are we not allowed to defend ourselves?”

Jovar laughed. “You have no rights, American dog.”

“And what is it that you wish to say to change your fates?” the bashaw asked, his eyes gleaming.

Blackwell spoke only to the bashaw. “She is not a spy. She is not my paramour. She rescued me when she found me dying in the
bedestan
because she is a compassionate woman—that is all. I, however, will confess to my crimes.” His glance slid to Alex.

And Alex realized what he was doing. She sagged against Jebal.
“No, Xavier.”

“I have been spying. I have forwarded all the information that I could to Commodore Preble. But the woman has not been involved, was never involved. I would never allow a lady to dally in the affairs of men, in the politics of war. And she has remained faithful to her husband. I swear it.”

Alex felt a tear trickling down her cheek.

“He has confessed,” Jovar snarled. “Sentence him to death!”

“Are you trying to protect this woman?” the bashaw asked sharply.

“I am telling you the truth,” Blackwell said flatly.

Alex felt Jebal’s gaze upon her, knew more tears were coursing down her cheeks, but she could no more stop the tears than she could look away from the man she loved.

And the bashaw suddenly pointed at her. “She will live until she bears the child—and we shall all pray it resembles my son. You, Jebal, will decide her ultimate fate.” His hand moved toward Blackwell. “And you will die at dawn tomorrow.”

“Let me speak with him,” Alex begged impulsively. She and Jebal were marching through the palace at a rapid pace. Jebal had not said a word to her since they had left the bashaw’s presence. Now he whirled.

“Treacherous bitch!” he shouted.

“Tomorrow he will die. He is my friend. Please, allow me to speak with him!” Alex cried. She was clinging to Jebal’s arms.

He shook her off. “He has lied to protect you, but he will not succeed! It is clear to me that you are in love with him. I will never,
ever,
forgive you for this betrayal.”

Alex shrank. “All right! I do love him! I loved him before I ever came to Tripoli!”

He backhanded her.

Alex was thrown against the opposite wall. For the second time that day she hit her head and saw white, exploding lights. Something wet trickled down the nape of her neck.

As she slid to the floor, the wind knocked out of her, her head exploding with pain, Jebal loomed over her, his face a mask of hatred. “You will regret your words, Zohara. The next few years will be torture for you. I shall make sure of it. You will remain a prisoner. You will have no rights. None. And know this. If you are not with child, you will die as soon as that has been determined. If you are with child, you shall live, but only until the child is old enough for me to decide whether it is mine or not. And if the child is his—
it will die with you.”

Alex moaned.

Jebal turned. “Take her back to her room,” he snapped.

The guards dragged her to her feet. Jebal strode away. And Alex was propelled roughly forward.

Murad hid in the shrubs that crept along the edges of the galleria just outside of Alex’s bedchamber. By now he knew that a terrific search had been mounted for him. He was terrified, but he had to be reassured that Alex was unharmed. Even more important. Murad was determined that Alex somehow escape, with or without Blackwell.

Yet he could not figure out how this could be accomplished. Alex was locked up and under guard. He had no accomplices to assist him in freeing her. But if he could somehow get her to the square at dawn tomorrow, surely she could be rescued with Blackwell.

Suddenly she appeared in the window.

It was shuttered, the shutters obviously locked, but through the latticework Murad saw her as clear as day. His heart flipped hard. He saw how pale she was, how disheveled, could just make out the ugly bruises on her face, and the dark circles under her eyes. What had they done to her?

He was by nature a caregiver. He had taken care of her for two years. He loved her, far more than as a friend. He yearned to go to her now and take care of her yet again.

But he could not.

He hesitated, glancing around, still crouching and concealed by the shrubbery. Two women were wandering down the path in the gardens behind him—he dared not slip across the galleria and try to alert her to his presence.

She turned away from the window. Murad saw a dark, matted section of hair on her head, and realized that, at some point, her head had been bleeding.

He was enraged. How he wished he could kill Jebal. It struck him then that he would kill Jebal if Alex died. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

She was walking away. He had to take a chance now. Murad stood. In his hand were a dozen pebbles. He tossed them at the wall beside the window. They hit the stucco loudly, scattering onto the galleria. But Alex had disappeared from his view—she had not heard.

Murad shrank back down beneath the shrubs, despairing and desperate. This was not the way to communicate with Alex, and he was fully aware of it. And then he had an idea.

In fact, he had two ideas.

Pauline was nursing her baby in her bedchamber when a hand clamped on her mouth from behind. She stiffened with surprise and fright.

“It is only I,” Murad whispered, moving around to stand in front of her.

“Murad!” Paulina gasped, paling. And then, as it always did when he came near, her heart raced with excitement.

She could not look at Murad without thinking about sex—and the many passionate moments they had shared.

Ignoring her, he went to her door and bolted it. Paulina stood, cradling her son, who still suckled her nipple. They were alone. He must have entered her room through one of the windows on the opposite side.

Warmth flooding her, Paulina whispered. “Murad, you should not be here! Jebal seeks to have you arrested. I think he intends to put you to death because he is so angry with Zohara.”

“I know,” Murad said grimly. “Will you betray me?” he asked.

Paulina blushed, glancing down at the floor. When she lifted her eyes she was smiling slightly. “Of course not. We have shared far too much, you and I.” Her soft gaze held his. “I have been worried about you.”

He smiled, but it was fleeting. “Will you help me, Paulina?”

She tensed, and the baby released her nipple, wailing. Quickly Paulina rocked her son, guiding her nipple back to his mouth. “I will do anything you ask me to do,” she whispered now, but she was frightened.

Murad was satisfied. “I want you to do two things for me,” he said. And then he explained.

Alex did not expect another visitor. She was sinking rapidly into a deep depression, one born of despair and defeat. She did not rise when Paulina entered her room. All she could think about was that it was noon now, and that at dawn tomorrow Xavier’s head was going to be chopped off.

Her eyes filled with tears.

She hated history, she hated fate.

“May I speak to you?”

“I am not allowed visitors.” Alex did not look up.

“Jebal has given me permission,” Paulina said, coming forward.

“That is a surprise,” Alex said with uncharacteristic bitterness. Still she did not regard Paulina.

Paulina moved swiftly then, and sat down beside her. “I am so sorry he has locked you up.”

Alex nodded.

“Do you think you are with child?”

“I do not know. Hopefully not,” Alex said. She would go insane if she was pregnant, not knowing who the father was. She could not stand the thought of bearing Jebal’s son while Xavier was buried in some anonymous grave, murdered practically by Jebal’s own hand.

Paulina lowered her voice so the two guards standing in the open doorway could not hear. “Murad sent me.”

Alex jerked. Her gaze flew to Paulina’s. “He is all right?” she whispered back.

“Yes. But he is hiding. He asked me to give you this.” Paulina withdrew a scrap of paper from her robes. Her cheeks were burning with guilt.

Alex opened it and read it immediately. It was written in English, which Paulina could not read.
Be prepared to escape tomorrow at dawn from the execution square.

Alex looked up, swallowing, her pulse racing wildly. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

Paulina stood quickly. “I know nothing. I do not know what that note says. He merely asked me to give it to you—and he asked me to speak with Jebal as well.”