Captive (48 page)

Alex also stood. “What did you say to Jebal?”

Paulina hesitated.
“I
merely told him that he should make you watch Blackwell die.”

And Alex understood.

He wasn’t afraid. Not for himself.

Xavier stood beside the stone block where he would kneel and place his head, his wrists manacled behind his back, four soldiers surrounding him. It was the crack of dawn. The sky was gray, the sun a rising orange ball on the horizon. The square was already filled with restless, jeering people. The children laughed at him, shouting dirty names at him in Arabic;
the women hissed and booed. Xavier remained oblivious—in fact, he did not even hear them.

Alexandra’s image remained in his mind, at once comforting and disturbing. She might be a spy. It no longer mattered. He only knew that he had never felt such frighteningly intense feelings for anyone as he did for her—a combination of love and lust, of joy and sadness, of fear and hope, of utter, bitter regret.

He did not care about dying himself. All men must die. He had had his revenge. Preble would destroy the city and the palace with the information Xavier had passed along. The United States would win this silly war. The bashaw would not be able to terrorize the seas, to bribe and blackmail and thieve. Robert’s soul could cease haunting Sarah and Blackwell House. He could go comfortably to heaven now.

But he did not want Alexandra to die. And he did not want her to remain in Tripoli, damn it, a captive and Jebal’s wife. And what if she was with child? What if she carried
his
child?

Xavier would be overjoyed, as he had never known joy before—and he would be triply frightened for her. Dear God, was there no way out?

“Blackwell!”

He finally realized that someone was shouting his name. He did not care—but the voice had been urgent and the accent familiar in spite of the noise of the crowd. Xavier looked up.

And met Neilsen’s wide, urgent gaze.

Immediately he knew that something was afoot.

Jebal gripped her wrist. Alex knew he was bruising her, but she could not care. She had eyes only for Blackwell.

How could he be so calm in the face of death? And would he die? Clearly Murad, God bless him, had arranged an escape attempt. But how? And at this eleventh hour, how could it possibly succeed?

Her heart was lodged unpleasantly in her throat. She was ill, nauseated, breathless, and afraid. So deathly afraid for Blackwell.

And she felt Jebal’s eyes burning upon her. He was eager to have her watch Blackwell die.

If Alex had to watch his head roll off that block, she knew she herself would die. She could never bear it.

Alex finally tore her gaze from him. She glanced around the crowd, which was vicious and eager for blood. There were soldiers milling about everywhere. Alex despaired. It seemed impossible that Blackwell could escape, much less herself, but she would be prepared to react to anything that came her way. She prayed.

And across the crowd she glimpsed Murad. She bit off a gasp.

Murad held her gaze, then bowed his head, disappearing from view. He was, of course, wearing bedouin robes. Alex saw him a moment later—he was threading his way through the crowd, moving slowly toward her.

The crowd roared.

Alex jerked and saw the bashaw riding forward toward the bloodstained stone block on his bejeweled, pristinely white Arabian horse, Jovar beside him. Worse, she saw the executioner striding forward, a huge man in flowing robes carrying an unusually large, glinting scimitar with a heavy ivory handle.

Jebal jerked her forward. “Come.”

Alex was propelled toward the center of the square, toward the block where Blackwell stood with four guards. He must have sensed her immediately, because his head whipped around.

Their gazes met.

Alex wanted to rush headlong into his arms, to hold him one last time, to tell him how much she loved him—to tell him good-bye.

As if sensing this, Jebal tightened his grip on her bruised wrist. Alex realized she was panting.

They paused in front of the crowd; Jebal surely wished for her to have a perfect view. The bashaw and Jovar remained mounted on Blackwell’s right, the block where prisoners were beheaded exactly in the center between them.

The crowd saw her and began to cheer and jeer. It took Alex a moment to realize that she had become the focus of their taunts. Her heart, already beating overtime, raced more wildly. How ill and faint she felt.
Please, God,
she prayed again.
Don’t let him die!

“They all know you are a whore,” Jebal spat. “They want your blood as well as his.”

“I don’t care,” Alex said, straightening her shoulders, her
back. Blackwell’s gaze held hers again. It was incredibly tender, incredibly soft.

Oh my God.
She was bowled over by what she saw in his eyes, and her own closed.
He is telling me that he loves me,
she thought, and she could not bear it. Grief overwhelmed her.

“Let us proceed,” the bashaw shouted. “Off with his head!”

The crowd cheered.

Blackwell was jerked forward. In another moment he would be pushed to his knees, his cheek pressed to the rough, reddish brown stone.

He was really going to die. Alex was terrified.

And suddenly wild shouts rang out.

Alex had heard these shouts before—in modem movies. They were bloodcurdling Arabic war cries.

Alex turned and saw a horde of horsemen riding through the crowd, scattering the men, women, and children. The Turks guarding Blackwell moved forward to meet them, blades drawn—instead of closing in around Blackwell, to guard him. The executioner drew his blade, the bashaw screamed incoherently, and Jovar spurred his horse forward, raising his pistol—pointing it at Blackwell.

Alex jerked free of Jebal with superhuman strength, picking up a stone. She flung it at Jovar as his pistol went off.

The stone hit Jovar’s horse and the horse bolted, so Jovar’s bullet missed Blackwell completely.

Alex turned just in time to see the executioner’s blade landing harmlessly in the ground—but mere inches from Blackwell’s feet. Blackwell kicked him viciously in the groin. The executioner went down.

Blackwell began to run, toward Alex. His hands remained chained behind his back.

And suddenly the horsemen were everywhere. A rider galloped up to Blackwell, gripping his arm. Xavier leapt astride behind the Arab. Alex cheered.

“Bitch!” Jebal dragged her backward. Alex fought him now, wildly, but could not break free of his iron grasp. From the corner of her eye she saw Jovar shooting at Blackwell again, but he missed because the soldiers fighting around him were jostling his frightened horse.

There was hand-to-hand fighting everywhere.

Alex turned to face Jebal, who was enraged. She kicked his shins as hard as she could, but his grip did not loosen. “You won’t escape!” he shouted at her, wrestling her back to him.

Alex darted a wild look over her shoulder and saw that Blackwell was now mounted alone—and riding directly at her.

“Alexandra,” he shouted.

Alex turned and bit down hard on Jebal’s wrist. She tasted blood. He screamed, releasing her abruptly.

Alex reached for Blackwell’s leg as he thundered past her. She caught his thigh and was dragged alongside his horse. The ground burned her sandal-clad feet. The horse’s hooves clipped her ankles. She had never been more determined; she had never been more afraid. She would not let go.

Alex did not think she could continue to hang on. But the horse careened into two other animals whose riders were violently wielding their scimitars. The horse reared, Alex hanging on to Blackwell’s leg desperately. The animal pranced wildly. “Jump up!” he shouted at her.

Alex debated releasing Blackwell’s leg so she could grip the saddle and try to jump up behind him. Before she could dare try, she was jostled from behind—and abruptly heaved upward. She scrambled behind Blackwell, putting her arms around him and reaching for the reins. The gray reared again. Alex looked down and saw Murad beside the gelding’s flanks, his face flushed and wet.

“Go,” he shouted at them. His silver eyes blazed. “Go!”

Alex wrapped her arms around Blackwell’s waist as the steed shot forward in response to them both. Ahead Alex could see the harbor. She realized that they were following two other Arabs.

And someone grabbed her foot.

Alex looked down, panicked, as she began to slide off of the horse. Her hold on Blackwell was so tight that he also slid sideways with her.

It was Jebal. He had appeared out of nowhere. He was hanging on to her, being dragged by the horse, savage, hate-filled determination stamped all over his face.

Alex knew he was not going to release her—and in another moment she would be on the ground. If she did not release Blackwell, he would be pulled off of the horse and recaptured, too.

Alex let go.

S
HE WAS TRULY
alone.

Murad was hiding somewhere in Tripoli, and Blackwell was gone.

Alex would never forget her last glimpse of him. He had turned, wild-eyed, when Jebal had pulled Alex down from the horse. His struggle had been as clear as day. Alex knew that in that split second he had debated leaping off of his uncontrollable mount and returning to her. He had debated attacking Jebal, even though his hands were manacled. Alex no longer cared about herself. Fresh troops were swarming into the square, wielding scimitars and firing pistols. Jebal had her by the arm. Alex had looked right into Blackwell’s furious eyes. “Go! Go!” she had screamed.

Someone else had also screamed at Blackwell. Neilsen, on a brown steed, racing by them all. Blackwell had abruptly faced forward, riding his horse toward the harbor like a bat out of hell.

But there had been a promise in his eyes.

He would return for her. Alex believed it with all of her heart, in the very depths of her soul.

The entire palace was talking about little else other than Blackwell’s escape. The bashaw was furious. Jebal was furious. Jovar had sentenced an entire regiment to labor in the quarries and had put the captain of that troop to death. Alex
only had to press her ear to her locked bedroom door in order to hear her guards gossiping somewhat gleefully about all that was transpiring.

But in her bed, Alex turned over onto her belly and began to cry into her pillow. Whom was she fooling? This wasn’t a romance novel. This was real life, only worse—this was the Moslem world in 1804. Blackwell was courageous, powerful, and strong, but he was a flesh-and-blood man, not a paperback hero. If Blackwell tried to rescue her, he would most likely die. She was never going to see him again. They would never share a lifetime together.

It crossed her mind that she had been a fool, to think that she could rewrite history. It crossed her mind that she should return to the century where she belonged, and forget all about Xavier Blackwell. Maybe, one day, her memories would fade to the point where they didn’t hurt so much, like the blade of a scimitar shredding her already bleeding heart. Maybe one day she would be able to recall this
adventure
and it would be out of focus and blurred, feeling only like the fragments of some old, odd, nightmarish dream.

Alex did not think so.

In any case, she wasn’t sure she could return to the twentieth century even if she wanted to. Zoe had the oil lamp. Either that, or she had destroyed it.

Jovar paced across her bedchamber. “He escaped! It was impossible, but he escaped. We tried to cut off the entrance to the harbor, but the Danes beat us out. Blackwell escaped—Neilsen with him!”

Zoe sat up, yawning. “I say good riddance, Peter.”

He stared at her without seeing her. Blackwell’s image remained engraved upon his mind. Rage coursed through his veins, swelling his pores. “I want him dead.”

Zoe slid from her bed, clad in a whisper of transparent silk. “Come, darling, let’s use your rage to good ends.”

Jovar ignored her, knowing he would use her body later, roughly, even cruelly. He continued pacing. “I can only hope he will return to rescue Alexandra Thornton. I saw his face when Jebal dragged her from the horse. He was actually a moment away from going back to her—the fool. If I hadn’t run out of powder, I would have killed him then and there.”

“He won’t come back. At least, not soon. Maybe next year, with a big American battleship.”

Jovar wheeled. Zoe was actually smiling. “Are you amused?” he said with deceptive calm.

She shrugged. Her big breasts heaved. “It is so rare that you are thwarted, Peter.”

He crossed the room in three long strides and gripped her by her hair, pulling her head back so that her spine was awkwardly arched, her throat exposed, her breasts upthrust. Zoe gasped. “I think he will come back. I think he will come back soon, to attempt to rescue her.” Jovar smiled grimly and jerked on her hair once. “And I shall be waiting, Zoe. This time he will not elude me.”

The best that Alex could do was send a message to Jebal and pray that he would respond. He hated her so thoroughly that she had little hope.

But he appeared shortly after. He stared coldly at her, his arms folded across his chest. “I cannot imagine what it is that you wish to say to me.”

Alex sat up slowly. “I know I am doomed,” she began hesitantly.

“So now you confess your guilt?”

“I only confess to loving a man and saving his life.”

“You tried to escape with him!” Jebal’s voice rose.

“How can you blame me when you hate me, when you have imprisoned me—and threatened me with death?”

“What do you want to speak about?” Jebal was cold and impatient.

“I believe that Zoe has my possessions, those items stolen from my slave when he left Neilsen’s.”

“Oh, really?”

“I am asking you to return those things to me. They are just a few items from home. Or will you be so cruel and deny me any comfort at all?”

“Zoe maintains she did not take those things,” Jebal said firmly.

“She is lying. She is a liar.”

“You are a fine one to call another a liar, Zohara,” Jebal spat.