Captive (20 page)

His tone was mild. “You told me that she is clever.”

“She is very clever, I know she is a big liar. I checked. There was no diplomat named Thornton on Gibraltar.”

He froze. “Well, well,” he said softly. Then, “When did you find this out?”

Zoe laughed, continuing to rub her hard, large nipples against his shoulders. “Months ago,” she taunted, nipping his nape.

He turned swiftly, seizing one of her breasts. Zoe cried out as he pulled cruelly on her nipple. “Then you should have told me this months ago.”

She did not move—she didn’t dare, for fear of hurting herself. “I did not know you would care.”

“Yes, you did,” he said very softly. “You knew. You think
to outmaneuver me?” His tone was dangerous. The pressure he was exerting on her increased.

She whimpered. “No.”

He released her nipple and stroked her breast tenderly. “Never hide anything from me.”

Zoe closed her eyes, flushed up to her neck. She arched toward him. “I won’t.”

They both knew that she lied.

He released her but did not stand up. “This is very interesting,” he said. “Because many months ago I made inquiries, and failed to discover which of my ships brought her to Tripoh.”

Zoe stared. After a long moment she said, “Is it possible that she did not arrive in Tripoli as a prize on one of the corsair ships?”

He smiled coolly. “Anything is possible, Zoe.”

She wrapped both arms around him from behind, this time undulating her hairless sex against the small of his back. “So who is she? What is she hiding?”

“That, my dear, I am certain you will find out.”

Zoe smiled and kissed his neck. When he did not respond, she pulled away. “What are you thinking about? You were preoccupied the entire time you lay with me,” she complained. Usually he stayed half the night, alternately torturing her and pleasuring her.

“Blackwell. We must pressure him for his answer now.” The man did not move.

Zoe shifted and sat down beside him. “You said he will never embrace Islam and captain our ships.”

“And I meant it.” He rose abruptly and stared down at her, his eyes cold. “The sooner he refuses us, the sooner he will die.”

And Zoe’s lover smiled.

Alex was trembling. It was the following day. Blackwell had been summoned to the bashaw’s hall, undoubtedly for an answer to the bashaw’s demand that he become a renegade. She and Murad hurried through the palace to the women’s room. Alex was terrified.

Please, God, Alex prayed silently, do not let him die. She was afraid to even imagine what the bashaw would do when
Blackwell refused him. But she had heard about the bashaw’s temper and his cruelty. Had he not had Rais Jovar whipped and bastinadoed for the loss of the
Mirabouka
—his very own admiral?

“Alex!” Murad gripped her elbow. “Your husband!”

Alex stumbled as Jebal walked through an archway, clearly on his way to the bashaw’s hall. He saw her and faltered. Then he changed direction, smiling as he approached her.

Alex was in no mood for Jebal now. She pasted a smile on her lips. “Good morning.”

“It is a beautiful day, is it not?” Jebal said cheerfully. “And tonight shall be even better.” His gaze was direct.

Alex could not think about that night and their celebration, not now. Not when Blackwell’s life might be at slake. It had occurred to her just moments ago that, as history was not being true to itself, Blackwell might very well wind up dead for denying the bashaw, instead of being executed next summer for a love affair. She was more than ill.

“Are you still unwell?” Jebal asked, staring closely.

“My stomach is upset,” Alex said shakily. But it was the truth. She ignored the expression of displeasure on Jebal’s face, seizing his sleeve. “Jebal, what will your father do to Blackwell if he refuses to turn Turk?”

Jebal’s gaze hardened. “We do not use that expression, Zohara; only Christians use those words. You are offending me. I am not Turk.”

“I am sorry.” Too late, she knew she had made a mistake by even raising a topic so dear to her own heart.

“What does it matter to you?”

She swallowed. “He is my countryman.”

“He is? But you are Moslem now, a Tripolitan, and my wife.”

Alex was speechless.

“My father may decide to behead him if he refuses us,” Jebal said holly. “And after all Dali Capitan has done, such a fate would be just. Do you not agree?”

Murad pinched her from behind.

Alex could hardly breathe. “Of course,” she whispered.

Jebal stormed away.

Alex stared after him, frightened and disbelieving. Was this the kind, sensitive man she had known for an entire year?

“He is supicious,” Murad whispered angrily, breaking into her thoughts.

“I made a mistake.”

“That is an understatement. How am I going to keep you out of trouble, Alex?”

“In the future I will be more careful.”

“Perhaps there will be no future, not for me, not for you, and not for your friend.” Murad took her hand and hurried into the women’s room.

Alex was briefly elated, for it was vacant. She moved immediately to the peephole. A dozen of the bashaw’s closest retainers were already assembled in the hall, a feast was laid out, two dozen slaves were attendant, but she did not see Blackwell. Nor did she see the bashaw, although Jebal was just now striding into the spacious, marble-floored hall. His expression had softened, fortunately.

Although they were currently alone, Alex kept her voice lowered to a whisper. “What do you think will they do to him when he refuses them?” she asked anxiously.

Murad softened. “I don’t think they will behead him. It would be so foolish. They should try more forms of persuasion. In the end, in spite of what you think, he might decide his life is more valuable than his patriotism and his pride.”

Alex faced Murad. “But the bashaw has a terrible temper when he is denied.”

“Farouk will advise him.” He put his arm around her. “You are hurting yourself, Alex. He is forbidden, in every way. Leave him alone. Leave him to his own destiny. Worry about yourself, and your future—here, in Tripoli, with Jebal.”

Alex faced the peephole, but blindly. Murad’s words were frightening. No matter what, her future did not lie in Tripoli, with Jebal. She would have to escape. Sooner, or later. Even, God forbid, alone. Alex suddenly wondered if she could ever travel back to the future if she wanted to—or had to.

The door to the chamber suddenly opened. Alex tensed as Fatima, the bashaw’s first wife, whom Alex actually liked, entered the room with Zoe. Her sister-in-law was the very last person Alex wished to share the women’s room with.

“Hello, Lilli Zohara,” Fatima said with a pleasant smile. She was round and plump.

Before Alex could reply, Zoe smiled, not prettily. “I heard
you had come to watch. My, I wonder why you are here, Zohara.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “Undoubtedly for the same reason as you. I do not like being excluded from important events. In my country, women are included in events like this one.”

Zoe’s dark eyes widened. “In your country? But aren’t you a Moslem now? And Jebal’s wife? Isn’t this your country, Zohara … sister dear?”

What was wrong with her today! Alex regretted her lapse of intelligence and temper. “Of course, how could I have forgotten?” she murmured. Again.

Murad gripped her wrist in warning.

Zoe strutted over to another peephole. “Well, I am here to see if he is as handsome as they say he is.” She darted a sly look at Alex and peered through her peephole. “They say he stands a full head taller than everyone. One of the slaves who helped him bathe today said his body is as hard as a rock—every single inch.” Zoe laughed slyly. “She said he is huge, the biggest she has ever seen.”

Alex flamed. She stared at the laughing Zoe, unable to think of a single thing to say.

“But a man’s penis doesn’t interest you, now does it, Zohara?”

“Lilli Zoe,” Fatima said softly. “Do not fight with your sister.”

Zoe blinked with false innocence at her mother-in-law. “But, Lilli Fatima, I am only teasing my little sister who is so shy about sex! Surely you have seen a man’s penis before, sister dear?”

Alex wanted to say something, anything, but Murad pinched her waist, hard. She closed her mouth.

“Surely your poor dead first husband wasn’t shy. Surely he was manly. You know, the diplomat on Gibraltar who died when you were traveling to join him.” Zoe still smiled, staring at Alex.

Alex wet her lips. “Unlike some women, when I give myself to a man in passion, it is also with love.”

Zoe understood and her eyes turned pitch black.

Lilli Fatima clapped her hands, her plump face wearing a soft, benevolent expression. “Zohara’s sentiments are wonderful, and that is why, of course, she will soon go to her
husband and please him the way every wife should.” She turned her hopeful eyes on Alex. “My son adores you. And he is such a good man. You are so strong, Zohara, surely you will give him the son and heir he deserves.”

Alex averted her eyes. “Yes,” she murmured.

“Tell me one thing, Zohara,” Zoe snapped. “Which ship were you on when our corsairs seized it?”

“Which ship?” Alex asked. “A British merchantman, of course.”

“I do not recall a British merchantman as a prize last year.”

“Then your memory is very poor,” Alex said dryly.

A commotion in the greeting hall made all the women turn to their peepholes. Alex forgot about Zoe’s dangerous questions. Xavier Blackwell was striding across the room.

Ohmygod. Her heart skidded to a stop. She lost the ability to breathe. He was such a magnificent sight. And he emanated authority, power, and virility. It was almost impossible to believe that he was a captive.

Zoe said, hushed, “Oh my. He is a beautiful man. Big and strong. How I wish he were my slave. Oh my. He is probably a bull in bed.”

Alex whirled. Lust was written all over Zoe’s face. It infuriated her. It worried her.

Mildly Fatima said, “Come, Zoe, he will never be your slave. Hopefully he will be a rais for ray husband.”

Zoe was too involved in spying, and she did not reply.

Alex stared at Zoe, accutely aware of just how sultry and seductive the other woman was. But she and Blackwell would never meet. Would they?

Had Alex not found a way to meet him?

Alex turned back to the hole in the wall, resolved to ignore Zoe, who wished only to provoke her. Blackwell was exchanging pleasantries with Farouk. And suddenly his head lifted, his gaze jerking upward, away from Farouk—directly toward the wall behind which Alex was concealed.

The bashaw entered the hall, smiling broadly. His outermost gilet was crimson silk, heavily embroidered with pearls and gold thread, and the floor-length sleeves flowed about him. He allowed various subjects to kiss his beringed hands, and finally he approached Xavier. Xavier also kissed the proffered hand.
He was aware of the fact that he was perspiring slightly and that the bashaw wore a thick, cloyingly sweet scent.

The bashaw threw his arm around Xavier and they moved to one end of the heavily laden table. “I trust you have passed a pleasant night?”

“My room is comfortable, yes, I have,” Xavier lied. He had hardly slept a wink since setting foot in Tripoli.

“How pleased I am. Come, let us sit down, eat, drink,” the bashaw said expansively.

Xavier sat down beside the king of Tripoli. He nodded at the bashaw’s son, seated opposite him. Jovar and Farouk also sat at the same end of the table with the bashaw, Jebal, and Xavier. The Scot smiled at Xavier. It was a menacing smile, and Xavier ignored it.

Slaves clad in billowing trousers and short vests began piling up various roasted fishes, curried and baked lambs, and spicy, marinated vegetables upon their plates. Aqua vitae and coffee began to flow freely. The bashaw’s guests conversed and laughed, but everyone kept glancing at Xavier. One and all knew exactly why he was present.

Xavier could not eat—even though this might be his very last meal. He sipped the potently brewed, thickly black, heavily sugared coffee. His adrenaline, already flowing, increased. He would need all of his wits about him now.

His gaze moved of its own accord to the far wall. And he was almost certain that he felt her eyes upon him.

Xavier was familiar with the Moslem custom of having their women observe occasions like this from hidden rooms. Was Alexandra watching him from a secret chamber? He wished she were not present. Not because her presence was a distraction, which it was, but for her own sake—he wished to spare her any unpleasantness.

Two images assailed him simultaneously. The bloodstained stone beheading block in a sunny town square, and her tearstained face behind iron prison bars.

Very grim and very disturbed, Xavier shook himself free of his morbid fantasies.

“How are my men?” he asked Jovar.

“They are complaining—all captives complain.” Jovar smiled. His pale blue eyes were cool.

“Are they still detained in the bagnio?” Xavier had been
told his men were in prison, which in Tripoli was called the bagnio—even though it had nothing to do with Tripoli’s common baths.

Jovar nodded. “Do not fret. At least they live.” Jovar’s smile flashed. “They are fed and watered and they are allowed an hour of exercise every day,” he said. His eyes glinted.

“Like dogs,” Xavier commented, hiding his rising fury.

“Like the American dogs that they are,” Jovar replied calmly.

“At least they are not Scot snakes,” Xavier said as dispassionately.

Jovar jumped to his feet, drawing his long dagger. “Get up,
dog,”
he growled.

Xavier was also on his feet, but he had no weapon, so he stood lightly, tensed, ready to fight.

The bashaw, Jebal, and Farouk stood instantly, while soldiers stepped forward, their hands going to the hilts of their scimitars. “Stop this at once.” the bashaw cried, enraged. “Jovar, sit!”

Jovar stared at Xavier with blazing eyes, then, slowly, he sat.

The bashaw breathed. He smiled at Xavier. “Rais Blackwell, forgive my impudent, stupid servant. He shall be punished for his lack of wits and manners, have no fear.”