Captive (23 page)

She dropped her palms and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Is it as bad as they say?”

“It is not good.”

“What does that mean?” she shouted at him.

“Alex, there is little you can do.”

“I want to see him.”

“Alex, that is impossible.”

“Is it?” she challenged. Alex stood. She was so terrified. “I’ve lived here for more than a year. I do know one thing about the Middle East, something that hasn’t changed in two hundred years.”

“What’s that?” he asked carefully.

“Grease. Money greases everyone, Murad. I refuse to believe that we cannot bribe the guards to let me inside the bagnio in order to visit him. And while we’re at it, we can bring him some things that he might need.”

Murad stared at her, his expression dismayed. “That would take gold, Alex, a lot of gold.”

“I will sell all of my jewelry,” she gritted. “I am determined.”

“Allah protect her, protect us.”

Alex wet her lips. She was sick, like a dog, and it had nothing to do with any medical condition. She knew what a beylik slave was, and she had heard all about the bagnio.

Beylik slaves were worked as if they were not human. In the quarries, where conditions were intolerable. Today Xavier was in the bagnio, where the conditions were wretched, inhumane. Alex had never seen the prison, but she imagined it to be like a twentieth-century concentration camp. Tomorrow Xavier would be sent to the quarries, and forced to labor like an animal. Alex was determined to help Xavier in any way that she could. She wanted him out of the quarries before the grueling labor killed him. “Will it kill him? Working in the quarries?”

Murad hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“What does that mean, goddamn it!”

He blanched. “Don’t talk that way, not even to your Christian God. It’s means that I don’t know. Men die there all the time. But usually from starvation. Sometimes, though, there are accidents.”

Alex stared, her pulse skipping. “Accidents? Real or contrived?”

“Usually real.” Murad wet his lips.

“Oh God. Do you think they will kill him there? What a convenient way to get rid of a political prisoner.”

“I don’t know.”

“You are not helping!” Alex shouted.

“What do you want me to do?” Murad shouted back.

“I don’t know! Something! Anything!” Alex began to cry.

Murad went to her and held her.

And Alex was fully aware that she did not have a lot of time on her side. Jebal was expecting her to dine with him, alone, that night. It was the celebration of their first wedding anniversary. He had made it clear that he also intended to sleep with her.

Alex trembled whenever she dared to think of the upcoming evening. Which was why she resolutely kept pushing it from her mind. Xavier came first.

Yet nothing was happening the way it had happened in recorded
history. Nothing thus far was happening the way that it should. Alex felt as if any control she might have had, due to her foreknowledge of the future, was slipping rapidly through her fingertips. She could no longer be certain of what would happen. It made her afraid.

But Blackwell was not going to die in the quarries. Alex was resolved.

Xavier stared down at the bowl of steaming broth. Two chunks of onions, a piece of carrot, and a forkful of lamb floated in the soup. The other slaves in the bagnio had been given a single small, coarse loaf of bread and a few spoonfuls of vinegar for their supper. Pierre Quixande had also placed a loaf of finely ground white bread on the table where they sat, as well as a bottle of red wine.

“Eat,
mon ami,”
Pierre said, tearing off a hunk of bread and pouring them both mugs of wine.

“I cannot,” Xavier said. He stood, taking the bowl of soup with him, and stepped outside of Pierre’s chamber, which he ‘rented’ from Kadar. Timmy and Tubbs were wolfing down their meager rations just beyond the open door. Xavier smiled at them and set the bowl in front of them. “Share it and enjoy it well, lads,” he said.

Timmy’s face brightened. “Cap’n, sir?”

“I order the two of you to eat that entire bowl of soup.”

Timmy began to dig in. Tubbs’s brows lifted. Xavier smiled at him and returned to Pierre’s table.

“You are a very noble man, Captain,” Pierre said, regarding him over the rim of his glass of wine.

Xavier shrugged, reaching for the white bread.

“If you wish to live a long life, you must think of yourself first. In the bagnio, a man needs his wits and his strength in order to survive.”

“My men rely on me. The boy is starving.”

“Everyone here starves, except for those clever enough to find a way to pay off Kadar for ‘privileges.’”

Xavier shrugged.

“In any case, your nobility is refreshing.” Pierre stood, left the table, and returned with another bowl. “I will share my broth with you, Captain. But this time I insist you eat your share.”

Xavier smiled. “I think I can manage that.”

The two men devoured their rations, then began to sip the wine. Xavier’s eyes brightened. “My friend, this is French wine—I do not think I can be mistaken.”

Pierre grinned. “You are right, a full-bodied Bordeaux—1799 … a very fine year.”

“In Tripoli?” Xavier took another sip of the full-bodied, smooth-as-satin wine. “My God, this is heaven.”

Pierre laughed. “Occasionally the corsairs bring home a prize filled with a cargo that is quite interesting.” He sipped. “And the Moslems do not drink.”

“How convenient,” Xavier murmured, the wine going straight to his head.

Pierre refilled their nearly empty mugs. “I have a dozen more bottles, Captain. I love each one more than I have ever loved a single woman.”

Xavier laughed. Then a pair of green eyes came to his mind. His laughter died.

“Woman troubles, Captain?”

Xavier put his mug down and met the Frenchman’s brown eyes. “Quixande, while I was at the palace I met a woman, an American captive. At first I thought her a mere slave girl. She introduced herself as Vera. But she told me that was her Moslem name, and that her real name was Alexandra.” Xavier felt the tension riddling his body. “The next time I saw her she was fully dressed and veiled like any noble Moslem lady. She has red hair and green eyes. What, if anything, do you know about her?”

Pierre stared, “There is only one American captive in Tripoli, and she does reside in the palace. They have named her Zohara, however, not Vera. Which, in any case, is not an Islamic name.”

“Go on,” Xavier said tersely.

“But her Christian name is Alexandra. Alexandra Thornton.” Quixande stared. “She is Jebal’s wife.”

Xavier knew that he must have misheard the scribe. “I beg your pardon?”

“She is Jebal’s wife. His second wife. He fell in love with her at first sight, the moment she arrived in Tripoli, aproximately thirteen or fourteen months ago.”

Xavier was frozen.

“They say that she is quite extraordinary. Beautiful, as tall as many men, and very clever. Already she is fluent in the crude lingua franca, and can converse quite well in Arabic, too. She is inseparable from her eunuch slave, which Jebal gave to her when she first arrived at the palace. It is also said that Jebal is besotted with her still.”

She had lied.
She had deceived him. She was not who, or what, she had said. She was the bashaw’s daughter-in-law, the wife of his son and heir.

“Captain, are you all right?”

Xavier was on his feet. “No,” he said harshly. “I am not well, not at all.”

A
LEX REGARDED HERSELF
in the mirror.

Standing just behind her, Murad made no comment, although he was grave.

Jebal had instructed Murad as to how she should dress for the evening. He had gone so far as to even send clothing to her.

Alex was wearing three layers of silk, which was very little for a Moslem woman. The first layer was a knee-length tunic with sleeves that reached her hips. The gauze fabric was the color of warm ivory. The high neckline and cuffs were beautifully embroidered with multicolored threads. Alex’s trousers were the same pale, transparent ivory silk, the hem embroidered in an identical fashion. Although both garments were generously cut, they reminded Alex of a pair of Victoria’s Secret “pajamas,” the fabric was so sensuous and so sheer.

On top of her pajamas she wore a floor-length, side-slit crimson gilet with sleeves. It was the finest softest silk, also paper-thin, yet dyed in such a manner that it appeared iridescent. This garment was also embroidered at the neckline, cuffs, and hem, and along both edges of the slit. Sparkling in the woven strands of silver, black, and gold thread were thousands of tiny, shimmering diamantés. That is, Alex assumed they were glass. They could not possibly be real.

Finally she wore a short, hip-length sleeveless gold vest. It
was made of a heavier damask fabric, but fit Alex as if it had been designed for her alone; that is, it fit her like a second skin. Eight coral and pearl buttons closed the vest. Alex wore a huge rope of eighteen-karat gold cinched tightly around her waist. It was studded with jade.

After being so heavily clothed in Jebal’s presence, Alex felt naked.

Worse, he had ordered her to wear her hair down, and it flowed in thick, rich strands past her shoulders. Using red henna, Alex had managed to recover her original hair color. How pleased Jebal would be.

She had refused to wear rouge and kohl or any other cosmetic.

Alex was sick.

“How can I do this?” she asked Murad tersely. Their gazes met in the mirror. “I love another man, and he has been consigned to a terrible, cruel fate, perhaps even death. I cannot even imagine what is happening to him right now. And I am supposed to calmly allow another man to use my body?”

“He is not another man. He is your husband, Alex.”

“Thanks. I think I am going to be sick.”

Murad was alarmed. He rushed for a chamber pot. Feeling very close to tears, Alex walked over to the bed and sat down at its foot. Time was running out.

“If it is any consolation, you have never been more beautiful,” Murad said.

Something in his tone caused her gaze to widen. His silver eyes were intensely bright. Alex was taken aback. And surely she was mistaken?

Murad walked away. Alex took a deep, fortifying breath. Murad had not been admiring her in a very male manner. He was her friend, her brother. He was a eunuch, incapable of normal relations. She must focus on the evening ahead. But how to survive? And why did she have to deal with this now? When all she wanted to do was plot and plan in order to aid Blackwell? “There must be a way to get myself out of this mess. If I am horrible in bed, if I do not react, if I am as stiff as a board, maybe he will never want me again.”

“I don’t think that is a good idea,” Murad said. “You will only infuriate him.”

“Maybe I should accept the inevitable,” Alex said miserably.
“I’m not a virgin. Jebal has been kind to me. If I could play the devoted bride, then he would never guess at what is being planned under his very nose. It would be a wonderful smoke screen.”

“What’s a smoke screen?”

“Something that diverts attention away from what you are doing.” Alex realized that Murad held a porcelain teacup in his hand. “I am not in the mood for a soothing cup of tea, not unless it is full of the Tripolitan equivalent of Valium.”

Murad’s eyes met hers. “I don’t know what Valium is. But this is not plain tea. This contains herbs that will calm you and make you sleepy. This will help you accept Jebal, Alex. You will not mind anything that he wishes to do.” Murad’s eyes were filled with regret, compassion, and deep, abiding concern.

Alex stared at the cup of green liquid. Murad’s words filled her mind. And with them, a startling idea. “I want something stronger. I want something that will make me pass out.”

“Pass out?”

Alex stood impatiently, hands on her hips. “I want something that will make me fall asleep, heavily, quickly, so that when Jebal starts up, I won’t be awake. I am quite certain he will not rape me while I’m unconscious.”

“He will be angry,” Murad said.

Alex shrugged. “I’m going to take this one day at a time.”

“I can get you what you want. Alex, are you sure?”

Alex heard women’s laughter coming from the gardens outside. She stared through the open windows into the twilight, then whirled. “Oh, I am sure. And guess what? We can blame Zoe, Murad, and Jebal will never know.” She smiled. “We will say I was poisoned! Zoe is clearly the most likely culprit.”

Murad’s gaze was admiring. He grinned. “Alex, you have finally, truly, become one of us. Zoe could not have done better herself.”

Alex laughed. But her laughter ceased abruptly when someone rapped on her door. Instantly she and Murad locked gazes. “Zoe?” Alex mouthed.

Murad, grim now, marched to the door. Alex watched him breathlessly. One of Jebal’s slaves stood in the corridor. She only relaxed slightly.

Murad returned. “This is for you.”

Alex looked at the small inlaid box. She did not have to be very clever to suspect that it contained a gift for her—a gift of jewelry. “Damn it,” she said.

“I hate it when you curse.”

Alex took the box reluctantly.

“He wants you to wear it. Whatever’s inside,” Murad remarked.

Alex opened the lid and gasped.

Inside the box lay a thick gold collar. From the choker eight large, pear-shaped rubies dangled, a large diamond winking at the tip of each bloodred stone. “Ohmygod.” She had never seen such a magnificent piece of jewelry before, except in magazine advertisements. She had never held such a fortune before, much less worn it.

“I’m not sure you should take the sleeping potion,” Murad said grimly. “I have a bad feeling, Alex.”

“No. I am going to pass out on Jebal, I am going to buy myself more time, even if it is a single day.” She hardly heard herself. Something was clicking in her mind. A wonderful dawning realization. She began to smile, slowly lifting up the necklace.

Even in the chamber’s candlelight, the rubies gleamed, the diamonds shined. “Murad!”

“Oh God,” Murad said.