Captive (55 page)

Silence filled the room. Light and airy. He wasn’t present.

Alex began to cry. She loved him so much that she could not bear the intensity of her feelings. She could not bear being separated by two centuries. “Come to me, please!” she cried.

And she waited, listening, but he did not come.

Alex looked at the stately bed, a fur throw at its foot, at the white brocade draperies, at the yellow velvet couch and the black marble fireplace. She wept softly.

And then she looked at the rug. “Ohmygod,” she whispered.

The rug had not been replaced. It was the same centuries-old Persian rug that she had seen on her first visit to Blackwell House.

Alex slid to her knees. Rubbing her hands over the worn, faded rug, crying now, harder than before. She lay down on her stomach, her cheek against the soft, worn wool. “Xavier,” she moaned. The wool was warm beneath her cheek.

Strangely warm.

The door behind her opened, a man’s footsteps sounding, halting abruptly. His cry was sharp. “What the hell?”

It wasn’t Black, it was someone older, and Alex did not have to be told to know it was his father, the patriarch of Blackwell Shipping. She heard the authority in his tone, felt his maturity, his power, his presence.

Alex did not move because the rug was very warm beneath her face and hands, and her legs were tingling, growing numb. She prayed.

He rushed around her and dropped to his knees, his eyes wide with concern. Alex looked up and felt a wave of shock.

He was the spitting image of Xavier, but he was older, perhaps fifty or fifty-one. But he was a very young and virile fifty, excruciatingly handsome, extraordinarily fit. Had she not known where she was, she would have thought him to be the man she loved.

And he was staring at her as if he had recognized her too. “Who are you?” he said hoarsely.

Alex’s legs were numb. She was beginning to spin, her vision beginning to blur. She did not answer him, but she smiled.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” he asked.

She was truly spinning now. He was so distraught that she decided she had to respond. Still smiling, she whispered, “I am fine. I am going home.”

“Who are you?” he demanded, staring at her.
“Who the hell are you?”

She felt a strange yet now familiar sucking pressure taking hold of her body. “Alexandra Thornton,” she said.

He gasped. “That’s impossible!” he cried, but he was standing now—and staring at her as if he had seen a ghost.

Alex smiled at him, filled with love, and then the cyclone came, sucking her down, away.

A
LEX HEARD A
woman’s startled cry.

The floor stopped whirling. Alex lay clawing the rug, panting. She opened her eyes.

And stared at a dark oak four-poster bed.

It wasn’t the huge canopied affair she had just been lying in front of, nor was it the starkly plain bed she had first remarked when Blackwell House was a museum. But it was clearly a man’s bed, covered only with a nondescript quilt and a red wool blanket. And the walls behind it were sand-colored pine, the curtains plain, undecorated muslin. Alex recognized the scarred pine chest beside the bed. Her heart rate accelerated. She had done it—she had traveled back in time!

The woman cried out again.

Alex quickly sat up, glancing toward the source of the shrill sound. And she stared at the platinum blond woman standing beside the bedroom’s single armoire.

The woman stared back at her, her eyes wide, bulging.

But they were beautiful blue eyes, Alex noted with rising dismay. Dear God, this woman was gorgeous, an angel, perfection. Alex could not believe her eyes. And she did not have to be told to know that this was Blackwell’s wife.

No wonder he had never mentioned her.

“What are you doing here!” the woman gasped. “Who are you? How did you get inside the house? I am going to go and
fetch Xavier!” Her tone was high with hysteria.

Alex stood, acutely aware of her faded Levi’s and denim shirt. Xavier’s wife wore green satin and diamonds and pearls. “Wait,” Alex said hoarsely.

She had turned to go. Now the other woman paused somewhat fearfully—but there was also growing curiosity in her eyes.

“Are you Xavier’s wife?” Alex asked, even though she knew the answer would be yes. She wanted to engage this woman. Xavier had said that he loved her, Alex. But faced with this angelic blonde, Alex no longer felt confident of that.

The woman straightened. “Yes. I am Sarah Blackwell.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Alex wasn’t sure what to do. She wished that Sarah Blackwell were ugly, old, or fat. Sarah shifted, worrying the end of the satin sash she wore. “You just referred to my husband as Xavier. You know him well?”

Alex didn’t know what to say. “We knew each other once, a long time ago.” Her heart constricted painfully.

“You’re here, in his bedroom.” Sarah said.

“It’s a mistake.” Alex jammed her hands in her pockets. She shouldn’t be feeling this way. Consumed with sudden misery. She had wanted to return to Xavier even knowing he was married. But she hadn’t expected to ever meet his wife, or had she? In any case, she had expected joy, not anguish, upon her return.

“I’ve introduced myself, but you have not,” Sarah said pointedly.

“Alexandra Thornton.”

Sarah gasped.

Alex did not understand. “Why are you staring at me like that? As if I am a ghost?”

“You’re not a ghost, are you?” Sarah backed away, until her spine flattened against the door. “But you are dead! I’ve heard them talking about you so many times! When he first came back, Xavier would get drunk at night, sometimes even cry into his snifter, and William would be afraid to leave him alone. And I just saw you appear in this room in front of my very eyes! Out of thin air!”

“I’m not a ghost,” Alex whispered, trembling. “I never drowned. I am very much alive.”

But Sarah was wrenching at the doorknob, jerking open the door. Alex watched her flee.

Xavier stood with his father in front of the fireplace in the salon, sipping brandy. They were both waiting for Sarah to come downstairs so they could go in to supper.

“Markham will be in Boston later this week.”

“You are staring at me.”

“He says he wishes to see you.”

Xavier shrugged. He glanced impatiently toward the two open doors of the salon, but did not espy his wife. “Whatever he wishes to discuss with me, my answer shall be no.”

William was dismayed. “Xavier, whatever is between you, I beg you to heal the breach. Markham is my only brother—your only uncle.”

“There is nothing between us.”

William sighed heavily. “I am worried about the British Orders in Council.”

“We can continue to evade the blockades of both the Continent and Britain,” Xavier said firmly.

“This Bonaparte must be stopped.”

“Absolutely, but at the moment, there is no end in sight.”

Both men fell silent. Both were thinking about how dangerous it had become to trade upon the high seas—which they must do if Blackwell Shipping was to survive. Then the rustling of a woman’s gown caused father and son to turn. Xavier’s small smile disappeared when he saw his wife’s pale face and wide eyes. “Sarah?”

“She is here! Upstairs, in your room!” Sarah cried.

Xavier exchanged a concerned glance with William; these past two years Sarah had been greatly improved, no longer so melancholic, and capable of functioning as a wife, a lady, and a hostess. He moved to her and put his arm around her narrow waist. He was always afraid he would break her when he touched her, she was so fragile. “Who is upstairs, Sarah?”

Sarah gazed up at him. “Alexandra Thornton.”

Xavier lost all of his color, too. Then, his jaw tight, he snapped, “I do not know how you even know her name, but it is not a name ever to be raised in this household again.” He was so upset, even angry, that he was shaking.

“She is upstairs, and she said she is not a ghost—that she
never drowned,” Sarah insisted shrilly. But she was watching him very closely.

Xavier was, for one of the few times in his life, immobilized. She could not be upstairs. That was an impossibility. She had disappeared—she had, as everyone aboard the
Consitution
claimed, fallen overboard and drowned. He had never recovered from her death.

Sarah wet her lips. “She is upstairs in your bedroom.”

His pulse pounding with unmerciful force, Xavier strode across the salon and took the stairs three at a time. His pace increased as he moved down the hall. His door was open. He stumbled.

Alexandra stood in the center of the room, her red hair rioting around her face, clad in a farmer’s clothing—the loveliest sight he had ever seen. He could not move. He could not breathe. He could only stare and pray he was not dreaming.

“Xavier,” she whispered.

His heart began to beat again. “Dear God, please—are you a ghost?”

“No, I am real,” she said.

He moved. He reached her in two strides and threw his arms around her, only to find her warm and strong and wonderfully alive. Tears fell from his eyes and down his cheeks as he lifted her off of her feet and hugged her, whirling her around. She sobbed, laughing, clinging.

He slid her down his body to the floor, acutely aware of the feel and scent of her, and cupped her beloved face in his two hands. Their gazes locked. “Where have you been?” he demanded hoarsely. “Dear God, Alexandra, I allowed everyone to convince me that you had drowned!”

“I know,” she said as huskily. “Xavier, forgive me. I didn’t mean to, but I traveled through time again—I went home, to the future, to 1996.”

He was taken aback. His palms slipped to her shoulders. “That is impossible.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Did you fall overboard? There was a Sicilian schooner in the area. We hailed her the next morning, but her captain claimed he had not picked anyone up. Perhaps you were so angry with me that you did not want to see me ever again?”

“No,” Alex said firmly, flatly. “Listen to me, Xavier, look
into my eyes. You saw me disappear. Remember very carefully what happened that night. Yes, I was enraged to learn about Sarah. I have never been so angry in my life. My rage transported me through time—away from you—just as my love has brought me back.”

Xavier shook his head. “I recall you disappearing, fading, actually, before my very eyes. But we were both exhausted—I imagined it …”

“No!”

Xavier grimaced, then swept her up against his chest, holding her tightly there, one of his hands in her hair. “I don’t know what to believe, Alexandra,” he finally said, his tone rough with emotion. “I only know that I love you more than I have ever loved anyone, man or woman, and that I cannot lose you again. That living without you has been joyless, a pretense, a sham.”

“I love you that way too,” Alex whispered against his hard, brocade-clad chest. The lace from his shirt tickled her nose. “I can accept the fact that you are married,” she whispered.

He set her a few inches back so they could regard one another very carefully. “It is you I love, and yearn for, not her.”

“Really?” But the truth was there, shimmering in his eyes.

“Yes. But I cannot cast Sarah aside. When Robert went to sea on his last voyage, I promised him that I would take care of her should something ever happen to him. He loved her the way I love you, and she is not well. Divorce is not a possibility, no matter how much I wish it were. She is my duty, Alexandra.”

Tears filled Alex’s eyes. “I understand. And this is one of the reasons I love you so. Were they married?”

“Affianced.”

She nodded, brushing her eyes. So much joy—so much pain. “I wanted to return to you, Xavier, even knowing that you had a wife. That is how much I love you.”

His eyes closed, his face was stark. When he opened them Alex saw the anguish in his gaze. “Alexandra, darling, you deserve more, you deserve a free man who can marry you. You—”

She laid her palm against his mouth. “Shh. No. I want only you. I will be your mistress. I will have your children. Lots of them.”

His eyes widened, and then he crushed her to him. They rocked. They were both crying. Finally he cupped her face and kissed her, long and deep. When they drew apart, they stared at one another. Desire, red-hot and almost visible, coursed between them, around them, filling the room.

“This is not acceptable,” Xavier finally said, stroking her hair. “Sarah is downstairs.”

“I understand,” Alex whispered. “We have our entire lives to make love.”

He cupped her face again, this time with one palm, his eyes as soft and dark as black velvet. “I love you. I will take care of you—always.”

“I know.” Alex smiled, kissing his palm.

“I will be faithful to you.”

Alex started.

“I have never touched Sarah. I have always felt like a brother toward her, not like a husband.”

Alex was thrilled—and then she was confused. The history books she had just read had said that they’d had children … No, history had said that
he’d
had children. Alex thought of the new life growing inside of her and realized that it had been her destiny to return in time to Xavier Blackwell after all.

She flung herself at him.

He hugged her tightly again. “I will make you happy,” he murmured in her ear.

“I know,” Alex said, and this time she kissed him.

Xavier wanted her to meet his father. “He already knows all about you,” he said as they walked downstairs, hand in hand, hips bumping.

Alex pulled back. “Everything?” But she was smiling.

“He knows you are brave and strong and clever and far too resourceful. He knows you are stubborn—and beautiful. He knows that you were in captivity in Barbary. He also knows that I am in love with you,” Xavier said, tugging on her hand, for she had paused.

Alex’s heart pumped hard. There was less pain now—she could deal with his being married—and there was so much love and so much overwhelming joy. “Do I have to meet him dressed in my 501s?”

“You still speak strangely, Alexandra,” he said as he pulled
her into the foyer. His gaze was piercing, thoughtful. Alex knew he was considering the possibility that she had actually traveled through time. “But you make an adorable farmer.”