Captive (16 page)

Alex hugged herself. They hadn’t exchanged a single word—she wasn’t quite sure she was ready.

Yet she loved him. And she had to meet him—he was her destiny. If she didn’t go, he would choose someone else. Alex was almost certain. He was too virile and too much a nineteenth-century man not to take what was so readily provided.

Her chamber door opened and closed as Murad slipped inside.

“What am I going to do?” she cried.

“I have discovered where his rooms are,” Murad said unhappily. “Please, Alex, please don’t tell me that you are planning on doing what I think you are.”

“Right now, as we speak, there is a parade of young, perfect slave girls taking place in his room. Damn it! How can I not go?” she asked, sinking down on her bed. “If I don’t go, he’ll choose another. I’ve waited so long for him, Murad, and I’m supposed to remain here? I can’t, not now, not after everything I’ve done to find him.”

Murad stared. “I don’t understand. You speak in riddles. What have you done to find him? What do you mean, you’ve waited so long to be with him?”

Alex hesitated. If ever there was a time to confess who she really was, and where she was really from, it was now. Now, when she was filled with panic—when she was desperate.

“What are you hiding, Alex?”

She bit her lower lip. “What would you do if I told you I was from the future?”

He smiled briefly. “I would laugh, of course. Be serious, please. You said you trusted me.”

There was no time to convince Murad of the truth. “I’m sorry,” Alex whispered. She inhaled, sucking up courage. “Help me dress. I have Vera’s clothes. Then you can take me to his rooms.” Vera was a slave girl who frequently attended Alex.

Murad gripped her upper arm, halting her in her tracks. “You are mad! You shall be discovered! You cannot go to him now.”

“I have no choice.”

“You have every choice!”

Alex began to dress. She felt naked in the loose trousers and simple vest. She turned to face her reflection in the mirror. She supposed that she looked like one of the slaves. “I’m ready. At least, as ready as I’ll ever be.” Alex reached for the door.

“Are you ready to die?” Murad gripped both of her wrists, his eyes wide with fear. “Alex, listen to me. Please. You have lived amongst us long enough now to know the penalty for
what you intend to do. You cannot take him as a lover. You will both be put to death instantly.”

Alex swallowed. She thought about the fate Xavier was predestined for. To be executed for sleeping with the bashaw’s daughter-in-law—which was herself. Dear God. But surely they would not be discovered tonight. “You will have to keep watch. Look, Jebal is not going to casually visit Blackwell in the middle of the night when he is with a concubine.”

“Someone might see you coming—or going.”

“I’ll keep my head down. Murad, we are running out of time.”

“We are talking about your life, Alex,” Murad almost shouted.

“I’m going to try to hold him off,” Alex cried, close to tears. “I don’t plan on sleeping with him tonight—if I can avoid it!”

“The whole point is to give him a bedmate. He is expecting a slave girl to satisfy his lust. Or will you tell him that you are Jebal’s wife?”

She wet her lips. “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter whether the two of you fornicate or not,” he said hotly. “If you are discovered together alone, you are both finished—do you hear me?” When Alex did not answer, Murad shook her harshly. “They will behead him or burn him alive, Alex. You, they will drown in a sack. Now do you see reason?”

Alex shook her head. Her eyes glistened. “I am going to his apartment. I cannot stay away, even if you are right. You can come with me and guard the door to warn me if anyone comes—to protect me, as is your duty, Murad—or you can stay here.” She turned, shaking him off. But fear filled her.

Murad smashed his hand against the wall. His silver eyes glistened with tears.

But an instant later he ran after her, down the dark, endless hall.

Although Xavier was now the bashaw’s guest, the bashaw was not taking any chances. Two heavily armed Turks stood sentinel outside the door to the two chambers Xavier had been given.

One chamber was a bedroom, replete with an elaborately
carved bed. Numerous silk, damask, and velvet pillows graced the bedstead, which was covered with a purple velvet coverlet. White gauze draperies, attached to the ceiling over the bed, were pulled back, but could be closed to keep out flies and mosquitoes. Colorful Arabian rugs were scattered about the floor. Plush cushions and low wood tables were in two corners of the room, providing pleasant sitting areas. On each table were decanters of aqua vitae, and platters of fresh fruit, cheeses, and breads.

The first room was similar to the bedroom except that it lacked a bed and contained a backless sofa and writing table instead.

Xavier paced. He had just rejected a half dozen slave girls. Not that he wasn’t a virile man. But he preferred to know the woman he was with. In Boston he kept a mistress. He was faithful to her. Faithful, and discreet.

It was warm in the room. But the latticework shutters were already wide open and a cool evening breeze was sweeping inside from the sea. Walking over to one of the tables, he stooped, pouring himself a glass of lemonade. He thought about the past evening, wondered how much time he had before he would be pressed to reveal his decision. He thought about the almond-eyed Moslem woman who had been disguised as a bedouin. Why did he keep thinking about her? It made no sense.

He heard voices outside of his door. Xavier became still, listening intently, growing annoyed. A man spoke with one of his guards. They used the lingua franca. He knew enough French, Spanish, and Italian from all of his voyages to make out what they were saying. He did not want to view another slave girl tonight.

A knock sounded and his door opened. Xavier’s arms were crossed over his chest. His jaw was flexed. He was about to dismiss the two soldiers and the pair of slaves, one of whom was male, the other female. But his mouth opened, and closed. His heart slammed to a halt.

He stared at the girl. Out of almond-shaped green eyes, she stared back at him.

He was shocked. It was her, the woman from the slave market, the one who had worn the bedouin disguise.

“May we come in?” the male slave asked.

Xavier nodded, his gaze on her face—a striking face with high cheekbones and full lips. Her hair was braided tightly against her head in a hundred strands, perhaps more, but it did not detract from her strong, startling beauty. His gaze dropped and widened. He had never seen a woman with such a body before. He could see the tendons and muscles in her arms and shoulders. Her body was as striking as her face—and soft where it should be soft. She was full breasted and long legged.

And he was as hard as a rock.

She had dropped her eyes during his inspection. She was flushed. She might be a mere slave, but she was a woman, and from the looks of her, not native, either. He was embarrassing her.

“Please,” he said. “Do not be afraid. My name is Xavier Blackwell.” He could not smile. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to make love to her, almost violently, immediately. But he would not do such a thing. Not unless she was willing, as eager as he.

Her glance lifed. Then she looked at her companion, as if for encouragement. He spoke for her. “My, er … Yes, Vera speaks English.” He was flushing, too.

“Vera,” Xavier said slowly, wondering about the male slave’s blush. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Her gaze shot to his. Her eyes were wide, uncertain. “Thank you.”

She spoke so softly that he could hardly hear her. He glanced at the male slave. “You may leave us. I won’t hurt her. I swear on the Bible to that.”

The silver-eyed slave smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Xavier saw that sweat beaded on his brow and his upper lip—he was nervous, frightened. Xavier frowned.

“Very well. If … if you need me. I shall be outside the door.”

Xavier nodded, his gaze shifting to the woman. She was hugging herself, but her eyes remained fixed on him.

The male slave left.

“Vera,” he said softly. “Where are you from?”

She hesitated.

She was either shy or cautious. He said, “I saw you in the slave market this morning. That was you, was it not?”

“Yes. It was me.”

His heart seemed to stop before it resumed a wild cadence. “You’re American!”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He stared at her, trying to assimilate this, and then the full implications of what she had revealed hit him, and he was furious. She was an American, his countrywoman, but enslaved by the bashaw. He was outraged. It cooled his lust considerably. He could never make love to her now.

He moved toward her; she tensed. “How did you come to be captured?” he demanded, pausing directly in front of her. “How long have you been in Tripoli? No one in the United States knows of any American women held in captivity here. Who is your master?”

She spoke thickly. “My master is Jebal.”

Xavier could not help it He was jealous. He had traveled around the world enough times to be an utter realist. This woman lived in the harem and she was a slave. She was exotic and beautiful. Jebal had to have used her; others probably had, too. A decision was made before he was even aware of making it. He would attain her release—or escape—along with that of his men and himself. “Have they hurt you?”

She took a breath. “It’s been difficult,” she said. Her eyes never left his face. She gazed at him with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

And her eyes continued to make his heart hammer as if he were a nervous schoolboy. “Vera, I am so sorry for what has happened. On behalf of my country, my government, I apologize. I want you to know that you have a friend and ally in myself.”

“You are truly a hero,” she whispered.

“Hardly.” He laughed slightly. “How were you captured?”

Her hands slid down the folds of her tunic, on her thighs. Xavier froze. She wet her lips. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time. All night, in fact,” he added harshly. He hadn’t meant to say that. Thoughts he no longer had a right to were creeping back into his mind.

“I was on my way to Gibraltar,” she said slowly. “To meet my husband.”

“You’re married.” Disappointment overwhelmed him.

There were high spots of color on her cheeks. “He’s dead. He died while I was en route.”

“I’m sorry,” he lied.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The corsairs seized you?”

“Yes.”

He continued to regard her. It was easy to do. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her face. Finally he sighed and walked to the open windows, raking a hand through his hair. How this woman must have suffered. It was his duty as a man and an American to protect her now, to keep her safe and well.

He turned. “Why were you in the
bedestan
today?”

She swallowed. “I heard about you. I came to see you.”

He thought that he blushed. He recalled very well the embarrassment of being publicly viewed by a jeering crowd while stark naked. It was hard to keep a stiff upper lip when one’s pants were down. “What you did was dangerous, was it not? Or does Jebal allow you to wander outside of the harem clad as a man?”

She smiled slightly, for the very first time. “He would kill me if he knew.”

He liked her smile and he smiled, too.

Her smile disappeared. “I’m used to freedom. Being a … slave … is hard.”

He wanted to know details; specifically, he wanted to know about her and Jebal. But such a question would be crude, and the details were none of his business. “Shall we sit? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

She nodded.

He took her arm to lead her to the cushions. But the moment he touched her skin their eyes collided, and instantly veered away. He made sure not to touch her again, gesturing for her to sit. He was strangely breathless.

Of course, he hadn’t had a woman since leaving Boston. That was the reason for his inexplicable interest in this woman. For his current arousal.

She slid down onto the cushions, sitting cross-legged. He found his gaze wandering—immediately he tried not to look.

She shifted, tucking her legs beneath her, clearly realizing what she had done and what he had seen. Xavier was grateful. He poured her a glass of lemonade. When she accepted the glass their fingers brushed. Tingles raced up and down his spine.

He clenched his fists, acutely conscious of how close they sat to one another and the fact that she enthralled him. He could not remember having had such an immediate reaction to a woman before. “How long have you been in Barbary?”

“Fourteen months.”

He watched her sip the lemonade. “And no one knows. There has been no word. I do not understand this.”

“Neilsen lodged a protest when I was first brought here.”

He could not manage a response. He had found himself staring at her mouth. He should have accepted one of the other slave girls.

Her gaze shimmered. Hesitating, she reached out. Xavier tensed as her hand settled on his hard, bare forearm. “You are an incredible man,” she said huskily. “Just the way I thought you would be.”

He swallowed. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Their gazes remained locked.

He looked past her bare shoulder at the pile of cushions, an image of her on her back there, with him on top of her, forming in his mind. He forced it aside. “Am I going to be able to see you again?”

“Yes. But it will be difficult. I’ll find a way.”

Xavier did not like her bold statement. “Perhaps I will have some degree of freedom in the next few days. How can I get word to you? I will think of a way for us to meet again.”

“It will be easier for me to arrange a rendezvous,” she said. “I am familiar with the palace, its inhabitants and customs.”

He stared at her, amazed, because no woman had ever told him what to do before.

She flushed. “I’m sorry. I just thought …”

“You are right,” Xavier finally said, reluctantly. “And you are very brave. Brave as well as beautiful.”

She hid a small smile, looking down. Her hands were clasped in her lap.