Captive (17 page)

Xavier stared. He was a heartbeat away from giving in to the beast within himself. To seizing those hands, pulling them up, pushing her down. And placing his own hands there. He took a deep breath. “I need to meet with Neilsen,” Xavier said.

“Maybe I can help.” Her eyes were bright.

“No. I don’t want you taking any unnecessary chances.”

She smiled. “I don’t break so easily, Xavier.”

His expression softened. “Have you ever been told that you speak somewhat strangely?”

“Yes. Murad knows this palace intimately. He can get word to Neilsen.”

“Murad, the other slave?” She nodded. “He is free to come and go?”

“Not exactly. But he has more freedom than I do.”

“What, exactly, is your relationship with him?” Xavier asked curiously. He had seen the bond between them. They were close to the same age, as well, and Murad was a very handsome young man.

She did not respond at first. “We are both slaves—we are both friends.”

He was having the strangest thoughts. Did she and Murad comfort one another as they remained together in captivity? It would be so natural. He was, again, jealous. Xavier could not understand himself.

He stood up. Not trusting himself to remain so near her. “It is getting late.”

She quickly stood, not giving him a chance to help her up. She was, he saw, incredibly agile and graceful, almost moving like a man. Except that she was one hundred percent female and his body knew it.

“You must be exhausted and I’m being thoughtless.”

He smiled. “Hardly.”

She didn’t walk by him. Her gaze was level with his chest. It lifted slowly.

He could not move, he could not speak.

Her mouth opened, but no words formed immediately. “My heart … is beating overtime.” She laughed nervously.

Their gazes locked. And Xavier wondered if he really could keep his hands to himself. “So is mine.”

She was immobile. Moving neither toward him nor away. “I know,” she whispered.

He had to move away from her. His jaw flexed, his shoulders stiff, his pulse pounding, Xavier paced across the room. He stared grimly out of the windows into the starry night. Who was this woman? Why was she affecting him so?

He faced her. “Have we met before?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

Her mouth opened; she inhaled. “I’ve been to Blackwell House.”

“When?” he demanded.

“You weren’t there. No one was home. I mean, I walked by.”

“You’re from Boston?”

“New York City.”

“You were visiting friends in Boston? Relatives?”

She was worrying the tassels dangling from her vest. “Yes. Friends.”

He stared. Something was awry. And she was unhappy. Why? Because of his questions? Or because he hadn’t kissed her? “Whom were you visiting in Boston?” he asked.

“What does it matter?”

“I am certain that we must have met at least in passing. Somewhere, sometime.”

“No.”

“Perhaps I know your freinds?”

“I don’t think so,” she whispered.

His gaze roamed her face. She was upset. He was being a cad. This woman was a captive, which was abominable, and he was interrogating her. “I’m sorry.” He forced a smile and strode toward her. “I don’t know what overcame me. I did not mean to upset you, Vera.”

She didn’t move, her back against the door, her green gaze glued to his face.

It was the most natural thing in the world. The most awkward, the most tense. His hand lifted, cupping her smooth ivory cheek. She stood very still, like a doe caught in gun-sights, immobilized.

“I would never hurt you,” he heard himself say.

“I know,” she whispered. A tear slipped from her eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

She swallowed, unable to speak.

“You are not alone anymore, Vera,” he whispered. “Trust me. I am here, and together we will get through this, I swear to you on all that I hold dear.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Ohmygod, Xavier.” She faltered. Another tear trickled down her cheek.

“Please con’t cry,” he said. “I am a complete coward, you see. A woman’s tears terrify me.”

She smiled, her eyes wet and luminous.

His palm still cupped her cheek. Xavier knew he must remove it, but his thumb stroked the edge of her jaw. In another moment, he would kiss her.

She knew it too. Silence enveloped them, thick and hot. Xavier could hear his own racing heartbeat, and possibly hers as well.

He dropped his hand. He was, after all, a gentleman, and proud of it. “Good night, Vera. Let us plan to meet on the morrow.”

Her bosom, barely contained by the vest, heaved. “Yes. Tomorrow. Good night.”

M
URAD RUSHED ALEX
down the dark, dark corridor that led to the harem. Alex was so dazed that she ran blindly with him.

He pushed her through a pair of huge doors and into the women’s quarters. They hurried through the courtyard, which was empty now, and illuminated by a full, glowing moon. A moment later they were crossing the galleria and entering Alex’s apartment. Murad closed the outside door. Alex stared at him without seeing him at all.

Ohmygod.
It was really happening. Blackwell and her, together at last … destined to be lovers, destined, she knew, to be man and wife. And he was far more than she had even dreamed he would be. Dear God. He was a real man, a real hero, and she knew, she just knew, he was feeling all that she was feeling, too.

“Alex.” Murad stood beside her. “Here. Drink some of this. You haven’t said a word since you left his room.”

Alex didn’t even look at the glass he was holding out to her. Joy seemed to be radiating out from the core of her being with increasingly intense and frequent waves.
Ohmygod.
When she moved, it felt as though she were walking in clouds.

Alex began to smile, hugging herself.

“What happened?” Murad demanded. “Did the bastard hurt you?”

She didn’t hear him at first, thinking about how Blackwell had looked and all that he had said, recalling how her body had tightened and flamed when he had touched her arm. She had never wanted
anyone
the way that she wanted him. Murad grabbed her arm. “What happened?”

She blinked at him.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No!” She smiled. “He would never hurt me, Murad. Oh, no.” She continued to smile. “He didn’t even try to make love to me, although I know he wanted to. My God, he’s a real gentleman, every inch a nineteenth-century man.” She met Murad’s gaze. “He told me he’ll protect me, take care of me—that I have a friend and ally now.” She laughed, not minding his chauvinism. He was the product of his times, and she loved him for being who he was.

Murad regarded her, his gaze intense, then he turned abruptly away.

Alex thought that he seemed upset, but she was too overwhelmed with her recent encounter with Blackwell to really pay attention. She whirled around once, twice. “I can’t believe that this is finally happening,” she whispered. “Dreams do come true.”

Murad faced her, hands on his hips, unsmiling. “Do you even know this man?”

“Yes.”

“You never told me how the two of you met—or when you met, or where.”

Alex smiled. “Maybe the time has come for me to tell you everything.” Confiding in Murad, her best friend, would be the perfect ending to the perfect evening.

“Considering that it is
my
duty to protect you and take care of you, and that I have been doing just that for the past fourteen months, I think that would be a good idea,” Murad said sharply. His tone seemed somewhat bitter.

Alex cocked her head. “Are you jealous?”

He laughed, but he was flushing. “Of course not! Don’t be a fool, Alex. I am only trying to serve you well.”

Alex relaxed. It was ridiculous of her to have thought, even for a moment, that Murad was jealous. “He’s my destiny, Murad,” she said very gravely. And tomorrow they would
rendezvous. He wanted to see her. She had promised to find a way.

But the risks, of course, were so great. Alex decided she needed a better disguise. If she continued to wander around the palace as a slave girl, she should stain her face and hands and feet.

Murad interrupted her thoughts. “Alex, I know you are romantically inclined, and I, too, believe in fate, but you should also be realistic. Has he offered to marry you? Has he told you that he loves you? Did you sleep with him?”

“No. To all of the above.” Alex plopped down on a big cushion. “But he will tell me he loves me and ask me to marry him. I am sure of it.”

“And you will sleep with him, of course,” Murad said harshly. “Risking both of your lives.”

Alex thought about the execution she had read about. She knew in that instant that she must control herself, just as he must control himself. They must not make love, not until they were safely out of Tripoli. But Alex wanted to be with him even now so desperately that she wondered if they could refrain from the inevitable.

“So he’s led you to believe he loved you in the past? In America?” Murad demanded.

Alex gazed at Murad, sighing. “Not exactly.”

Murad sat down beside her. “What do you mean, not exactly? Alex, you can’t leave me in the dark. Not when you have me acting as your go-between.”

Alex hesitated. Murad was right. She needed him as a liaison, and his life was in danger, too, for the part he would play in their affair. History, of course, would never record the execution of a mere slave, but Alex had no doubt that Murad would be the first to lose his head if she and Blackwell were ever found out.

He had a right to know everything, a right to know the truth. Alex laid her palm on his arm, leaning close. “You are my dearest friend, Murad. I love you so much.”

His expression softened. “I know.”

“I want to tell you everything. Murad …” She hesitated. “I am from the future.”

Murad rose and towered over her. “Alex, you said that once before. Why do you keep saying that? It’s not even amusing.”

“Because it is the truth.” She stood. “Really.”

Murad’s gaze remained fixed on her face, his expression strained.

“Murad, I was born in the Midwest of America in 1973.”

“Is this some kind of strange game? Is there a point to all of this?”

“No, this is not a game. It’s not a joke. I’m twenty-three years old, and I was born one hundred and seventy years in the future.”

Silence fell between them. “Alex, come sit down.” Murad was now alarmed. She was so serious. He pushed her down onto the cushions, then sat beside her, his arm around her. His heart was racing. “I am going to get a physician. You are not well. You are hysterical. What happened just now with Blackwell? What did he say, what did he do?” Murad couldn’t help it—he had to know.

Alex pushed at him. “I am not ill. I am not hysterical. I do not need a damned doctor. I am serious. Blackwell and I talked, Murad, nothing more.” She took his hands. “You have to believe me. I am a graduate student at Columbia University from the year 1996. I was researching my masters thesis when I read about Blackwell. I read about his capture in July of 1803. In the account I read, he was ambushed off Cape Bon while taking on water, and the
Pearl
was destroyed in an act of sabotage at sea before ever reaching Tripoli.” Alex frowned. “That’s why I was so shocked to see the
Pearl
arrive the other day. It’s all wrong.”

Murad said nothing, staring at her, his pulse racing harder now. His mouth had become unnaturally dry. Why was she insisting on this? What had happened between her and Blackwell, to make her talk this way? But she had been surprised to see the
Pearl
arriving in Tripoli. He recalled that very clearly.

“And I also read about his execution in June of 1804.” Alex now gripped his arm. “The bashaw had him executed a year later, Murad. A year after his capture.”

Murad remained immobile. Afraid to think, afraid to breathe. Alex believed what she was saying.

“I’m telling you the truth. He was executed for his affair with a Moslem woman.”

Murad did not respond. He could barely absorb what she was saying. Was Alex insane?

“Murad?”

He couldn’t speak. Her words were not merely confusing him, frightening him, they were filling him with dread. And they were making him feel almost violently ill. He could not understand his own reaction.

“She was the wife of the bashaw’s son, Murad,” Alex cried, shaking him. “Don’t you see?”

And Alex was now wed to Jebal.
Murad shook himself free of that thought. “Alex, you need some rest,” Murad finally said. “You are not well.” He was firm.

“No!” Alex stood. “I have not lost my mind. I fell in love with Blackwell, and somehow my love carried me back in time—to him. The oil lamp that was in my backpack, the blue one I keep in the chest, did it! All those strange stories I have told you and Jebal? Those are twentieth-century movies. Murad. I didn’t make up Darth Vader and R2D2 and Han Solo. Batman is a comic-book hero.”

“What’s a movie?” Murad was also standing, dismayed and mesmerized. “What’s a comic book?”

Alex sighed. “A movie is something you watch. Actors acting out a story, only it’s on film; the people aren’t real even though they move and talk. Forget it, Murad. In my time people really fly in the sky in the airplanes I have described in my stories, and drive automobiles, and use telephones … I have proof.”

Murad folded his arms and watched Alex rush across the room. She was ill and he knew it. She was mentally ill, weaving this incredible story and believing it herself. That was the only possibility.

He stared as she returned with her backpack, a bag he had always found odd with its many strange clasps and pockets. Alex pulled out a small, leather-bound book. He had glanced at the small book before. The silver rings had fascinated him. But he could only speak English, he could not read it, so he did not know what the book contained.

But whoever had written in the book had used strange colors of ink—red and purple and blue as well as black. He had never seen such colorful ink before.

She was triumphant. “My Filofax. Look at the calender. Murad.”