Captive (29 page)

“Hardly.”

She was taken aback. “I have thought about this misunderstanding. We have to talk.”

“I do not want you here. I do not want to ‘talk.’ I told you before, and I am telling you again.”

“But I arranged for Neilsen to come! I have put myself at great risk in order to help you. The least you can do is to hear me out.”

“I owe you nothing but thanks, perhaps not even that. Now leave us, as we have grave matters to discuss.” Xavier turned his back on her, quite certain she was not through.

And she wasn’t. She gripped his bare arm from behind. “No! You cannot exclude me. You are wrong about me. I am a captive just like you, and I, too, wish to escape. Please!”

He whirled, shaking her off. He did not want her touching him, not even in such a simple manner. Her touch disturbed him. And she was so damnably convincing. “Have you studied on the stage?”

She flinched. “You have made up your mind against me, condemned me as guilty without a trial—that is not the American way.”

He did not answer. He found himself looking at her mouth. He was thinking about kissing her.

“I insist you take me with you when you leave,” she hissed. “At least promise me that.” She was bitter. “Or are you only a gentleman when it suits you?”

She was angry, and he was confused by her bitterness, but he wondered if she was also panicky. “When we are ready to leave, you will be alerted and told precisely what to do,” Xavier said. He had thought about it. It would be a test. “Until then, you need not know anything.”

She stared, her expression dismayed. “I can help. I am inside the palace, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

Her nostrils flared, their gazes remained locked. “Damn you!”

He shrugged. If, when he came for her and it was time for them to leave, she refused to come, then he would know that he had been right—that she was a spy.

“I cannot escape without my crew,” Xavier said quietly.

Neilsen’s eyes widened. “It is one thing to arrange the escape of two people—another to plan a mass exodus! The latter is impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible, Neilsen, but you are right, it will not be easy.”

Neilsen was fanning himself with his tricorn hat. “I assume you already have some ideas?”

“I do.” Xavier sat with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up. “It seems that bribery is a way of life here?”

Neilsen nodded.

“Can we bribe a few guards to look the other way as we slip out of the bagnio?”

“I think so. But it will take an incredible amount of gold.”

“I have an incredible amount of gold, although not here,” Xavier said. “I am the heir to Blackwell Shipping.” He forced Robert’s image aside. “If you can arrange to pay the bribe now, I will have the entire sum sent to you from Boston, including a bonus.”

“I don’t need a bonus,” Neilsen said. “I am aiding you because it is my duty, to both of our countries, and to myself, as a man.”

“Surely you will not refuse a gift, then?” Xavier asked, relaxing somewhat. He had already judged the Dane to be a man of conviction.

“Perhaps.” Neilsen shrugged.

“We must also contact Commodore Morris,” Xavier said. “A rendezvous shall be prearranged. After slipping from the bagnio, we can go to the beach outside of Tripoli, where U.S. gunboats can be waiting for us. If just one of the U.S. brigs is there, she can cover us with her guns in case we are followed by janissaries or corsairs and they attempt to stop us.”

“A good plan, Captain,” Neilsen said, “although not without flaws.”

“Every plan has flaws. Are the city gates guarded?”

“Yes. You will need weapons in order to fight your way out.”

“Can you attain weapons? Perhaps two or three pistols, and enough daggers for each of my thirty-four men?”

“I will need help,” Neilsen said. “What is our time frame?”

“That will depend on Morris. But I would like to tentatively say one month from now.”

Neilsen stared. “This is a tall order.”

“My men are being abused. Some will die before we even try to escape. The sooner the better,” Xavier said sharply.

Neilsen nodded, but he was grim.

“There is one other thing,” Xavier said. “We cannot leave Tripoli as long as the
Pearl
remains intact.” He pictured his beautiful ship as she cut through the swells of the ocean, as swift as the wind. “The
Pearl
must be destroyed.”

“Before the escape?” Neilsen shook his head. “You will ruin your chance of success if you manage to destroy the
Pearl.
The bashaw will be furious. You will be severely punished, Captain, as will your men.”

“I guessed as much.”

“Forget the
Pearl.
Although it is terrible that the bashaw will have such a ship in his navy, you have no other choice.”

“No,” Xavier said flatly. “The
Pearl
will be destroyed the night of our escape.”

Neilsen blinked. “What?”

His eyes gleamed. “She will provide us with the ultimate diversion.”

“Well.” Neilsen took a deep breath. “And you still think to arrange all of this within four weeks!”

Xavier nodded.

Neilsen became pensive. Xavier allowed him to think. The Dane finally looked up. “I think Mrs. Thornton could be a useful ally. She has already proven herself unusually resourceful and clever. Although I hate involving a woman in danger—”

“No.”

“Why do you distrust her so?”

“There was no British diplomat on Gibraltar named Thornton. She is lying about who she is.”

Neilsen gaped.

“Now, why would a woman lie?” Xavier asked.

“Dear Lord, I cannot believe she is a spy. But it would certainly explain her daring and intellect,” Neilsen said. Then his brows furrowed. “But why will you take her with you?”

“I hate the idea of leaving any civilized woman in Barbary, and maybe—just maybe—I am wrong,” Xavier said.

Alex paced outside of Blackwell’s chamber, angry that she was being excluded from their plans—angry and hurt.

He did not appear to be even close to falling in love with her; if anything, he was more hostile toward her than ever before. What was happening?

Alex shuddered. But at least he had said that he would take her with him when they escaped. She hoped he meant it.

And in case he did not, she would have to somehow unearth the plans they were making now, and be prepared to join them in their escape. Alex was not going to be left behind. The very idea made her blood run cold. But the idea of spying on him also chilled her to the bone. If he ever caught her in such a game, he would never come to trust her.

She turned and met Murad’s intense, probing regard. She averted her eyes. He knew she was upset. She did not feel like discussing her dismal relationship with Blackwell now. Not when he was just a few feet away.

Blackwell and Neilsen stepped outside. Alex turned and stared. Had they decided on a firm course of action? She could not tell, for Blackwell Ignored her, bidding Neilsen good-bye, while the Danish consul averted his eyes from her. Alex
strained to hear. Neilsen said something about getting word back to Blackwell as soon as possible.

Neilsen finally glanced at her, nodding briefly, and then he left.

Alex met Blackwell’s intense, dark eyes. What should she do? The thought crossed her mind that she should seduce him. In spite of what he thought about her, Alex was certain he remained as physically attracted to her as she was to him.

He strode over to her. “Still present?”

“Yes.” Deciding to take the upper hand, Alex glanced at his broad bare chest. Did she have the courage to touch him?

His jaw flexed. He shifted his weight. “Where does Jebal think you are at this moment?”

Alex shrugged. Did she have the courage to kiss him? She felt faint at the prospect. And if he actually rejected her again, she would be devastated. “He is dining with Paulina again tonight. His fifteen-year-old Italian concubine.”

“Jealous?” Blackwell asked softly.

“Are you kidding?” Alex laughed. “I am thrilled!”

He stared. Their gazes locked and her laughter died.

She stared back. Wishing he could read her mind, feel her heart, know her soul.

He did not look away. “Has he hurt you?” he asked suddenly.

Alex had not expected such a question. “No,” she said, on a deep breath. “Basically he is kind.” She hesitated. “He has allowed me an entire year to grieve for my first husband.” She lowered her eyes. “But …”

“But?”

She looked up, into impenetrable depths. “My time is finally running out.”

A muscle moved in his cheek. “And that means?”

“Jebal does not want to wait much longer to consummate our marriage.”

A moment passed, in silence. Blackwell said. “You are resourceful. I imagine you will do what needs to be done.”

Alex felt like striking him.

His gaze was piercing. “Surely you do not intend to remain faithful to a ghost?”

For one instant. Alex misunderstood. She was confused, because
the only ghost that had ever interested her was Blackwell’s, and he was no longer dead.

“Mr. Thornton,” Blackwell prompted.

Alex flushed. “He died while I was en route to visit him at Gibraltar.”

“So I have heard,” Blackwell said.

His tone was strange. Alex glanced up and was shocked by the intensity of his scrutiny. She had the awful feeling that he knew she lied.

“And which ship was it that you traveled upon?”

Alex tensed. “What does it matter?”

“I am merely curious.” Blackwell smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “Your husband was a British diplomat, was he not? However did the two of you meet?”

Alex hesitated. Blackwell was clearly not making pleasant social chitchat. She told him exactly what she had already told Jebal. “We met in New York City. He was a diplomat there. We were hardly wed when he was sent to Gibraltar. I remained behind to organize my affairs before joining him.”

“So you were traveling from New York to the Straits.”

“Yes.”

He waited.

Alex took a breath. “I believe she was called the
Eagle.”

“A passenger ship called the
Eagle,
out of New York, bound for Gibraltar?”

“No, of course, she was a merchantman,” Alex said quickly. He was trying to trap her. There were no passenger ships plying the Mediterranean in the early nineteenth century. “She was a British merchantman,” Alex said. She could feel her cheeks burning.

She could also feel him regarding her intently—and then he smiled. As if he approved of her performance.

“Now what?” she said cautiously.

“I did not say a thing.”

Alex realized just how crushed she was feeling. “Blackwell, please, let’s not fight. You are the very last person in this universe whom I wish to battle with.”

“Then what is it you wish to do?”

An image of herself in his embrace flitted through her mind. “I want to help with the escape.”

“Help? Or hinder it?”

“Help.” She was firm, even though dismayed. “Let me tell you something. I know a little bit about naval warfare. I know that if you think to escape with your crew, you will need a viable plan, one involving a land or sea rescue operation.” His brows had lifted; he was wide-eyed. Alex plowed on, determined. “Tripoli is surrounded by water, and historically, no one survives overland escape attempts. Therefore the rescue will be from the sea. This worries me.”

“Really.”

“Yes! Are you aware that Commodore Morris is an idiot? And very inept as a commander?”

He stared at her as if she were growing horns.

“Whatever you and Neilsen are up to, you must factor in Morris’s indecisiveness. He is not a battle-seasoned veteran like yourself,” Alex said desperately.

“How have you come by all of this information?”

“I read about it,” she snapped.

“Good God,” was his reply.

Alex had the awful feeling that she was digging herself into a hole. She closed her eyes briefly. “If only Preble were here,” she muttered under her breath.

“What?” he demanded. “What did you just say?”

She backed up. “Nothing.”

“You said, ‘If only Preble were here.’”

Alex kept her mouth shut. She could not remember when Morris was relieved of his command, or when Preble attained it, but she must not reveal all that she knew. “I said, if only it were possible.”

It was clear that he did not believe her.

“And you expect me to trust you, Mrs. Thornton?” He was openly mocking.

“Yes! And I expect us to work together.”

“Never,” he replied. And he turned his back on her, returning to his cubicle, his strides swift and hard.

Alex stared after him, shaken. She almost called him back. To blurt out the truth. But he would be even more skeptical then. He would laugh in her face.

Blinking back sudden tears, Alex whispered, “Let’s go, Murad. There is no point in remaining here.”

The sun was higher, hotter, than the day before. Every inch of Xavier’s body burned. Sweat streamed down his naked, sinewed torso in small rivulets. On his back, it burned every newly opened wound. Blood mingled with perspiration, dirt, and grime.

It was only noon. As Xavier moved away from the sledge where they had finally loaded the twenty-ton block, he wondered again how any man could survive for very long in this kind of labor, in this kind of heat, without sustenance and medical attention. How cruel and inhuman it was. How barbarous.

Tubbs dropped to the ground at Xavier’s feet, panting. It had taken the hundred-odd slaves a day and a half to load up this block. The first mate blinked up at Xavier. “Good God, sir. I don’t think I can make it.”

“You can make it,” Xavier said firmly. “Rest for another minute, but then you will get up.” Xavier turned to study the rest of his men. One by one, like flies, they had all fallen to the hot desert ground to rest, oblivious to the burning heat they lay upon.

Timmy still stood. His face was badly sunburned, flushed with exertion as well, but he was young and strong. He was gulping hot air, though, the way one might gulp cool water.

Xavier looked up and immediately gauged the sun. It was not yet noon. Dear God, Pierre Quixande was right. The slaves were considered less than human, beasts of burden, valueless and replaceable. The Tripolitans worked them to death with purpose and deliberation. And when this lot was dead, there would be new captives to take their place—captured in acts of bloody piracy committed on the high seas. Hatred filled Xavier.