Captive (3 page)

“No!”

The lady regarded Alex with concern. “We don’t show the upstairs because some of the staff here think it’s haunted.”

Alex opened her mouth to speak—but no words came out.

“Did you see him?”

“I beg your pardon?” Alex managed.

“His portrait. In the library. Xavier Blackwell.” The lady was watching Alex very closely.

Alex nodded. Thinking,
She knows.

“He’s an eyeful, isn’t he?” the blue-haired lady said very seriously. “My staff is in love with him, wouldn’t you know?” She hesitated. “But they’re also terrified of him.”

“Have you seen him?” Alex whispered. “Here?”

Their eyes met in a guilty conspiracy. “I haven’t, no. It was so unfair.” Her voice had also dropped to a whisper. “He loved ships and the sea. The sea was his life. His love. And it took his life in the end, too. What a shame, a man like that—so strong and handsome, in his prime, too.”

“The sea didn’t take his life. He was executed by the bashaw of Tripoli.” There was anger in her tone. The depth of her anger surprised her.

“I know that.” The attendant was unruffled. “But had he not gone to sea, again, in defiance of his father, he would have lived. He was William’s only living child, his only heir. As it is, Blackwell Shipping passed into the hands of Xavier’s uncle. Markham’s sons had plenty of children, but all girls. Today the company is run by a worthless playboy, Charles Mathieson, who has barely any claim at all to the name of Blackwell. I doubt there’s a drop of real Blackwell blood in his veins. What a shame.”

“What happened?” Alex asked. “Why was he executed? What crimes did he commit?”

The little lady actually blushed. “Well, dear, you won’t find this in any history book, but it’s a fact and we all know it here at the museum.”

Alex waited, hardly patient, still gripping the front door—still afraid to come face-to-face with Blackwell’s ghost at any moment.

“Blackwell was quite a man, as you can see. Apparently he was carrying on with the wife of the bashaw’s son.”

Alex failed to understand. Not at first. “I beg your pardon?”

“In those days it was a terrible crime for a Moslem woman to lie with a Christian man. Blackwell might have been a captive, but he had a lover, a stunning Moslem woman, it is said, but she wasn’t just any Moslem woman, she was the bashaw’s daughter-in-law. That was why he was executed, dearie. For his love affair with her.”

A
LEX WAS STAYING
at the Bostonian, a downtown hotel. She rushed into her room and slammed the door. She was still stunned.

But she was much calmer now than before. The entire Boston Common separated her from Blackwell House. She was also amongst a hotel full of guests. And the street below her window was lit up brightly with restaurants and shops, while filled with pedestrians and passing cars and taxis. Perhaps, just perhaps, she had imagined everything.

Alex did not think so.

She hung up her blazer and stripped out of her faded jeans. Clad in nothing but a white lace bikini, a matching bra, and her Gap T-shirt, she prowled her hotel room. She could not get Blackwell’s image out of her mind. And now that there was a safe distance between them, she began to try to analyze what had happened. He had been present, and his eyes had been hot, his expression somehow intense, but had he been angry and hostile? Alex could not decide.

But if she were he, she would not be a happy spirit. If she were he, she would haunt Blackwell House, demanding justice, perhaps even vengeance, even two hundred years later.

In fact, she mused, there was probably a lot to make him unhappy, for not only had he been unjustly executed, he had died childless, and his heritage had eventually passed into the
hands of relatives so distant that they were hardly Blackwells. The company that he had loved, and Alex was positive that he had loved Blackwell Shipping, had become a dinosaur, eventually becoming extinct.

Alex wondered if he had loved the Moslem woman. She had been married to the bashaw’s son, and that had made her some kind of royalty. Undoubtedly she had been beautiful. And Alex did not have to know much about the Moslem world, then or now, to know that she had died an untimely death for her sins as well. Even in the present day adulterous women were often stoned to death in their villages.

Alex realized that she was jealous. Jealous of a love affair that had taken place almost two hundred years ago.

Alex realized that she must be lonelier than she had thought, to be so consumed with a dead man, to be jealous of his past lover. It was time to go back to school, to return to reality. She would start dating again. As soon as she finished her thesis.

And interestingly enough, her thesis was on the birth of the American navy during the Quasi War with France, which had ended in 1799—just a few years before Blackwell’s capture and execution.

With renewed excitement, Alex calculated quickly and realized that Xavier Blackwell might have very well served in the war with France. He would have only been in his early twenties. Her heart sped. She intended to check it out.

The white curtains by the window fluttered slightly.

Alex froze, because the windows were shut. Then she felt the cool air on her bare legs and she realized that the room was throughly air-conditioned. She laughed at herself. God, what a nitwit she was becoming.

But Alex did walk to the window in order to peer carefully outside. The street below was busy with pedestrians, whom she ignored. Her gaze settled on the quiet Common, vaguely illuminated with old-fashioned streetlights. And strayed beyond, towards Blackwell House. Of course, it was too far away for her to see.

Alex left the window, firmly telling herself to stop obsessing and get some sleep. She was staying in the Harkness Wing, which had been originally built in 1824. Blackwell had been dead by then, but Alex finally took in her surroundings, and
was charmed by her small room with its real brick fireplace and the exposed beams on the ceilings. Her bed was a four-poster, possibly a reproduction, but like all of the furnishings, it was an echo of another, earlier time.

Alex decided to call it a night. She had lost her appetite—but she would have a big breakfast tomorrow. She shrugged out of her underwear and T-shirt and padded naked into the bathroom. Facing the mirror above the spotless white procelain sink, she studied herself a moment—she had dark circles under her eyes. When she had first arrived in New York City— and she was originally from Mystic, Connecticut—she had been approached by several modeling agencies even though she was only five foot six. She supposed that she was pretty enough, but she personally felt that her face was too angular and too different, although wherever she went she continually turned heads. In fact, most men her own age seemed to be afraid of her. Her best friend, Beth, who was average looking, was always dating. Alex hadn’t gone out with anyone since Todd.

In any case, she might have big green eyes, thick red hair, high cheekbones, and a full mouth, but she was no sexpot; that was a joke. She was twenty-three. If she hadn’t had an orgasm by now, she probably would never have one. The thought was distinctly depressing.

Alex finally left the bathroom and slipped beneath the sheets of the bed. Flicking off the lights, she stared into the darkness. Tomorrow she would return to Columbia. She would hit the library first thing. Excitement sent shivers up and down her spine. She just might research Blackwell’s entire life.

Alex rolled over, hugging her pillow. She had forgotten to bring her nightgown, and the cotton pillowcase was cool and slightly arousing to her breasts. Alex closed her eyes, wondering what it would be like to meet Blackwell if she had lived in an earlier time. She smiled, thinking about the first time they might lay eyes upon one another, perhaps at a ball at Blackwell House. He would be devastating in evening dress, she would be in some taffeta ball gown. He would see her and his eyes would widen, he would stare, and sparks would fly—just like in a romance novel.

Alex hugged the pillow harder. Her chest ached. She was being an idiot again. Her fantasy was more than foolish, it was
pointless. She was never going to meet Blackwell. Not in the flesh, anyway.
Never.
He was a dead man, and she was very much alive.

But his image remained with her. And it was late now, the night surprisingly quiet, and Alex lay alone and nude in bed. Her body was young and female. She was aware of her thighs spooning one another.

She wished, fervently, that she were in Blackwell’s arms. Just once.

Alex gripped the pillow harder. Her eyes were closed now, tightly. The cotton pillowcase had distended her nipples.

Hearing her own breathing, which was growing harsh, aware of her racing heartbeat, Alex helplessly imagined Blackwell sliding his palm down her lean, bare back and over her firm, high buttocks. She imagined a butter-soft kiss on her jaw, her nape. He would caress the back of her thighs. Sweet, hot sensation swept through Alex, and she squeezed her thighs hard together. Had they been destined to meet, she knew he would want her far more desperately than anyone ever had, including Todd, who had claimed to love her, only to leave her for another woman.

Alex rolled over, eyes closed, trying to calm herself. But she could feel his fingertips stroking over the planes of her face, then over her shoulders and biceps. Ohmygod. Alex bit back a moan. Was it wrong to fantasize? This wasn’t the first time. And if she concentrated, it was so real.

Alex imagined him stroking her thighs, his palm rough and callused, then brushing her pubis, ever so gently. Alex gasped. She could feel him rubbing her flat belly and then he was touching her breasts. Her nipples had peaked painfully. Alex swallowed a moan. As if he were really touching her, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger, she could hardly stand it. Alex had never touched herself, but she was almost ready to do so now.

She imagined him bending over her, sucking one tip deep into his mouth.

Laving it with his velvet-rough tongue.

And the touch she was desperate for, silently begging for, his hand, rough and hard, palming her sex.

Alex’s eyes flew open. For one instant she was so lost in fantasy that she had actually felt teeth upon her nipple, worse,
a hand between her legs, possessively cupping her. In that instant, Blackwell loomed over her, his face contorted, his eyes blazing, his white shirt open to the waist, his hair swept back in a queue.

Their gazes met.

His blazingly hot.

Alex cried out, frantically reaching for the bedside light switch. The clock crashed to the floor. The lights above the bed blazed on. She scrambled against the headboard, the covers up to her chin, staring into the room.

It was empty.

Blackwell was gone.

But her heart was pounding so hard, she thought it would burst right through her chest, and she was wet and swollen and throbbing uncontrollably, Alex blinked many times.

She was alone.

Of course she was alone!

Ohmygod.
She had imagined him, that was all, but for a moment, a single moment, it had felt so
real.

Alex looked all around the cozy room again, but did not see anything other than the room’s overstuffed chairs and sofa, her backpack, shoes, and overnight bag. Her pulse was hardly subsiding.

You are a fool,
she told herself, still wide-eyed and aching. Still afraid to move.

The hotel room was glaringly empty.

Then she caught a movement by the corner of her eye. But it was only the draperies shifting ever so slightly again. From the air vents.

Alex’s heart did not slow for a very long time. She sat and stared into the vacant room. She told herself that she was alone—that she had been alone all night. But now she kept wondering if she was being watched.

It was well past midnight when she slid back down into the bed. But not before rushing over to the overstuffed chair and pulling on her T-shirt and jeans. And once she was back in bed, she kept the lights on, the covers up to her neck, and her thighs glued together. She did not fall asleep until dawn.

Columbia University, New York City

“Are you still unpacking?”

Alex started. Actually, she was in the midst of packing, and
the various jeans and T-shirts and summer suits that she was taking to Tripoli were spread all over her bed. An open duffel sat at the foot. She had not heard Beth enter her apartment. Now Alex straightened and turned to see Beth standing in the center of her studio, her hands deep in the pockets of her shorts. Alex hesitated.

She had not told Beth a thing. Not a single thing since she had returned last week from Boston. And in that entire time, Alex had done nothing but investigate Blackwell’s life. Unfortunately, she had turned up very little on him. Just a single paragraph in a short text on the United States war with Tripoli, which had begun in 1801.

“Alex? Why are you looking so guilty?” Beth approached and stared down at a pair of Levi’s and a white linen shirt. “You’ve been home a whole week and you still haven’t unpacked?”

“I’m packing.” Alex said reluctantly.

Beth was confused. “Where are you going?”

“To Tripoli.”

Beth laughed. “That’s funny. Now, where are you really going?”

Alex stared, then tossed a pair of silk trousers into the bag. She added a shiny patent leather belt. “I’m not joking.”

Beth slowly turned a ghastly shade of white. “Alex! You’re not serious? Are you insane? Haven’t you ever heard of Qaddafi? I didn’t know Americans
could
go to Tripoli!”

Alex sat down beside the duffel bag. “I got a student visa.” It was a lie. She was not about to tell Beth that she had to stop in Paris to obtain a forged French passport in order to get into Libya—and that the document was costing her dearly.

“You are insane.” Now Beth was angry. “This has to be a joke. Isn’t it?” Beth pleaded.

“No. It’s not a joke. I have to go. I’ll be careful.”

“Do you know what could happen to a woman like you?” Beth cried.