Captive (32 page)

“Yes, in two short weeks,” Murad said, his tone strange.

Alex turned. He had been sitting on the edge of the bed. Now he stood and walked away and stared out of the open shutters into the bright, blooming gardens.

Alex, ever in tune with him, regarded his rigid back. She realized what was upsetting him now. “Oh, Murad,” she said softly, and she quickly approached him from behind. She only hesitated a heartbeat. She put her arms around him and laid her cheek on his strong, hard back. She felt his body tensing.

“I can’t leave you here,” Alex whispered, releasing him. She walked around him to face him. His silver eyes reflected
ancient sadness. “Murad, did you hear me? You must come with us.”

“I don’t think so, Alex.”

Alex was immobilized, then she cried, “Why not!”

He forced a smile. “I want what’s best for you, Alex. I want you to be happy. I know that you are in love with Blackwell, and actually, I’ve seen the way he looks at you—I think he might be in love with you, too.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “You never said a word.”

“I did not want to encourage you.”

She wet her lips. “If he would allow himself to trust me, if he would let down his guard, get to know me, it
would
be love, Murad, I am sure of it.”

His smile was infinitely sad. “Yes, I am sure of it too. You are the kind of woman every man dreams of loving.”

Speechless, she stared at him. He was two years her junior, but he was not a boy—he had never been a boy. He was tall, broad shouldered, olive skinned, and gray eyed. His face was striking in its near perfection—but not at all effeminate. It was horrible that he had been castrated when he had been born, but that was the fate of boys born to palace slaves. Otherwise most women would look at him and fall in love at first sight. And not only was he a stunning man, he was warm, sensitive, loyal, and kind.

His words haunted her now. She was afraid to dwell on their real meaning.

“I can’t leave you behind,” Alex whispered. “Murad, you’re my best friend. I love you. I can’t imagine life without you in it. Murad, you must come with us!”

His eyes brightened a little. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes! Of course I do!”

His chest rose and fell. “Tripoli is my home, I was born here in the palace, I have served Jebal my entire life, now I serve you—my life is here. I know nothing else.”

“Life is far better in America. In America you would be free.”

“There I will be an oddity, Alex,” Murad said flatly.

He was the most astute man she had ever met. “I can’t lie. You are Moslem and a eunuch—I guess to some, you would be different, exotic.” But she knew he was right. He would
never be accepted in nineteenth-century Boston. He would be an oddity—a laughingstock.

Alex’s heart broke for him.

“You are softening the truth,” Murad returned.

“Yes, I am softening it. But I don’t want to lose you; I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again. Please come with us, Murad.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“I will free you. You will be a free man,” Alex said, strained and urgent.

“Free to do what? I was born a slave. I only know how to serve. I have no doubt I will die a slave, Alex. That is
my
fate.”

Alex could not believe her ears. She had the incredible feeling that he had made up his mind—that he was refusing her—that he would remain behind in Tripoli—that she would never see him again.

“Let’s not discuss this now,” Murad said very gently. He smiled, his expression oddly fragile and tender, gentle and sad. “We still have two weeks.”

It struck Alex then with stunning force why he could not remain behind. Why he had to escape with them. “Murad! You will be put to death in our stead! For your participation in our escape! Jebal and the bashaw will see you beheaded! They will seek vengeance upon you!”

His gaze was steady now, both very old and very wise. It was also resigned. “I know,” he said.

Alex watched Zoe leave the large marble swimming pool in the gardens the women shared. The afternoon was quiet and peaceful, but Alex was disturbed. All elation she felt at their escape being so near at hand was gone. She could not stop thinking about Murad, who would surely take the blame for their escape. She had no doubt he would be tortured and then put to death.

Murad had gone, taking her clothes to the palace laundresses. Alex sat down on the edge of the pool, lifting up her trousers and kicking off her sandals. She stuck her feet in the water, which was warm. Could she force Murad to escape with them? Or somehow maneuver him into it? Clearly she could not leave him behind to become a martyr for their cause.

Alex cradled her head in her hands, her temples throbbing. Was she a fool? Had she been terribly arrogant, coming to Libya in search of Blackwell, then waiting for his appearance, naively assuming she was going to live out some romance-novel story line? Blackwell wanted her, perhaps was even falling in love with her against his will—Murad actually thought so. But Alex wasn’t sure now about anything other than her feelings for him. Did they have a future together? He was a nineteenth-century man. She was a liberated woman from the future.

Was she in an impossible coil? What if their escape was successful—and he still rejected her? Then what?

Once again, Alex wondered if she could somehow travel back to the future. The question both worried and saddened her.

She felt trapped. She might very well be trapped.

Alex stood and stripped off her several layers of clothing. Nude except for the copy of the ruby and gold choker Jebal had given her and ordered her to wear at all times, Alex stepped down into the bathing pool. The warm water caressed her body, lapping between her thighs and breasts. Blackwell’s image filled her mind. These days, it did not take much for Alex to become painfully aroused.

Alex floated in the water, trying not to think about the future. Her fantasies always had the same conclusion—in which she would reap the greatest reward of all, riches of the heart and soul, the love of an incredible man. But now she was afraid she was deluding herself.

She had the sensation that she was being watched.

Alex sat up, looking around, but saw no one. She hesitated, then lay back on the pool’s shallow steps. The sun was warm on her face, the water tepid and soothing on her body.

“Do you need me?” Murad asked.

Alex started, sitting, drawing her knees up to her chest. She had never been modest in front of Murad until recently. She felt her cheeks heating. “I’m fine.”

He was not looking at her. “In which case, I am going inside. I’ll straighten up your room and put away your clean clothes.”

Alex nodded. She relaxed when he turned his back on her and began walking down the pale shell path toward the gallery
and her room. She slipped back into the water when Murad disappeared.

What was happening? Once, it had been so natural between them. Was it possible? Alex already knew that Murad loved her, but as a friend. And Murad was a eunuch. Eunuchs did not notice women in a male-to-female way.

Zoe’s words returned to Alex, harsh and disturbing. She had accused Alex and Murad of being lovers. She had said that eunuchs could be the best lovers. Alex sat back up. She stared toward the palace where Murad had disappeared.

Murad could not be thinking of her that way. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?

“Why haven’t you sent for me this week?” Zoe pouted.

“If you were not my first wife, you would be severely punished for even daring to ask me such a question,” Jebal said. He sat cross-legged on a cushion, idly picking at grapes.

Zoe stood facing him. She had dared to request an audience instead of waiting to be summoned. And she had dressed for the occasion.

The layers of clothing she wore consisted of the finest, most transparent silks, and the thrusting shape of her full breasts was clearly visible, as were their hard, stained points. Her eyes were kohled, her lips rouged, and her long hair flowed like black satin to her waist. She pouted and shifted her hips. Her gold belt trailed a gold chain that drew attention to the juncture between her thighs. “Jebal, surely you are not still angry with me for something I did not do?”

He stared up at her. “You still insist that Zohara is lying?”

“Yes.” Zoe’s black eyes snapped. “I did not poison her so she would fall asleep while you were trying to make love to her. She probably poisoned herself.”

“I am aware of your feelings for her, Zoe—and for everyone else I choose to bed.” But his eyes glinted with new suspicion.

Zoe sank down to her knees. “I am jealous, and that should please you. For I love you, Jebal, and I always have.”

“Your jealousy can be annoying.”

Zoe tamped down her temper, not easily. “Zohara lied. She lied to you, not once, but many times. She is an accomplished liar.”

Jebal tossed the bunch of grapes aside, standing abruptly. He towered over his short, plump wife. “You had better explain yourself.”

Zoe remained crouched at his feet. It was submissive and suggestive at once. She crooked her neck to look up at him. “I have checked and discovered that there was never a diplomat, British or otherwise, named Thornton on Gibraltar.”

Jebal’s gaze widened. “This cannot be true.”

Zoe slowly stood. “It is true. She lied. She might have had a husband named Thornton, but he was not a British diplomat who recently died. And he was not stationed on Gibraltar.”

Jebal began to flush. He stared, unspeaking.

Zoe took his hand. “Why is she lying? Was she married? She is not a virgin, so she has been with a man. Was her real name ever Thornton? Or did she make that up—and ‘Alexandra’ as well. Who is she? What is she hiding?”

Jebal shook her hand off of his. “Those are very good questions, Zoe. And I will ask Zohara myself.”

Zoe smiled.

Jebal’s gaze was hard. “I am sure that there is a reasonable explanation for all of this.”

“Of course,” Zoe said sweetly.

“And meanwhile. I think you are forgetting something.”

“What is that?”

“Alexandra Thornton no longer exists. Lilli Zohara is my wife.” His eyes blazed.

Zoe took a step backward, her brow furrowed. “I love you. I seek only to protect you, Jebal.”

“Perhaps you should be more concerned with your own behavior, my dear,” he said.

Zoe started. “What?”

“I have heard an interesting rumor—about your slave, Masa.”

Zoe’s pulse began to race. “A rumor?”

“Yes. They say he is a great lover. But who would his mistress be—if not yourself?”

Zoe cried out. “Jebal, I am always faithful to you—I am not such a fool!”

“Is it you who lies now, Zoe? I pray not.” Jebal paused, his gaze as hard and bright as diamonds. “If I ever learn you have been unfaithful to me. I shall see you drowned.”

Zoe stiffened.

Jebal turned away. He eyed several pieces of parchment on his desk. “I have several engagements tonight. But I will let you know when you may come to me again.” His manner was offhand.

Zoe seethed, but inwardly, and her face wore a small, grateful smile.

“You may go.”

She hesitated. “Jebal, I wish to ask you a question.”

He did not glance up as he picked up a quill. “Yes?”

“Have you noticed that Zohara is preoccupied with the new American captives?”

Jebal jerked around.

Zoe smiled prettily. “You should have seen her face and heard her scream when your father ordered the death of the sea captain, the tall, handsome one—Blackwell.”

Jebal stared.

“Of course, he is her countryman and she is undoubtedly a selfless, compassionate woman—I am sure it is as simple as that.”

Jebal remained silent.

Then her eyes lit up. “Unless, of course, they knew each other before they became captives here, Jebal—perhaps they knew each other in America.”

After a moment, Jebal said tersely, “America is a large country. It is unlikely.”

Zoe smiled, her eyes glinting. “You are probably right. I eagerly await your summons, my lord. Good night.”

Jebal did not reply.

Less than an hour later, Zoe stood very still in her bedchamber, the window behind her back open, revealing a high, full, gleaming moon. Her breasts heaved, clearly visible beneath the single closed gilet she wore.

Her door slid open and a shadowy form entered. The door closed. For one heartbeat, the man stood without moving, his back to the wall, staring at Zoe, who stood bathed in the moonlight.

Zoe could not help it. She pressed her thighs together and heard herself moan.

He moved. Like lightning, he streaked across the chamber,
reaching for her sex. He palmed her as his mouth took hers in a brutal kiss. Zoe gripped his huge penis through his silk pants, hard.

Suddenly he swung her into his arms and their gazes met. Black eyes met pale ones. Then his white teeth flashed and he lowered his head and tugged on one big, stained nipple. Zoe began to pray to Allah.

He tossed her on the bed and pushed her thighs apart. He ripped open her transparent gauze trousers, thrusting his fingers into her. Zoe arched up off of the bed, keening as quietly as she could. He clamped one hand roughly over her mouth.

Then he hauled her upward, devoured one breast again even as she finished her orgasm, before turning her abruptly onto her belly. Zoe whimpered like a small animal, her behind undulating convulsively, waving in the air.

He unbuttoned his breeches with flying, dexterous fingertips. “I’ve thought about fucking you all day.”

“Yes, please, yes,” Zoe wept, arched on all fours for him.

He was huge, even bigger than Masa, and he rammed into her again and again. Zoe cried out, as much with pain as with pleasure.

He rose up on his knees, bringing her with him so she sat on him now, her back spooned to his chest, and he played with her breasts and her sex as he pumped into her. Zoe began to come.

He pushed her down on her face and pounded into her mercilessly, seeking his own release. He peaked wordlessly. Then he lay limply on top of her, aware that he was crushing her, unwilling to move.

He had dominated her totally and it felt fine.