Captive (37 page)

“I Will die if he dies.” Alex whispered.

“He is strong and capable; do not think the worst.” Murad walked into the bathing room.

Alex paced to her window, shoved open the latticework shutters, and stared across the galleria and over the courtyard. The night sky in the horizon over the harbor was an unholy orange. It had been a successful mission; the
Pearl
had been destroyed.

But even now, Xavier might be dead, struck down by one of the savage Turks.

Murad returned. “I thought you promised not to interfere,” he said mildly, but his gaze was piercing.

Alex sat down and met his probing regard. “I did not interfere. I helped.”

He made a disparaging sound.

Alex did not bother to defend herself. Murad began washing the dirt from her face, and then from her hands and arms. Alex winced a little, the soap stinging. He ignored her, dabbing salve on her wounds now. “You are a brave woman, Alex, but one day you are going to get yourself into something that you cannot get out of. I worry about that day.”

Alex pulled away from Murad. “What if the soliders killed him? Oh, God! I have to know!” She turned pleading, tearful eyes on her slave.

Murad rose grimly. “All right. I will go see what I can find out.” Then he paused. “But get out of those clothes, Alex, before someone sees you in them and realizes what you were doing tonight.”

Alex swallowed and obediently began to strip.

Murad said, “Even if Jebal wanted to be lenient with you for what you have done, the bashaw would not allow it.”

Alex froze. Her heart pounded. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might one day be at the bashaw’s mercy instead of Jebal’s. The thought was terrifying.

Murad left her room.

“They knocked him down and began kicking him viciously. In the chest and stomach, in the legs and in the head. Xavier curled up into a ball but could not really defend himself. Pain
exploded behind his temples and in the back of his head. The air was knocked from his lungs. Someone struck his back with the butt of a musket. Xavier gritted his teeth. His world slipped into fuzzy darkness, the shadows suffused with red-hot pain—but Xavier was determined not to pass out.

“Enough,” came a familiar voice. It was the Scot renegade, Jovar. “Return him to the bagnio with the others. We want him alive—in order to make an example of him.”

Xavier was dragged to his feet. He could barely stand. His head was pounding with pain and he had the urge to vomit. His back felt broken, but clearly that was not the case. He was bleeding everywhere. One of his eyes was, he realized, swollen shut. But with his left eye he saw that they had captured the others, including a drenched, shivering Allen. He also saw the
Pearl
gloriously aflame.

Before, he had been heartsick at the thought of her death. Now triumph seared his veins.

They could kill him, but he had won. He turned his one-eyed gaze on Cameron.

The two men stared at each other, Xavier unsmiling, Cameron grinning like a wolf.

Alex knew she must plead for Xavier’s life.

It was four in the morning and she had not slept. Murad had yet to return, and Alex despaired, her ignorance of Xavier’s fate killing her. She must find out if Xavier was alive—and he had to be alive, he had to—and then she must see to it that he did not die. Alex slipped out of her chamber soundlessly, having mechanically dressed.

She ran through the palace in her sandals, ignoring her sore, bruised feet. The palace was fully awake. Slaves, servants, and soldiers were everywhere, as if it were broad daylight outside, and not the crack of dawn. She rushed into Jebal’s quarters, ignoring the protest of two Nubian slaves.

Jebal was in his salon, standing with his Dutch secretary, sipping hot, black coffee. His eyes widened when Alex barged in without either his permission or an announcement.

Then he really stared. At the cuts on her face.

“Jebal, I must speak to you!” Alex cried.

Jebal’s mouth formed a thin, hard line. His eyes still wide, he turned to his secretary. “Leave us. I do not wish to be
disturbed—not even for my father,” he said tightly.

The Dutchman nodded and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Jebal strode to Alex and gripped her face in one hand. He was not gentle. He turned it from side to side. His eyes glinted. “What happened to you?” he demanded.

Alex’s heart beat hard and fast and her mouth was completely dry. She was afraid now, afraid of her husband—but more afraid for Xavier’s life. “I fell in the gardens this afternoon,” she lied.

“Really?” Jebal stared, then cocked his head slightly. Alex followed his gaze. Through the bedroom windows, she could see the night sky—and it was still orange over the harbor where the
Pearl
continued to burn.

“I was pushed from behind,” Alex quickly fabricated. “Jebal, surely you recall that I have enemies in the harem?”

He studied her, finally releasing her chin. His gaze again strayed outside, toward the raging inferno that had been the American brig. “You had better be telling me the truth,” he said low. “Do not ever take me for a fool. Do not ever lie to me, Zohara.”

Alex’s heart skipped a beat. He suspected her. He suspected that she was somehow involved with the destruction of the
Pearl.
Or were Alex’s fear and guilt coloring her judgment? She began to shiver uncontrollably. Thinking,
They are all right. This man would hurt me, punish me, maybe even kill me, for violating his faith and his laws.
“I won’t,” she somehow managed to whisper. A blatant lie in itself.

Jebal held her gaze. Alex managed not to flinch. “What brings you here at four in the morning?”

“How could I sleep?” Alex looked past him out of the window. “They destroyed the
Pearl.
That beautiful ship.”

“Yes, Blackwell and his men destroyed the greatest prize my father has ever taken.”

Alex could not move. Surely in the absolute silence stretching so tautly between them, he would hear her wild, frightened, pounding heartbeat. “Blackwell?”

His jaw flexed. “That’s right. Your countryman.” Jebal smiled coldly. “Your friend.”

Alex almost fainted. “We are not friends, Jebal,” she said hoarsely. “We have never met.”

He stared at her. “Really? Then why are you so concerned for him?”

“I am a human being,” Alex said hoarsely. “I care about human life. I do not believe in slavery. In cruelty. In murder and death.”

“So you do not really accept my ways, my faith.”

“I am trying,” Alex finally said.

“Are you?” Jebal asked.

Alex could not respond. Coming to see Jebal now, with Blackwell’s life at stake, had been a major mistake. But it was too late to turn back. “What happened? How was the
Pearl
destroyed?”

“Blackwell himself took five men and planted firebombs aboard her,” Jebal said, staring at her. “Fortunately everyone was recaptured.”

Alex remained still. If everyone were captured, that meant Xavier was still alive. Relief nearly swamped her, relief she was afraid she could not hide. “What will happen to them?” she managed to ask.

“My father is, justifiably, furious. Heads will roll.”

Alex clawed her own hands.

“And that upsets you, the humanitarian.” Jebal’s gaze was brilliant, hard.

The night had undone her, and she was precariously close to tears. “Yes.” And then Jebal’s next words stopped any impending sobs.

“But there was another man present. A bedouin. He escaped.”

Ohmygod, Alex thought frantically.
Ohmygod.

“But we shall find him,” Jebal said flatly.

Benjamin Allen was beheaded an hour later, at dawn.

Alex was still awake, too tense to sleep. Allen’s execution was intended as an example to any others who thought to escape their bondage in Tripoli. Murad had not discovered what fates were to be meted out to Xavier and the other men. But the bashaw was more than furious. He had whipped the messenger who had first brought him the news of the
Pearl’s
destruction, and then he had imprisoned the six Turkish guards who had been on duty guarding the ship that night. They had all been bastinadoed.

The captain of that regiment of janissaries was given five hundred lashes, his body then paraded through the city for all to see, before being dumped unceremoniously into the sea.

It was midmorning now. Alex was exhausted, but she could not sleep. Nor could she eat or drink. She felt like a zombie. She kept praying to God for Xavier’s life.

Murad burst into her chamber, dark shadows under his eyes, his face haggard and grim. Alex leapt to her feet. “What? What!” she demanded.

“The bashaw sends them south.”

Alex froze. “South? I do not understand.”

“To the mines.” Murad walked over to her and stared down at her face.

She clutched his vest. “Why are you looking at me that way? What does this mean? At least he has not ordered their execution!” Alex cried.

“You don’t understand. He has ordered their deaths, Alex.”

Alex shook Murad hard. “Explain what you are saying!”

“The mines are worse than the quarries. Slaves are sent there to die. No one comes back alive, Alex. No one comes back, ever. It is not allowed.”

Alex sagged and sank down on the bed. Xavier was doomed? No! This could not be happening! She covered her face with her hands, trying, desperately, to think. But her mind was a scrambled mess. She looked up. “We must rescue him now, Murad, before he is sent away. Then he, you, and I shall flee.”

Murad shifted his weight. Pity and compassion mingled upon his expressive face. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I am not being ridiculous. We will steal a small sailing boat. Xavier is a seaman, I am a seawoman; we might be able to make it to Sicily. We have to try!”

“No one can make it to Sicily in the kind of boat you are thinking of stealing. Besides, it is too late.”

Alex could not have heard correctly. Her pulse pounding, she prayed she had misheard. “Excuse me?”

“They are already being escorted from the city.”

“No!”
Alex cried, her face draining of all color. She was on her feet, but so fatigued she could hardly stand upright. Murad quickly reached out to support her.

“I am sorry, Alex. So sorry.”

“Where are they now?” she demanded hysterically.

“No. I won’t let you leave the palace again. Jebal is suspicious—and you don’t want to see what has been done.”

Alex elbowed him away and dashed for the door.

Murad cursed and ran after her, but she was already through it. “You don’t have a disguise!” he shouted angrily.

Alex fled.

Murad had stolen a veil from a merchant in the bazaar and he had draped it over Alex’s head, mostly concealing her face, although she had not paused or even noticed what he was doing. They rushed through the narrow alleys and side streets of Tripoli until they came to the main road that left town by the southern gate. A crowd had gathered on that thoroughfare, the women waving banners and veils, the men and boys waving knives and spears. The crowd was loud, angry, and volatile. They hissed and jeered. Fifty janissaries kept the crowd back. Three captains were mounted, the rest on foot.

Alex moaned deep in her throat, shoving through old and young women and children and toddlers, grown men and boys. A constant stream of invectives was enough to tell Alex that the parade of prisoners was either just passing or soon to come.

She was vaguely aware of Murad holding her elbow very tightly, as if he was afraid of losing her—or afraid of what she might do. He spoke to a fat woman, and Alex heard her say that the prisoners had just marched by. She spat at Murad’s feet and laughed. “We showed the American dogs, we did.” She spat again. “Never again, praise Allah!”

Alex pushed forward to the fringes of the crowd. Murad still holding her from behind. She began to run along the edge of the stomping spectators. She ignored the soldiers, who were chatting idly now in the middle of the street. Ahead, a short distance down the dusty road, she could see a blur of figures and movement. Alex ran faster, raising one hand to shield her eyes from the sun, squinting. She made out a group of marching men.

“Alex,” Murad warned, his hand slipping from her elbow.

Alex ignored him, running now on the side of the street. She tripped but did not fall. Murad ran with her. “You don’t want to do this,” he said in her ear.

She did not answer. The men were marching at a very slow pace, and she was rapidly closing the distance between them. She began to understand why they were marching so slowly. Only the guards were marching. The group of shackled men in their midst were staggering, hardly able to stand upright.

Alex’s heart lurched with sickening intensity. Dread filled her. She stumbled and almost went down.

She continued to run, finally rushing past Murad with a burst of strength she did not know she still had.

“Alex!” he shouted.

Alex lengthened her strides and she caught up with the last line of soldiers, who turned to look at her with incredulous expressions, clearly thinking her nothing but a crazy woman and not a menace or a threat. Alex ran past them, trotting alongside the group, searching the faces of the tottering Americans. In that horrible instant she saw that they were badly hurt, bloody and beaten. And then she saw Xavier.

She screamed.

He wasn’t able to walk. His head lolled to one side. His face was grotesquely swollen, one eye completely shut. Blood dripped down one side of his face, down his chest, and down his back. He was stark naked. Two Turks dragged him; his feet did not move. He was unconscious—or already dead.

“Xavier,” she screamed.

Murad reached her from behind, locking his hands around her and wrestling her backward. “There is nothing you can do,” he shouted at her.

“Xavier!” Alex screamed, struggling wildly to escape Murad.

Murad’s grip was iron. “I’m taking you back to the palace.” He began to drag her backward. Alex fought him furiously, desperately, landing a blow to his chest, his face. But Murad was determined. He finally wrestled her arms behind her and held her in an iron embrace.