Captive (39 page)

“What!” she cried.

“A seer told me that he would return.”

A few days later, Alex rummaged through her things, all of which were stored in the bottom of a small chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She turned her Coach backpack upside down, emptying out the contents. A strange feeling, almost nostalgic, perhaps even homesickness, swept over her as she stared at the items that had fallen out. A Lancôme lipstick and compact, a few sticks of Trident gum, her comb, some pens, her Filofax, Guess sunglasses, and her Gucci watch. None of these items interested her—she hadn’t looked at them in more than a year. But now she thought about Beth, who must be worried to death by her disappearance, and by now would assume that she was dead or kidnapped into white slavery.

Alex suddenly had a vision of the State Department contacting the Libyan government and demanding an investigation into her disappearance. She inhaled.

She slowly reached for her wallet, opening it. She stared at her credit cards and driver’s license, at her traveler’s checks and the hundred dollars in cash she had been carrying. Then she tossed the black leather wallet aside. She ignored the forged French passport. But she gazed solemnly at her United States passport. Would she ever need it again?

Not if Xavier Blackwell returned for her, as she now hoped daily—and firmly believed—that he would.

Finally she swallowed and looked past the pile of her possessions to what she had avoided looking at all along. The small blue oil lamp lay on its side in the center of the blue and gold bed. Alex did not touch it. She did not dare.

But could it return her to the twentieth century?

Her heart hammered. She had no idea. Hopefully she would never even attempt to answer that question. For Blackwell had to return. Even the clairvoyant had said as much to Murad, and Murad believed her to be a genuine psychic.

Alex was acutely aware of the date, though. It was May 15, 1804. According to the history books she had read, Blackwell was executed at the end of July of this year. Just before Preble’s attack on Tripoli.

Executed for his affair with the Moslem wife of the bashaw’s son.

And that was her.

Alex trembled. So far nothing had happened the way it should. She did not have a lot of cause to believe that Blackwell would return only to be executed by the bashaw. Yet the timing of his return was worrying her. Vastly. She could not ignore what she had learned in the future about the past.

Alex hoped that this would not be a race to the wire. If only Blackwell would return now, two full months before the supposed execution. That would give them plenty of time to escape.

But with every passing day, she grew more anxious and frightened. Where was he? Was he all right?

Without knocking, Zoe opened her door. “Hello. Zohara. I have come to see for myself that you are better.”

Alex gasped, automatically shifting her body to hide all of her twentieth-century possessions. And the blue oil lamp rolled off of the bed. It landed on the floor with a thump.

“What is that?” Zoe cried.

“I want to go shopping with you,” Alex said.

Murad sighed. They were standing on the galleria. “Alex, a week ago you were unconscious and at Death’s gates. I will get everything you have asked me for.”

“I was unconscious two weeks ago, Murad, not one, and I am fine now, and you know it,” Alex shot back, but she was smiling. She took his hand. “I am bored. Remember, I am a twentieth-century woman, used to living my life my way.”

Murad yanked his hand from hers, alarmed. “Don’t speak that way! Someone will hear you! Wasn’t it bad enough that you took all of your strange belongings out of the chest and that funny bag and Zoe almost saw them?”

Alex sobered. “Yes, that was a bad moment, Murad. And what might have happened if Zoe had time-traveled when she picked up the lamp? Ohmygod! I shudder to think of it.” She could not imagine the Moslem woman wandering down Broadway in 1996. Assuming that was where she would have gone. “Let me don my disguise and we can go.”

“Alex, Zoe is suspicious of you—of us. She has had me followed several times since you regained your health. I think she is actively spying on us—again.”

“Perhaps. But you took all my things and hid them so there
is no evidence of the truth. She may wish to expose and destroy me, but she cannot.”

Murad sighed.

Alex ignored him and walked back to her room. It felt good to have her health restored. Now she felt vitally alive again, strong and eager to act. If only Blackwell would return!

A short while later, Alex and Murad sauntered down a narrow dirt street leading to the souk where Alex wanted to browse, for lack of something better to do. They were disguised as bedouins. It was a beautiful summer day, but with Blackwell missing, Alex could not fully appreciate it. But as they left the palace behind, Alex began to feel differently. Disturbed, uneasy. She finally realized what her mood shift consisted of: An odd sense of dread-filled anticipation was creeping over her.

And she had the uncanny feeling that Blackwell was close by.

Alex froze, trembling.

The street they were standing on split, one fork bearing right, the other left.

Murad grabbed her arm. “The souk is to the left, Alex.”

Alex shook herself free of her notion, telling herself that she was being fanciful. But she was shaking. She was breathless. “You’re right. The
bedestan
is ahead.”

“You don’t want to go there,” Murad said.

But Alex did not move. She recalled, as clear as day, ten months ago when she had first seen Blackwell in the
bedestan
when he had been a captive on parade. Alex swallowed, very disturbed—very intent.

“Alex? What is wrong?”

“I want to go to the
bedestan.”
She began hurrying down the street.

Murad rushed after her. “You are not making any sense. Do you wish to purchase a slave?” His tone was slightly injured.

“No.” Alex’s voice was unnatural, both high and hard. Her strides lengthened. Her pulse seemed to ring in her ears. He was there. She was certain, she could feel it.

Murad was silent now, shooting glances at her set face.

The
bedestan
was hardly full. Several slave dealers marched a few groups of slaves back and forth across the open market,
but the passersby were mostly disinterested pedestrians, the women with children carrying baskets of wares and fruits. Alex halted abruptly, her gaze scanning the slaves and their owners. Disappointment swept her with stunning force. Blackwell was not present.

Yet she had been so certain that she would find him there.

“Let’s go, Alex,” Murad said quietly.

Alex was about to agree, but instead she blurted, “Are these all of the slaves? Or are there more?”

“You really want to buy a slave?” Murad was incredulous.

But one of the dealers had heard her. A small Sicilian, he came up to Alex, his dark eyes gleaming. “I have five more slaves with me, out back. They come cheap. You want to look?”

Alex ignored Murad, who was about to protest. She nodded, praying desperately.

The Italian strode behind the platform where the auctions were held, Alex on his heels. He pointed ahead. Alex felt disappointment washing over her again as she viewed the five black men who sat sleeping in the shade of a lone date tree, chained to one another. They were all skin and bones, clad in tatters and rags, and more dead than alive. “I don’t think so,” Alex said forlornly.

She had to look away. It hurt her to look at them.

“Let’s get out of here, Alex,” Murad said tersely.

One of the slaves moaned.

Alex jerked. She turned to stare at the group of abused men again. One of the slaves sagged against the back of another. His body was folded up, his knees beneath him, his arms bent in funny angles, but she could see that he was a tall, broad-shouldered man. His hair was dark, streaked liberally with gray, flowing to the middle of his back. His beard covered the lower half of his face. He was not Negro, merely blackened by the sun and dirt.

“Alex,” Murad said sharply.

The tall slave moaned.

Alex’s heart lurched. Staring, she shook off Murad, the sounds and sight of the slave market fading until nothing existed except herself and the gaunt slave in chains.
Oh God.
Disbelieving, horrified, she began to run.

“Xavier,” she wept. Alex knelt beside the slave, gripping his face in both her hands.

His eyes fluttered open—their gazes met.

Hers tear-filled, his soulless.

“Oh my God!” Alex cried.

Xavier stared vacantly at her for one long moment, and then his head lolled and he slumped forward into her arms.

Murad knelt beside her. Alex looked up at him, tears streaking her face. Horror and outrage coursed through her body. “Pay the dealer whatever he asks,” she said. “Pay him now!”

M
URAD SLEPT IN
a Small antechamber outside of Alex’s room. That was where they brought Blackwell. Murad and another man whom they had hired in the
bedestan
laid him carefully down upon the mattress, which was on the floor.

Alex knelt beside him while Murad sent another harem slave for the physician and went himself for herbal teas and other medicinal supplies. Alex remained severely shocked, horrified, sick inside. What had happened to Xavier? How had he become so emaciated, so filthy, and so very nearly dead? The slave trader, whom Alex had wanted to arrest and imprison on the spot, had sworn that he had acquired Xavier from a caravan of bedouin merchants. Alex had not bothered to either believe or disbelieve him. What if he died? This way, from starvation and abuse? Perhaps she had interfered so thoroughly with history that he would die now, instead of in an execution ordered by the bashaw in another month.

“Let’s begin cleaning him,” Murad said, returning to the antechamber.

“He needs fluids first,” Alex said decisively. “Hold him upright.”

Murad obeyed, lifting Blackwell up into a sitting position. He appeared unconscious. Alex took both of his limp, callused hands between hers, and pressed them to her breasts. “Xavier, it is I, Alexandra. You are all right now. You are home, with
me. I will take care of you, make you well. I promise.” She hesitated. Had his lids flickered ever so slightly? She could not decide.

She slid a spoonful of beef broth between his lips. She was rewarded when she saw his Adam’s apple move—he was swallowing. “That is wonderful,” she breathed. She shared a smile with Murad, who did not return it. She continued to feed Xavier spoon by spoon. It soon became clear that he was swallowing every drop. The bowl of broth became empty.

Murad laid him back down gently and removed his tattered, filthy pants. Alex’s heart beat hard and fast—she could not believe how thin and bony he was. She remembered his hard, strong, muscular body so well, and looking at him now immobilized her with anguish.

Murad took the washcloth from her. “I’ll bathe him, Alex,” he said softly, understanding her grief.

Alex shook her head, her eyes filled with tears. “Will he live?” she whispered.

“He is a very strong man,” Murad returned, cleaning Xavier’s face.

Alex wiped her eyes with her sleeve, then heard a movement by the door. Intuition told her who stood there before she turned and saw Zoe. Since Alex’s recovery, Jebal’s first wife was always lurking about, and she refused to ever knock before invading Alex’s rooms. The two women locked gazes.

Alex forgot to breathe. She waited for Zoe’s eyes to widen with recognition, for Zoe to accuse her of betraying Jebal by bringing Xavier Blackwell into their home.

But Zoe did no such thing. “What is going on?” Zoe demanded, regarding Xavier. “What on earth possessed you to buy such a wretched creature?”

She did not recognize him. He was so thin, so dirty, and so heavily bearded that he appeared a different man.
“I
could not stand to see him suffering so,” Alex retorted harshly, standing. “I have a soft heart—unlike you.”

“You are a fool to waste good gold on such a slave,” Zoe said, her gaze riveted on Alex.

“That’s my business, isn’t it?” Alex said.

“I suppose. But it is certainly Jebal’s concern to know that you were outside of the palace without his permission—in disguise as a bedouin man.”

Alex started. Murad, bathing Xavier’s chest, jerked and looked up.

Zoe smiled.

Alex’s mind raced. “It is your word against mine. I will deny it. Murad will back me up.”

“Now, did I say that I would tell Jebal?” Zoe asked in a sugary tone.

“What do you want?” Alex cried angrily, realizing that Zoe was enjoying playing the puppeteer and jerking her around.

Zoe shrugged, turned disdainfully, and without another word, left the room.

Alex faced Murad. “You were right. She is spying on us, perhaps even following us. But why? And why doesn’t she go to Jebal now with what she has learned?”

“She is biding her time, Alex. Like the lioness, stalking, waiting, for the right moment … to make the kill.”

Alex inhaled. She knew that Murad was right.

Murad nodded grimly. His gaze wandered to Blackwell. Alex looked at Xavier as well. “Ohmygod,” she said. “In time, when he gets better, she will recognize him,” she whispered.

“When he gets better, you must remove him from the harem,” Murad said harshly.

Alex stared, her jaw set.

“Alex!” Murad cried.

“We will see,” she said.

He was aware of softness, coolness, and silk.

He wasn’t sure where he was, but for the first time in a very long time he actually felt comfortable. He had been sleeping deeply, and he felt curiously refreshed—and almost vital again. Whatever he was sleeping on was suspiciously soft, and felt almost like a plush down mattress. His head seemed to be nestled in a fluffy pillow, and his body seemed to be caressed by silk.

Clearly he wasn’t outside. The hellish, blazing sun did not beat down upon his head and body, turning his skin black while torturing him. Instead, a gentle, whisper-soft, cool breeze fanned his face and arms, which rested atop the silky fabric covering him.