Captive (40 page)

And his stomach, while hungry, was not so empty that it ached.

He was afraid he was dreaming. For as sleep continued to leave him in slow, creeping stages, his memory began to return, and it was not possible that he was so well cared for. He recalled his escape from the mines, his capture by the fierce Kabyles, and another, crueler slavery, where he was shackled to the plow and worked as if he were an ox or a mule. He recalled starving. He recalled burning. He recalled the kind Jewish merchant who had helped him escape. The merchant had been murdered by bandits, his possessions plundered. Xavier, half-dead, had been left on the road to die.

And the slave trader had found him there just outside of some small, anonymous oasis village, and he had added him to his human collection of wares.

But where was he now?

Xavier was afraid to open his eyes. But he did.

And his gaze widened.

He was in a small, immaculate room tiled in blue and white. A simple woven rug covered the floor. A single window was open, and outside Xavier could see lush blooming gardens. A fan rotated slowly overhead.

He did lie on a thick mattress on the floor. The sheet covering his naked body was silk—there was no mistake about it. Xavier realized that he was caressing the folds with the fingers of one hand, relishing the sensuous feel.

He had never thought to sleep on anything other than the hard ground again, or to ever again feel a fabric like silk in his hands.

And beside his shoulder was a low, small table containing a tray. Slowly Xavier sat upright. Disbelieving. On the tray was a pitcher of tea and a plate of figs accompanied by a wedge of goat cheese.

His stomach lurched. He salivated.

Xavier picked up the pitcher and drank and drank, the tea running down his face and beard and chest. When he had finished the tea he reached for a fig and popped it into his mouth, chewing voraciously. Nothing had
ever
tasted so good.

“Xavier—you’re awake!”

He froze. He could not believe his ears—or, an instant later, his eyes.

He had not forgotten her. Although slavery had made him mindless, her image had remained engraved on his mind, in the very back, always there, a reminder of the past, somehow haunting him. But he had forgotten how beautiful she was. He had forgotten the impact she had on him. But this time was different.

This time there was something else. Something more than a stunning physical attraction and a deep admiration for her unusual character. Something else very much like joy was welling up slowly, pulsating throughout his entire being, from deep inside his soul.

She was crying as she approached him.

Xavier used the back of his hand to wipe the tea from his beard. He did not remove his gaze from hers. “You have saved my life.”

“I know.” She sank down beside him, but did not try to touch him.

His pulse rioted, raced. “Alexandra.” He wet his lips. Emotions he did not understand—was afraid to understand—overwhelmed him, and for a moment he could not speak. “Thank you.”

She smiled slightly, through her tears, and said the strangest thing. “Now I have your soul.”

Xavier stared.

“The Chinese believe that when one person saves the life of another, that person has the other one’s soul—forever.” Her gaze was green and intense.

Xavier was afraid that she might be right.

Not for the first time, Zoe crept into Zohara’s room. Zohara was with Jebal. He had summoned her to dine with him, and probably to share his bed afterward.

Not a single oil lamp was on, which was fine with Zoe as she carefully closed the door behind her. Her pulse raced, but not with fear, with excitement. Murad was also with Zohara and Jebal, so she was certain that she would not be discovered as she searched Zohara’s room.

She could not shake the image of the small metallic blue oil lamp from her mind. She sensed that it was important to Zohara, and that it held some clue about her—perhaps the
entire key to who she really was and what she was hiding. Zoe was determined to find it—to steal it.

Methodically Zoe went through the walnut armoire, as she had already done before. But she would leave nothing to chance. Although last time she had not found anything in Zohara’s room, this time she might.

But once again, there was nothing in the armoire but clothing, including the set of bedouin robes that Zoe had discovered before but had not understood the significance of. Now she smiled, removing them, for here was evidence of the American’s perfidy should she ever decide to move against her. Tossing the robes on the bed, she opened a chest. It was empty.

Where was that oil lamp? The one that had brought the strangest, mesmerized, almost frightened expression to Zohara’s face? And what about those other odd items that Zohara had thought she had hidden from Zoe’s view? Zoe had just glimpsed a strange leather bag and an assortment of objects she could not identify. But one of the objects had been a very small blue book, almost palm sized. Zoe could not read English, but she wanted to know what was written there.

She wondered if the objects might be in Murad’s room.

Zoe was about to move to the adjoining door when it suddenly opened. She stiffened in surprise. She had forgotten that the new slave was recuperating there.

Now that slave stood in the doorway, an oil lamp in his hand, staring at her. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

Zoe straightened slowly. In just a few days, the slave had drastically changed. Or had she merely failed to notice how tall he was, how broad shouldered—how male? Zoe could not help looking him up and down with actual feminine interest. Although he was thin, he was muscular and extraordinarily well built. His eyes were dark and hard. He seemed to be handsome in spite of the ragged beard. And he exuded authority. Clearly in his past life he had been a man of importance and power.

And he had spoken English. Not the English spoken by the British living in Tripoli, and not the kind of English spoken by Zohara. His accent was clipped, nasal and strange.

Did she know him? Had she heard that accent before? He seemed familiar, yet she would swear that they had never met.

“What are you doing in here?” he said again. This time he spoke in halting Arabic.

“This is my home. I can do as I please,” she said, shrugging. “Someone had better teach you manners, slave. You may address me as Lilli Zoe, nothing less.”

He stared suspiciously, his gaze moving behind her to the pile of clothing on the bed.

“How loyal you are to your new mistress,” Zoe murmured.

He did not respond.

“And I wonder what you would look like without that beard.” Zoe could not help herself, she was intrigued. She pranced forward until her bell-like gauze pants touched his bare toes. “You have a lot of silver in your hair, but many European slaves gray early, it seems. How old are you?”

He did not answer immediately. “Twenty-eight.”

Her eyes widened; he was young. And she had no doubt that he was virile—she could sense his sexuality just the way she could sense his power. Zoe glanced down at his groin. He was wearing thin silk pants, nothing more, not even a vest. He was a tall man; he was probably big, too. Zoe preferred her men oversized. She wet her lips and laid her hand on one slab of his chest. She shuddered. Touching him was like touching a rock. Surely his penis was as hard.

He did not move. His expression did not change. But his dark eyes blazed. With lust, or with anger? Zoe did not know. She did not particularly care.

She stroked the muscle of his chest, deliberately arousing his nipple. “What an interesting addition to our household you are,” she said huskily. “I think I understand why Zohara bought you. How astute she was.” Zoe laughed.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

Her hand paused. She gripped his chest hair, almost hurtfully. “I don’t think so,” she said, sending him a hot look. “How long has it been since you’ve had a woman?”

His response was to grip her wrist and force it away from contact with his torso. “My answer is no.”

He had hurt her a little and she smiled widely. “Did I ask you for anything?”

He dropped her hand abruptly.

“And did I even give you a choice?” Zoe asked coyly. She moved closer and pushed her soft thigh between his legs, up against his loins. “Oh, praise Allah,” she exclaimed. “You are not a eunuch!”

Alex had trouble dismissing Blackwell from her mind as she entered Jebal’s apartments. Xavier was healing rapidly, and she wanted to be with him. She wanted to resolve their relationship, put the past behind them, consummate their love for one another Just once, and escape Tripoli.

Yet they had not spoken much since he had awoken three days ago. He spent all of his time eating or sleeping. But Alex knew that this was the best and fastest way for him to recover his health.

And recover, he must. It was June fifth. The clock was ticking. They had to escape very soon, before the middle of July, in case fate intended to hand Blackwell to his executioner.

“Zohara.”

Alex came to her senses. Jebal had only visited her briefly in the past few weeks, waiting, she knew, for her to fully recover from her bout with death. Alex faced him now, filled with tension. She had so far escaped his advances; surely she could withstand them a little while longer, until she and Blackwell escaped. Alex was determined. There was only one man she would give herself to.

“How are you feeling, dearest one?” Jebal asked, smiling. His hand cupped her elbow. But his eyes were focused on her face, searchingly.

“I am still weaker than usual,” Alex lied. She had never felt better. “I have not been able to do my morning workouts. You know, all that jumping around that I do, and the sit-ups. I get so incredibly tired.”

“Ah, yes, your strange American custom; jumping jacks, I believe is what you call those funny motions?”

“Jumping jacks and abdominals,” Alex said. She shifted so that Jebal’s hand did not touch her arm.

“Did the physician I sent not examine you earlier today?”

Alex felt herself tensing. “Yes, but he is a fool.”

Jebal’s smile faded. “Oh, really?”

Alex looked him in the eye. “I don’t like him. I don’t want him examining me again.”

“Perhaps I like him. Perhaps I wish for him to examine you.”

Alex only hesitated for a moment. “Then I suppose I will have to grin and bear it.”

Jebal’s fists clenched. “Are you trying to anger me? If so, you are succeeding.”

“I am sorry if you are angry with my honesty.”

“Sometimes a woman should be less honest and more sweet.”

“Like Paulina?”

“Paulina has given me a son.”

“Perhaps you should marry her,” Alex said without thinking.

Jebal froze.

Alex wondered if he would strike her. She stepped back.

“I did not give you permission to leave,” he said harshly. “And I do not give you permission to speak so frankly—not ever again!”

Alex’s heart beat hard and fast. It was on the tip of her tongue to respond. She thought about it. A fight might gel her hurt, but it would probably keep her from getting raped, and she was tired of being a submissive Moslem woman. And she was no longer alone. Not with Blackwell’s return. “Then I shall remain mute.”

Jebal stared at her in shock. He was trembling. “Are you looking for punishment?” he finally asked.

“No.” Alex swallowed.

“I invited you here to dine. Instead of beginning a pleasant, enjoyable evening, an evening I looked forward to after spending this afternoon in council with my father and Jovar, you infuriate me. Have you changed, Zohara?”

“No. I have not changed.”

He understood her implications—that he did not know her, had never really known her. He flushed. “Your insolence is astounding.
I
have changed … my mind. Return to your rooms. You will remain there until I summon you.”

Alex turned and walked to the door. She wanted to run.

“I don’t understand you,” Jebal suddenly cried. Alex
paused but did not turn. “I am thinking about divorcing you.” There was a warning in his tone.

Alex knew they must remain married until she and Xavier escaped. And that she must have some degree of freedom, as well. But now was not the time to apologize—to make amends. Now was the time to flee.

“Go,” Jebal said harshly. “Just go. And stay out of my sight until I have decided what to do with you.”

Alex hurried into the outer room. Murad rushed over to her, his face grim. Alex knew he had overheard their every word.

They did not dare speak until they had left Jebal’s suite of rooms and were hurrying down the corridor and into the harem. “Thank God,” Alex gasped. “That was a very close call.”

Murad slipped his arm around her waist. “I know.”

“Blackwell is almost well enough for us to escape,” Alex whispered as they crossed the galleria. “Clearly, Murad, my time is running out.”

“Yes, it is. But he needs another week to heal, I should think.”

Alex thought that he was right.
“I
am afraid. It is almost July.”

Murad, by now, knew all of the so-called prophecy and Alex’s deepest fears. “You should be afraid. Remove him from the palace, Alex, remove him now, before he is discovered in your rooms.”

Alex could not agree. But she was loath to be separated from Blackwell again. She did not know if she could bear it. She was afraid that some twist of fate might occur preventing them from being reunited—as had almost happened this past year.

Murad opened the door to her room, and Alex stepped inside. Only to see Zoe pressed up against Blackwell, one of her thighs actually between his legs, a fingertip on his mouth. Alex cried out in shock.

Zoe and Blackwell jerked apart.

A
BSOLUTE SILENCE FILLED
the room.

Alex could not believe her eyes. She was devastated.

Zoe smiled, very pleased, and sent Blackwell an arched and meaningful glance. She swaggered past Alex. Alex reacted without thinking. Her hand whipped out and she seized the other woman’s arm, jerking her to a halt. “Don’t you ever enter my room again,” she ground out.