Captive (41 page)

Zoe blinked, wide-eyed. “How testy you are, Zohara. Have I done something wrong?” She smiled again, shook Alex off, and left with one more backward glance at Xavier.

A silence so thick and tense it crackled returned to the room.

Alex was breathing far too rapidly and far too harshly. The image of Zoe practically astride Blackwell remained implanted in her mind. And an inkling began to form there, increasing her unease.

Jebal’s wife.

Zoe was Jebal’s wife—the bashaw’s daughter-in-law.

Alex was frozen, mesmerized … horrified. Ohmygod. It had become crystal clear to Alex that it might very well be Zoe whom Xavier was discovered with.

She could not move, absolutely paralyzed.

“Alexandra,” Blackwell said.

Her gaze lifted, meeting his. “This is how you repay me?” she whispered.

His face was set. “Nothing happened.”

“Nothing? In another moment Zoe would have been climbing up your body.”

“No.”

Alex realized then that she and Blackwell weren’t alone; Murad stood behind her, watching them both, listening to their every word very intently. “Could you leave us alone?” she asked.

Concern etched upon his face, he nodded and walked past Blackwell, into his own antechamber. His door closed.

When he was gone, Alex turned, still stunned by what she had seen, by Xavier’s near if not actual betrayal. She stared blindly out of the window at a mostly full and very bright, champagne-colored moon. “Do you find her beautiful?” she finally said.

He approached. Alex tensed when he stood close behind her. “Of course she is beautiful. Why are you jealous? Her beauty can’t compare to yours. She cannot compare to you. And nothing happened. I don’t want her.”

Alex faced him, relieved. “You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.” His stare was clear and hard.

She felt it then. The sizzling connection coursing between them. A connection of heat and blood. A connection of destiny. It hadn’t disappeared or lost any of its intensity. Alex was acutely aware of him as a man, and knew he still felt the same brilliant attraction to her. But this time there was so much more. And he knew it, too. She lifted her hand.

He moved away. “She was searching your room. What was she looking for?”

Alex was disappointed. Her palm fell to her side. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t trust her,” Blackwell said.

“Neither do I.” Alex wet her lips. It was late, the night dark and silent, and she and Xavier were alone—for the first time since he had returned. Possibilities filled Alex’s head. They had been separated for almost a year. But this night could be theirs.

“Why?” he asked.

She forced aside the overwhelming urge to lose herself in his arms. “She hates me. She has already threatened to find
out what I am hiding, to expose me to Jebal. She wants to destroy me.”

Blackwell regarded her with his diamond-hard black gaze. “And what are you hiding, Alexandra?”

She did not reply. She forgot about the intimacy of the moment. Her mind raced.

“Let us start at the beginning.” His fists found his waist. “We all know you were never married to a British diplomat named Thornton. Why did you lie?”

Alex sat down. “When they brought me here, a woman examined me. Jebal knew I wasn’t a virgin. Given that fact, I had to think of a way to keep him out of my bed. Pretending that I was newly widowed and grieving seemed perfect. He gave me a year to mourn.”

“That was clever,” Blackwell agreed. Then he surprised her by asking, “Who was he? Your lover?”

Alex told him about Todd. She told him the truth, except for the fact that her love affair had taken place 192 years in the future.

“I’m Sorry,” Blackwell said. Very softly.

Alex was breathless, her gaze on his face. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she finally said, slowly rising to her feet. She moved toward him. Aware that he tensed.

But this time he did not move away. Alex halted in front of him and laid her hands on his hard, bare chest. He shuddered, his eyes widening slightly. She relished the feel of his skin, stretched tightly over impossibly hard muscle. “Xavier,” she whispered. “How I have missed you.”

He reached up and caught her wrists. Emotion and desire surging forth so hotly, so brightly, so powerfully inside of her that Alex’s knees buckled; she could barely stand up. “Why? Why have you missed me?” he demanded.

“You must know by now.”

His gaze roamed her face. “What we have shared, it was only a physical act, nothing more.”

Had he thrown ice water in her face, he couldn’t have shocked her more. “That’s not true!” she cried.

“It is true.” He released her wrists and stalked away from her. Not facing her, he said, “How are my men?”

Alex couldn’t believe that he did not feel any love for her. That his interest was only in passion, in sex. The night they
had sabotaged the
Pearl
together, he had protected her instead of exposing her and destroying her. She stared at his back. He was denying it. Perhaps even to himself. He had to be in love with her. Either that or the past two years spent in captivity in Tripoli were an incredible travesty.

“My men?” he demanded, turning.

“They labor in the quarries,” she managed.

“How many live?”

She hesitated. “Five of your crew have died.”

A shadow crosed his face and filled his eyes. He slumped abruptly on the bed.

Alex moved swiftly to him, sitting beside him, hurting for him now, her own anxiety and indignation forgotten. Her arm pressed his shoulder, her hip his thigh. “Xavier, we must escape, you and I, immediately.”

He did not reply.

“We will never be able to escape with your men, and you must know that.”

He nodded. “Perhaps, once I am free, I can ransom them.”

“There have been ransom negotiations, but the bashaw likes to play cat and mouse with both Neilsen and the consuls in Tunis and Algiers. He is very frustrating to deal with, they say.”

Blackwell stared at her.

Alex managed a smile. “Escaping will not be difficult. There is a secret tunnel that leads outside of the palace. I have mentioned it before. We can merely walk out. The only factor which must be arranged is our boarding an outbound Danish ship. Once at sea we can be transferred to an American vessel.”

“Alexandra, if it is so easy to escape, why have you not already done so?”

Alex shrank.

He stared, waiting.

“I couldn’t leave without you,” she finally said. “And that is the truth.”

“That makes no sense. I have been gone almost an entire year. Yet you remained here. Why?” He was standing, towering over her.

Alex also stood. “Xavier, I knew you would return. I was waiting for you!”

He shook his head, uttering a disparaging sound. “Fate brought me back to Tripoli, Alexandra—you could not have known that I would return.”

“You have to believe me.”

He said not a word.

Alex flicked hair out of her face. “Can we at least agree on this plan of escape? And to escape as quickly as possible? Perhaps early next week? You should have most of your strength back by then.”

“Yes. That we can agree on.” His eyes narrowed. “Why is there such a need for haste? Other than the obvious—that I might be recognized by someone here?”

She inhaled. Did she dare tell him what she knew? Yet how could she not? Their lives, their freedom, were at stake. She could not, of course, tell him the crux of her worries, that he was predestined for execution in mid-July. But she could tell him everything else, and warn him in the process.

“Xavier, if you are discovered here, they will execute you; surely you understand that?” A note of desperation had crept into her tone.

“Do you know something that I do not know?” he asked sharply.

“No,” she lied, wetting her lips. “Not other than the facts of this past year. Preble is now in command of the United States squadron, Xavier. You probably don’t know that in October the
Philadelphia
ran aground just off the coast, and that her captain surrendered to the bashaw. Three days later the winds changed and the bashaw’s men freed the ship. She was an incredible battleship, Xavier. And the crew numbered over three hundred men. The loss of the
Philadelphia
worsened relations between Tripoli and the United States.”

“I can imagine.” He was staring at her.

“There’s more,” Alex said, his stare making her uneasy. “Preble spent most of the fall trying to achieve a ransom. The bashaw, as he did with the negotiations over your men, merely toyed with Preble. Then, in February, Preble sent a commando team to destroy the
Philadelphia,
very much the way we destroyed the
Pearl.
He was successful. The ship was blown to smithereens. The bashaw is more furious than ever with the United States. Not to mention the fact that the United States is still in arrears to Tripoli. The money promised the bashaw
years ago has never arrived. And Preble’s blockade has been very successful. No corsair can get out of the harbor, no ships can get in. There is a big shortage of foodstuffs and other supplies. Even here in the palace we are feeling far more than a pinch.”

“You are very well informed.”

Surely he did not mean what he seemed to mean? “These are facts. Everyone in the palace knows what I am telling you.”

“What are you leading up to, Alexandra?”

Alex hesitated. His tone was so sharp. But she had saved his life; surely he trusted her now. She trusted him—completely.

“It has been a stagnant war, with very little action.” Alex’s heart raced and she managed a smile. “In early August, and I am not sure of the exact date, Preble will attack Tripoli with all of his forces. He will even attack the palace itself. That is the real reason we must escape immediately.”

Blackwell stared at her, turning oddly white beneath his sun-darkened skin. “My God! You know our plans of war?” he cried.

Alex backed up, also losing color. She had made a monumental mistake. She realized that now, too late.

He pounced on her, seizing her shoulders, hauling her up close. “And this is my second question. Whom do you work for, dear, sweet Alexandra? Or should I call you Mrs. Thornton? Or Lilli Zohara?”

Alex shook her head. “How can you still think me a spy?”

“Whom do you spy for?” he nearly shouted.

“I saved your life,” she cried. “And you still do not trust me? Maybe Neilsen told me all of this.”

He threw her away. “You are obviously a spy, and I have known it from the first. Otherwise you would not remain here, when you could leave so easily, or have so much valuable and secret information. Do you work for us—or against us—Alexandra?”

Alex stared, very afraid. How could Xavier still believe the worst of her? She had been so certain that his suspicions were buried along with the past. But she had been wrong.

What should she do now? What should she tell him? How much
could
she tell him?

“Answer me,” he said very dangerously.

“I am not a spy. I love my country. I love you.”

He laughed, the sound bitter, mocking.

“It’s true.”

“Everything is true with you,” he said harshly, his eyes flashing.

Alex inhaled, wounded by his tone; worse, frightened and desperate. “Xavier, I am different.”

“That has been obvious from the start.”

She forced herself to remain standing, to keep her shoulders squared. “My real name is Alexandra Thornton, and I am an American, one loyal to my country. I am not a spy. I am …”

“What?”

“A time traveler.”

He looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was born in Connecticut in November of 1973. When I was last in New York City, where I lived until recently, it was the summer of 1996. I was a graduate student at Columbia University. My specialty was—is—naval history.”

He had not said a word. Now, he laughed. “Come, Alexandra, that is surely not the best you can do?”

“I swear to you that I am from the future. I swear, Xavier! That is why I know so much! I was studying this war, and the one before it, between the United States and France. I read about you. I.…” She faltered. She had already declared her love for him once. She did not think she should make herself any more vulnerable by declaring her love for him again.

“That is absurd,” he snapped. “I am disappointed in you, Alexandra. You could have come up with a better story—even insisting that you work for us.”

“I am not a spy.” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
I do love you.

“That will not work,” he said tightly.

“Murad believes me,” Alex flung.

“I don’t give a damn what your slave believes!” He was shouting again.

“You will wake up the entire harem.”

He folded his arms, glaring at her. “And I am supposed to trust you in this matter of escape?”

She stormed across the room, her fists balled, and began to swing wildly at him. He caught her wrists, restraining her.
“Yes!” she shouted. “You had better trust me, damn you, Blackwell! I saved your life, remember?”

His grip eased. His expression changed. Something infinitely sad flitted through his eyes. “How could I ever forget?” He released her, turning away.

Alex blinked furiously, watching him reach for the door to Murad’s antechamber. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

He did not answer, not even pausing, slipping from her room.

Alex hugged herself, panting, her heart banging hard, hurting now, badly, inside of her chest. Why was this happening this way? Why? Why wasn’t he in love with her—enough so to believe her at her word, to trust her with his heart? And how could she prove to him that she was a time traveler, not a spy?

Her passport! She would show him her American passport, not the forged one. Surely that would be the proof he needed! She would send Murad to Neilsen’s to fetch it tomorrow, along with the rest of her belongings. Once he saw the American document and everything else, he would believe the truth—he had to.

But Alex gripped herself in despair and fear. She must finally admit the truth to herself. Secretly she was afraid that it was never going to work out the way she had been dreaming that it would. Secretly she was afraid that Blackwell would walk away from her and return to Boston, that they would never become lovers, that her love was one sided—and that she would remain forever trapped and alone in the nineteenth century.