Captive (7 page)

Oh, God, what should she do? The worst had happened. As she should have known. She had been kidnapped to be sold into white slavery. Alex heard herself moan.

And she was so damn weak and so damn exhausted.

Tears suddenly blurred her vision. Where was Blackwell? Why wasn’t he with her now, if not to help her, then to give her moral support? Desperately Alex willed his presence to return to her, but she felt nothing in the air around her, nothing at all.

Alex swiped at her tears, angry with herself, because self-pity would not help anything. She had to be strong, and she had to think. She was a smart woman. Surely she could find a way to outwit her captor and escape.

Alex crossed the room, her back to both guards, and faced
another archway. It opened onto an outdoor courtyard filled with fruit trees, stone benches, and a small inlaid marble pool. Alex glanced over her shoulder briefly at the guards, but they were ignoring her now. She stepped outside. Her captor had told her she could use the yard if she wished.

Her captor’s house was on a hill. Now, standing in the center of the courtyard, she could see over the facing wall. The many jumbled, red-tiled rooftops of Tripoli greeted her, and beyond them, a line of jagged, shadowy mountains. Clearly she was facing inland.

Tripoli was surrounded on three sides by water, however, and instantly Alex turned to face the sea. Beyond the next courtyard wall she glimpsed the many roofs and domes of the palace, where only yesterday she had been a visitor like any other tourist. Somewhere near that palace was the shop where she had met Joseph and bought the lamp.

Alex’s gaze veered to the harbor. Where she expected to see busy wharves and longshoremen and cargo ships and steel trawlers. Instead, she stared, stunned.

Incapable of taking even a single breath.

Unable to move.

Time had stood still. Or gone backward.

For Tripoli Harbor was filled with nineteenth-century ships.

A
LEX REMAINED IMMOBILIZED
, Staring at the harbor. Her pulse roared in her ears.

She recognized the many corsair ships immediately. They were wooden sailing vessels, each about forty feet long, single or double masted, capable of carrying a dozen guns or so. She still could not believe her eyes. She stared at the corsair cruisers, expecting them to metamorphose into modem-day sailboats and luxury yachts. But they remained the same—nineteenth-century Barbary pirate ships.

She was not hallucinating.

She was not insane.

There were also a half dozen European merchantmen at anchor in the harbor, both frigates and brigs, as well as several slave galleys. Smaller fishing vessels bobbed about the larger ships. Meanwhile. Turkish janissaries stood on the closest wharf, the curved blades of their scimitars glinting in the sun, supervising the unloading of one corsair ship that had clearly just been berthed.

Baled cotton, corded chests, casks of wine and vinegar, and oak barrels were being unloaded by dozens of men clad in rags. Some were black, some olive skinned, and many were as white as Alex herself. She blinked. Her pulse rate increased dramatically. Not only were these men underweight and ragged,
they were all barefoot—and each and every one had a thick iron shackle around one ankle.

It was one thing to read about slavery—it was another to witness it firsthand.

Her wide gaze lifted. Panting now, she saw that the fortress on the mole was flying a tricolored flag with a crescent symbolizing the Moslem faith. From her research she recognized the flag as belonging to the nineteenth-century state of Tripoli.

Not even aware of it, Alex sank down on the marble bench. She could still see the entire harbor. Cannons were mounted on the ramparts of the fort. Hadn’t she read somewhere that the old fort had boasted about a hundred cannons? How lethal the fort looked. When just yesterday it had been defenseless and in ruins.

Alex jerked. Just beyond the bottleneck entrance to the harbor, she had spotted another ship cruising. It was a nineteenth-century warship—and she was flying the thirteen stars and stripes of the United States of America.

Chills raced up and down Alex’s body. Her mouth was bone-dry. She felt dazed, shell-shocked. Punch-drunk, crazy. Somehow, she had traveled back in time, to the early nineteenth century!

But that was absurd. That was crazy.

She stared, hard, but the harbor remained unchanged.

She was not insane. Somehow, she had traveled back in time. She was in nineteenth-century Tripoli. And the comprehension struck her with stunning force.
Ohmygod.
Xavier Blackwell was here.

Alex gripped the marble bench with both hands. Her heart was pounding so hard, it seemed ready to explode out of her chest. She was still in a state of disbelief, yet she knew what she was seeing. She must calm herself, she must think. Her wildest dreams had come true. Hadn’t they?

And now Alex instantly understood why, ever since she had awoken, she had been unable to summon Blackwell’s ghost. Because he was no longer dead.

Now she merely had to find him.

Alex wiped her eyes, clearing her vision, breathing deeply. Her fear had abated. Of course, she would find him. Why else would she have made such a fantastic journey if he were not
her destiny? If their union were not predestined—meant to be—inevitable?

But Alex’s thoughts quickly screeched to a hah. She was forgetting something of major importance—Blackwell was going to be executed by the bashaw. In the middle of July, in 1804.

She stared blindly at the harbor. What date was it, exactly?

She knew that it had to be before Blackwell’s execution date. It had to be. Otherwise her traveling through time made no sense.

Her breathing still shallow and rapid, Alex glanced back toward the two black guards in the room she had Just left. She understood now that they were slaves. The Frenchman was clearly a slave trader. And he was about to trade her.

Alex wet her lips. She hadn’t quite realized the extent of her predicament before. It was far worse than being a twentieth-century woman captured and sold into white slavery. The nineteenth century knew nothing of justice or liberty, lives were forfeit in the blink of an eye, and women had no rights, none. Alex had, inexplicably, become a captive, and was about to become a slave. She was hardly free to find Blackwell.

But Alex was determined. She would survive—until she found Xavier Blackwell.

But suddenly she was afraid.

What if she had traveled back in time in some weird twist of fate only to watch him die?

Alex was wrapped in robes and heavily veiled just like any Moslem woman. The Frenchman indicated to her that she should accompany him. Alex was still trying to recover from an incredibly thorough and horrifying examination by an Arab woman. Every inch of her had been examined, even her teeth and genitals. Alex felt terribly violated. She was shaken to the quick.

But as she fell into step with the Frenchman, a half dozen black slaves behind them, she said, “Where are we going? What happens now?” Her voice was unsteady.

Rigaux smiled at her, although his blue eyes remained cold. “I have good news. Word of your appearance has already spread through the city, and the bashaw wishes to see you before any other possible buyers.”

Alex stumbled. She lengthened her strides to catch up to her captor, trying to assimilate what she had been told. The idea of coming face-to-face with the man her research told her was responsible for terrorizing American shipping for more than a dozen years frightened her. But that meant that they were going to the palace. Was that where Xavier Blackwell was? Was her every step taking her closer to him?

Tense with a combination of dread and anticipation, Alex hardly noticed her surroundings as they marched down the hard, sandy street. Several heavily laden camels, driven by men and boys, passed her group. Alex and her entourage walked by a mosque surrounded by date trees, and then they passed through a small souk.

The palace loomed before them. It was no longer a monument of history, but a real fortress complex. Alex stumbled as an escort of Turkish soldiers fell into step beside them as they passed through the open front gates—the very same gates Alex had not been able to pass through the day before—almost two hundred years in the future.

“Jusef Coramalli’s bodyguards,” the Frenchman said with a smile.

Alex’s mouth was dry. She stared up at the walls as they approached the first gate. Yesterday real, live cannons had not been mounted on those walls.

More soldiers guarded the front gate just inside the ward. The Frenchman was halted and interrogated briefly, then waved on by. Alex’s heart began to pound.

The outer ward was crowded with soldiers and royal supplicants—Turks, Arabs, bedouins, priests, and Europeans. It no longer ressembled the courtyard of the palace that Alex had visited last night. They passed into a smaller ward. At one end, on a dais, a heavily clothed official sat, attended by numerous slaves. The Frenchman gripped Alex’s arm and propelled her to the foot of the dais. He bowed deeply.

The official, who Alex would later learn was the chiaus, the admiral of the bashaw’s private guard, studied Alex while the Frenchman spoke at great length. After some time—and Alex could not fathom what Rigaux could possibly be saying—they were again allowed to pass inside.

Alex was led into a huge paved piazza supported by marble
pillars. At the far end of the courtyard, atop a set of marble steps, was a golden throne. No one sat there.

Alex could hardly breathe. Her gaze wandered—she was looking for Blackwell. Like her, he was a captive. But he was an important captive, which meant he might have some degree of liberty and he might actually be roaming about the palace. “Where are we?” she whispered.

“The bashaw holds court here. He will be with us shortly; he knows we are here.”

Her pulse pounded with irregular force. Alex clawed her robes, trying to keep a grip on her wits. The marble door atop the stairs opened. A short, bearded man clad in a crimson velvet vest over a gold and purple tunic stepped through it, a huge, bejeweled turban upon his head. He was followed by another man, also wearing a short vest over a colorful tunic, with flowing white trousers, yellow stockings, and red shoes. Both men had a white mantle pinned to one shoulder, the pin consisting of diamonds and gems. Both men had bejeweled, ceremonial swords tucked into their solid gold belts.

The Frenchman knelt.

The bashaw waved him up. Both the bashaw and the younger man stared at Alex.

Alex’s face was burning. She was faint with anxiety, with dread.

The Frenchman stood. Before Alex knew what he was doing, he had whipped off her headdress and her veil, revealing her face. He said nothing. Alex felt her face flushing. She tensed. The slave trader put his hand on her robes. Alex looked at him, realized his intention, and cried out.

The Frenchman ripped her robe open, jerking it off of her shoulders and down to her waist. Alex was wearing nothing beneath it.

She stood very still with her breasts exposed, her cheeks burning. She was frightened, furious, and humiliated.

The bashaw stared.

Alex regarded the ground, trying to count to a hundred. This was nineteenth-century Tripoli. She was a captive and a Christian and a woman; her feelings did not matter. These men, she decided, were all pigs.

The man behind the bashaw moved decisively forward.

Alex was compelled to look up and she started. He was
close to her own age, slim and olive skinned, with hazel eyes. His face was almost too handsome; some might have called him pretty. Yet it was a very pleasant face, unlike that of the stem-eyed bashaw. His hair was a dark, sandy brown color.

“I am Jebal,” he said, smiling. His smile reached his eyes. “The bashaw’s son and the bey of Tripoli.”

Alex stared at him with hostility, refusing to answer, not when she stood before him bare breasted. The Frenchman jerked on her arm, sending her a warning glance.

Jebal gave the slave trader a hard look, reaching out toward Alex. Alex flinched, thinking he meant to touch her. Instead, he pulled her robe up, covering her. “What is your name?” Jebal asked. His English was almost perfect, nearly without accent.

Alex was so grateful she almost swooned. “Alex,” she said hoarsely.

“That is a strange name.” He was still smiling, into her eyes.

“It’s … it’s really Alexandra.”

“Alexandra,” Jebal said, and brightened. “How pretty. Of course, after your conversion to Islam, you will take a proper Moslem name. Perhaps Zohara. It suits you. Zohara means fire and light.” His gaze moved to her hair.

Alex stiffened. “I beg your pardon. I am not converting to your faith.” There was no way in hell that she would do so.

Jebal was unperturbed. “You must, and you shall. Otherwise I cannot lie with you.”

Alex stared, his words sinking in. How was she going to survive her captivity if she was forced to sleep with this man? “I am an American, and I protest everything that has happened to me—that is happening now. You seem kind. You seem reasonable. Surely you understand that I have rights. But I have been kidnapped off of the street like some animal—like some inanimate object. I ask to be set free. Please.” She did not care what the French slave trader thought of her sudden change of nationality.

Jebal’s gaze wavered.

The bashaw laughed. “This one is fire, Jebal. I want her for you. Zohara. The name suits her well. She will breed you fierce, red-haired sons.”

The Frenchman gripped Alex’s wrist hard, but smiled and
spoke to the bashaw. “She is a wild one, my lord, and I am sure she will please you and your son to no end once you have tamed her and taught her her place. In time, she will understand how she must behave now that she is in Tripoli.”

“Yes, certainly.” The bashaw’s eyes glinted. “An American woman. How fitting, eh?”

Alex was in shock over the bashaw’s statement that she would breed sons for Jebal. And she did not like the look now smoldering in the bashaw’s eyes.

“She is different,” Jebal mused, staring at Alex. “I have never seen a woman this bold, this fierce—or this beautiful.”