Captive (15 page)

Rais Jovar had refused to discuss a ransom. Xavier brooded upon this. He understood that Peter Cameron wished to humiliate him and punish him for the numerous times his Tripolitan cruisers had suffered defeat at Xavier’s hands. But surely in time the rais would grow tired of this game and realize that a rich ransom for a captain and his crew was far more worthy than petty revenge. Or maybe not.

In any case, Xavier would use this interlude to his advantage. He was inside Tripoli. There was much information to be gained. He had already memorized the layout of the fortifications surrounding the harbor, analyzing the firepower of those battlements, and he had also made a rough estimate of the strength of the bashaw’s navy. From inside Tripoli, he could wreak much damage on the bashaw in this war. Xavier smiled grimly.

Being a captive was not so bad. Not when his first interest was avenging Robert’s death.

Xavier felt the familiar stabbing of pain whenever he thought of his younger brother, whom he had adored. And with the pain there was so much guilt.

He should have captained the
Sarah
on her last journey. He should have died in Robert’s place.

And the worst of it was that they had never found his body. Robert had jumped ship along with his crew as the ship exploded. Only a quarter of the crew had been picked up by the corsairs. The rest had drowned.

Robert was never coming home. And no amount of revenge would ever change that.

A bolt was lifted from outside the heavy wooden door of Xavier’s cell, jerking him from his morbid, depressing thoughts. His body tensed. Xavier faced the door as it opened. Rais Jovar smiled at him unpleasantly. Two heavily armed janissaries stood behind him. “Come, American dog.”

Xavier ignored the insult, shuffling forward, which was all the movement his chains would allow. “Where are we going, Peter?”

Jovar stopped in midstride. His blue eyes blazed. “Peter no longer exists.” He smiled his icy cold smile again. “The bashaw wishes to see you.”

Xavier stiffened. An instant later his eyes narrowed, and exultation swept through him.

Xavier was not expecting a feast.

Jovar lead him through the cool, dark palace, past large rooms decorated with intricate mosaics, colorful rugs, and stunning tapestries. Everywhere Xavier looked he glimpsed blooming gardens replete with marble benches and water fountains. They entered another huge, high-ceilinged, domed room. Marble stairs at one end led to the bashaw’s dais, while a large, open courtyard rested at the hall’s other end. The hall was filled with fifty or sixty people, not including slaves and servants.

The bashaw sat upon a gilded throne on the raised dais. His clothing was resplendent, for he wore layers of silks and velvets, each layer designed to reveal the intricate stitching and embroidery of the gown beneath. His outermost coat, which was sleeveless and floor length, was heavily encrusted with gems and pearls. His turban had a huge diamond brooch pinned in the center. Three men stood beside the dais and just below it. The youngest one, almost too pretty, was also fantastically dressed, wearing a huge turban with a diamond brooch. Xavier guessed him to be the bey of Tripoli, the bashaw’s only son and heir, Jebal.

A feast had been laid out on the long, low table in the center of the room. Splendidly clad guests, all male and Moslem, were already partaking of various fish and vegetable dishes; Xavier also sniffed succulent lamb. He had not eaten in two days and his stomach roiled loudly.

The bashaw stood, grinning widely, as Jovar moved Xavier
forward through the many attendant slaves, most of whom were black and wearing nothing but vests over their bare torsos, with loose trousers. Gold slave collars gleamed against their ebony skin. Xavier noted that they were barefoot.

Other slaves were Moors. Scanning the room, Xavier noted that several bedouins were present. As he sighted their pale, flowing robes and headdresses, Xavier’s pulse leapt. Foolishly, because he knew the woman with the intense eyes would never dare appear in the bashaw’s hall in disguise, much less within the palace.

“Get down on your knees, dog,” Jovar said, his blue eyes frigid.

Xavier glanced coolly at the Scot who had given up his country and his religion in order to war upon the Christian world for the bashaw of Tripoli and gold. Jovar slammed him in the shoulder. Xavier fell to his knees.

“No, no, you may rise,” the bashaw said in accented English. “Captain Blackwell, please, rise.”

With some difficulty because of his chained wrists, Xavier stood. His hooded gaze met the bashaw’s gleaming black eyes.

“Remove the irons, Jovar,” the bashaw said jovially. He was still smiling at Xavier, who did not smile back. What did the bashaw want? Unfortunately, Xavier could guess.

Jovar snapped out a command, and the two soliders with him quickly divested Xavier of his bonds. Xavier did not rub his raw wrists. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, inclining his head. It took great will for him to address this barbarian thief, this greedy criminal, this violent murderer, as a royal personage.

The bashaw put his arm around Xavier. “Come, let us eat, let us drink. We have much to celebrate, you and I.”

Xavier allowed the bashaw to guide him to the end of the table, where they sat down on velvet cushions together, flanked by the two other men. The bashaw turned, introducing his son. He then offhandedly introduced his minister of state, Farouk, a fat man who sat across from Xavier. Farouk stared at Xavier. His eyes were coolly assessing—the eyes of a clever, manipulative man.

Slaves were already filling his glass with aqua vitae, a locally brewed alcoholic spirit, his cup with coffee, and his plate with roasted vegetables, exotic grains, and pit-roasted lamb.
Although close to starving, Xavier did not reach for the food.

“Please, eat,” the bashaw said affably, breaking off apiece of flat, round bread and dipping it into a vegetable dish. He stuffed it into his mouth, smiling. Tomato remained on his beard.

Xavier began to eat, determined to replenish his body. He was aware that many stares kept coming his way, but he ignored them. He did not drink the aqua vitae.

“Does our fare please you, Captain?”

Xavier jerked to meet the brown-green eyes of the bashaw’s son, Jebal. His gaze appeared somewhat sympathetic. “The food is delicious,” he said, without expression. “I am, of course, hungry.”

“I hope you will not blame us eternally for the rude welcome you received upon arriving on our shores,” Jebal said affably. “We are trying hard now to make amends, as you can see.”

“Grudges are for fools,” Xavier said. “Will my men receive amends, as well?”

Farouk spoke before Jebal could reply. “Anything is possible, Captain.”

Xavier did not smile. He resumed eating until he had finished a second plate. An attractive, young female slave removed his plate.

“We have many beautiful slaves here,” Farouk commented.

Xavier realized that he had eyed the girl’s barely clad body. A pair of green eyes came to his mind. “I have been at sea a long time,” he said cautiously. Did they think to entice him with women? The idea was laughable.

“There is much we have here in Tripoli,” Farouk said.

Xavier met his regard and said nothing.

Farouk stared unblinkingly. “We are rich here in Tripoli.”

Xavier forced a small smile. Tripoli was rich because they plundered at will. Tripoli was built on other men’s gold, on other men’s blood. “Yes, you have a very rich land.”

Farouk continued eating.

The bashaw grinned and belched. “Good food, eh? Makes a man happy, yes?”

“Very good, thank you,” Xavier said politely.

“We are so sorry for the mistake which placed you in the
bedestan
today,” the bashaw said.

Xavier nodded, knowing the bashaw lied.

“Tripoli. A land of slaves, gold, and sunshine.” The bashaw smiled widely. “Have you ever been here before, Captain Blackwell?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”
But my brother died here,
he thought. He refused to entertain the quick slabbing of grief.

“But you know our coast so well.”

“Pilots can be bought.”

“Ah yes, gold can buy anything, everything, can it not?” The bashaw gestured expansively.

Xavier wondered if the bashaw had bought Fernandez, paying him to lead them into an ambush. He did not think so. He wasn’t sure who his worst enemy was. Farouk seemed clever enough to arrange such a plot. Jovar had equal motive, and greater lust. Or, perhaps, he had been sabotaged from more distant shores.

“You are by far the best captain these seas have ever seen,” the bashaw continued.

Jovar slammed down his knife. He was seated just across the table from Xavier and he glowered murderously.

Xavier did not respond.

“Jovar, you understand, is not from Tripoli. He is from Scotland.”

Xavier listened.

“He was once a captive, as you now are. But he chose to embrace the Moslem faith and he has since married one of my daughters,” the bashaw continued. “He has a big house, many slaves, horses, concubines. He has many jewels and much gold and silver—and an entire fleet to command.”

Xavier folded his arms.

“A good life, eh, Jovar? Fifteen percent of every prize is directly his,” the bashaw stated.

“A very good life.” Jovar looked at Xavier. “We want you to join us, Blackwell. You will lack for nothing.” His expression did not match his words.

Xavier would never turn renegade, forsaking his country, his kin, and his faith, not in a hundred years, but he could not say so yet.

And a double cross was not possible. The bashaw would never put him to sea with his crew, in which case they could simply escape. He’d sail after his own people with a crew of
Turks, closely watched. If he did not perform as a true renegade, he would quickly be incarcerated, or worse. “I will have to consider your offer,” Xavier said dispassionately. “I will do so carefully.”

The bashaw was pleased. He clapped his hands. “We shall find you a rich Moslem wife,” he promised. “After you embrace Islam. And I shall personally oversee the construction of a large home for you. You may command the vessel of your choosing.” The bashaw smiled. It reached his dark eyes.

Jovar glowered.

Xavier managed a smile. “A very enticing proposal,” he said.

The bashaw folded his arms and grunted. “Consider it swiftly, Captain.”

Jovar leaned forward. “While you are considering whether to turn renegade or not, keep in mind the alternatives.” His blue eyes flashed.

Xavier stared into Jovar’s eyes. Jovar’s smile widened and he turned and lifted a manacle from behind. He dangled it from his hand, which was badly scarred.

Xavier understood. The alternative was to remain in captivity, to become enslaved. For how long could he put the bashaw off? And in the interim, could he accomplish what he must—a ransom for his men and any Intelligence gathering that would help his country destroy Tripoli’s sea power? And how could he engender his own release—or escape? “I understand,” Xavier said.

“Good,” Jovar laughed.

“Now there will be music and dancing,” the bashaw said, clapping his hands loudly.

Xavier’s eyes widened as two beautiful girls entered the room. They were no more than thirteen or fourteen, olive skinned with long black hair, their bodies slim and coltish. He could not help but stare. They were more naked than clothed. Each wore transparent gauze trousers and small, beaded vests. An opaque triangle of cloth hid their loins, but barely, from public view, and they began to sway to the strains of a stringed instrument.

He forced his expression to remain neutral. Whores who were little more than children existed all over the world, but he found it appalling.

All the men at the table were watching the two dancers. Jebal leaned across the table and touched Xavier’s arm. “They are slaves. But eager to please. We can send one to warm you tonight, or both of them if you prefer.”

“No, thank you.”

“You wish to choose a different woman?” Jebal asked, his smile friendly.

Xavier waited a moment before responding. “In my country, we do not lie with women so young. It is forbidden.”

“Really?” Jebal laughed. “Here a virgin is a great prize—the greatest prize, actually, A man will pay much gold to lie with one.”

“Virgins have no skill,” Xavier remarked.

“A good point,” Jebal laughed.

Farouk interjected, “Let him choose whom he wants.”

Xavier looked up and met Farouk’s black eyes. How opaque they were.

“Unless you do not wish a woman,” Farouk said blandly.

“Perhaps he prefers boys,” Jebal laughed. “Shall we send you a boy, Blackwell?”

He thought again about the Moslem woman who had been disguised as a bedouin in the slave market. “I do not like boys. Although I understand that here many men prefer boys—and guard their male lovers more jealously than their wives.”

Jovar stiffened. “In some cases that is true. I myself have four concubines—all of them young and female.”

“How good for you,” Xavier said coolly.

“Please, this bickering is unseemly,” Jebal cried.

“Enough, Jovar,” the bashaw growled. His fist hit the table, knocking over a glass, which broke. A slave hurried forward to repair the mess. The bashaw said, “Send him women. Let him choose. We are giving you new quarters, Captain Blackwell. I want you to be pleased.”

Xavier bowed his head.

A
LEX PACED HER
chamber. Her heart was in her throat. She had watched the entire feast in the bashaw’s hall from the women’s room and she was frantic.

The bashaw was sending slave girls to his chamber even now. And Blackwell was going to choose one of them.

It should be her. It could be her—if she dared to disguise herself as a slave girl and go.

But Alex was terrified.

She was finally facing reality. He was a strong, virile male, a nineteenth-century man, and he might have made eye contact with her in the
bedestan,
but he did not know that she was his destiny—that she had traveled through time in order to find him. She wanted to be with him, she did. She had waited for this moment for a very long time. She had traveled back in time almost two hundred years in order to do so. But various scenarios were flipping rapidly through Alex’s mind. He would think her a mere slave girl. Would he make love to her on the spot?