Captive (18 page)

Reluctantly he took the small book, opened it. He stared at the dates. Dates, he could read. The calendar was for the year 1996, and there was also one for 1995 and 1997. “This is odd, but you might have had this made up,” he began. But he was wondering why on earth she would do such a thing.

“Why would I do that!” Alex cried. “You’re my best friend! I would never lie to you!”

Murad glanced at the red leather book one more time, then slowly he met Alex’s eyes. She would never deliberately lie to him. She believed what she was saying. Completely. Shivers ran up and down his spine.

And she was the most unusual woman he had ever met. But that was because she was an American.

“I am not crazy,” Alex insisted. “The reason I know so much about Tripoli is because I was studying the U.S. war with France. You know how I can always identify ships without fail? I am a naval historian. That’s why I am so familiar with different forms of sea power. While I was studying, I read about Blackwell and fell in love with him. Why won’t you believe me, Murad?” Alex cried. “You are my best friend! I wanted to tell you the truth ever since Jebal gave you to me.”

Murad could not speak. What Alex said was impossible. Nobody could travel through time, neither backward nor forward, nobody. Yet Alex believed her own fantasy, which meant she was mad. “Alex. I don’t want you to speak of this to anyone else. Promise me.”

Alex licked her lips. “The current blockade? Which Morris just ended so stupidly? It is nothing now. But by next summer Tripoli will be starving, Murad. And next summer Preble will assault the city—he’s the next commander of the United States Navy in the Mediterranean—and he is nothing like Commodore Morris! Some of the palace and much of the harbor and the city will be destroyed by Preble, Murad.”

Murad was frozen. A new thought had occurred to him. One he found infinitely frightening.

And Alex understood. “Don’t look at me that way! I am not a witch! I am from the future; I swear to you, that is the truth.” Alex jerked on his sleeve. “Listen to me. In October
the USS
Philadelphia
will run aground. The bashaw’s corsairs will attack, and its captain will surrender. He will think he has scuttled his ship, but three days later the winds will shift and the
Philadelphia
will float free—and be taken into Tripoli Harbor, an incredible prize.”

Murad did not move. Allah help us—Alex could see the future.

Alex had to wet her lips again. “On February sixteenth, 1804, the
Philadelphia
will be destroyed right here inside the harbor by the Americans, in the middle of the night.”

Or she thought that she could see the future.
Murad realized his arms were folded tightly across his chest. He was sweating. The look in Alex’s eyes, the ring of authority in her tone, had mesmerized him. Perhaps she was not a madwoman after all. Perhaps she was a prophetess. “We will see,” he finally said dryly.

“I thought you were my best friend,” Alex said with a rush of bitterness.

“I am, Alex.”

“No, you’re not. Because if you were my best friend, you would trust me—and you would believe me,” Alex flung.

“I believe that you think you are from the future, Alex,” Murad said truthfully.

“Oh, thanks! When I was captured and Jebal decided to marry me, I knew Blackwell was truly my destiny. Don’t you see? Don’t you get it? He was executed for sleeping with the wife of the bashaw’s son! And I am now Jebal’s wife. I had nothing to do with that, Murad! Jebal chose me!”

Oh God, Murad thought, if Alex could see the future, then they were all doomed. “I think that you are a soothsayer, Alex, not a witch, not insane, and that it comforts you to believe yourself a time traveler, but what you are saying is truly beginning to frighten me. You aren’t thinking about what you are saying.”

“I have done nothing but think about what I have just told you!” Alex cried fervently. “Clearly I have been sent here, have become Jebal’s wife, because Blackwell is my destiny. I love him—and he loves me—and we are supposed to be together, as lovers!”

Murad grabbed her arm. He shook her once. He himself was shaking. “Alex, don’t you understand your own words?

What you are saying is that he is going to be put to death
because of you.”

Alex froze.

Murad stared at her, hearing her labored breathing and his own roaring heartbeat. Then he said, “And what happens to you? The adulterous Moslem wife?”

She blinked. “I don’t know. I never found out.”

“If Blackwell is caught and executed because of you, you can be certain that you were executed, too. Moslem men do not forgive their wives adultery, Alex,
not ever.”

Alex did not speak at first. “We will escape. We will escape and change the future, Blackwell and I.”

“No one escapes Barbary.”

“There have been a few successful escapes over the years, and you know it,” Alex said desperately.

“A few—as in one or two.”

Alex’s face crumpled. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “This is one of the happiest moments of my life, and you are ruining it.”

“That is not what I am trying to do. I am trying to help you see reason.”

“I do see reason.”

“This prophecy,” Murad cried, ignoring her, “is not about love, it is about death!”

X
AVIER STOOD IN
one of the back palace gardens, staring past a marble water fountain. A slight sea breeze carried droplets of water which sprayed his face and chest. Xavier hardly noticed. His gaze was on the high stone wall, covered with roses, behind the fountain. Beyond that lay Tripoli Harbor.

Masts and sails spiked a vividly blue, cloudless sky; past the fortress and mole guarding the harbor’s bottleneck entrance, the Mediterranean shimmered a scintillating shade of navy blue.

But Xavier did not notice the splendid view. His thoughts remained transfixed on the American captive, Vera.

He seemed to be falling in love.

It didn’t seem possible, because they had only just met, but he had hardly slept last night, thinking about her. Xavier had never been in love before, hadn’t really thought himself the kind of man capable of that romantic emotion, but what other explanation was there for his racing heartbeat, his avid interest, his inexplicable desire? He had to be honest with himself. Vera was extraordinary, both in beauty and boldness; she was so different from all the women he had ever met, so different, so original. But perhaps he did not need an explanation for his raging, turbulent emotions. Did the poets not claim that love could not be explained?

But what should he do? And what could he do? He was,
first of all, a married man. And the fact that he did not have relations with his wife mattered not at all. He had sworn that he would take care of Sarah, and there was no other possibility. He was married, until either he or she died.

He was not a bachelor, he was not available, and he could not, in any way, pursue the American woman.

He was far more than frustrated. He was uncharacteristically bitter. Meeting her now did not seem fair. Why could they not have met a year ago, before he’d wed his wife?

And even now, he was distinctly displeased with his own impotence. He was not used to being powerless. He could not stand the notion that she was a captive—no, worse, a slave girl—present somewhere in the palace, held and used against her will, and that he could not, presently, change that fact.

But he would. He swore it to God and himself. When he left Tripoli, freed either through ransom or other means, Vera would leave with him. He would see her safely back to America—or die trying.

Xavier forced his thoughts away from her. He, his men, and his ship were all captive in Tripoli, and he must focus on changing that, not on a woman he could not, would not, ever have. Xavier squinted, his gaze settling instantly on the
Pearl,
anchored below him in the harbor.

It hurt looking at her. It hurt even more knowing what must be done.

She must be destroyed. The sooner the better, while he still had some measure of power, some small degree of freedom. But he could not destroy her alone. He needed a few good men to aid him. Earlier this morning he had sent a message to the bashaw, asking for permission to see his crew. No word had been returned to him yet. Xavier was not very optimistic. Jovar would move heaven and earth to deny him even a visit, he was quite certain.

And soon they would pressure him for his answer. And once he refused to “turn Turk,” they would throw him and his men into slavery, or worse. Xavier did not fool himself. He did not have much time in which to operate. But he would hold out as long as he could.

Xavier turned, hearing footsteps on the path behind him, expecting one of his guards, perhaps, or even Jovar, come to
taunt him. Two slaves approached. He recognized her immediately and he stiffened.

She was close enough for him to see her features, and she smiled at him.

Something was different, but his heart was beating so forcefully and he was briefly so dazed by the mere sight of her that it took him a moment to realize that her skin seemed darker than last night, her hair auburn, not red. He was confused, even suspicious, but she was stopping in front of him, smiling, her green eyes on his, and he found himself smiling back. She was far more beautiful than he recalled. “Good morning.”

“Hi,” she said. She stared up at him while he stared down at her, and the moment was filled with tension and awkwardness. “Did you sleep well last night?” she asked softly.

It was a very intimate question, surprising him. His answer was as intimate. “No. I was restless.”

She glanced away, then back. “I couldn’t sleep at all.”

Elation soared inside of him. He understood. Like himself, she had passed a sleepless night—and for the very same reason. His thoughts formed and tumbled so rapidly through his mind that they were hardly coherent, a collage of images, but they were distinctly passionate, erotic. He knew close to nothing about her. His instinct was to treat her properly. But they were both captives, held together against their will—their fates and future were uncertain. In times like these, propriety could be suspended.

He ground down his jaw. “Are you free to wander the palace?” he asked. He was just now noticing that the other slave, Murad, stood behind her and that he was all roving eyes, watching in all directions around them, and his expression was not only alert, but anxious and unhappy.

She hesitated. “No. I shouldn’t be here.”

He was angry. “You shouldn’t take unnecessary risks,” he said.

“I promised to see you today. The morning is a good time. Jebal might ask for me later, or even tonight.” She flushed.

He hated what she was saying. Passionately so. “I understand. And if he were looking for you now?”

“He never summons me before noon.” She seemed about to say more.

“What is it?”

“Ifs not what you think.”

“I am not thinking anything.” The gallant reply was automatic. “Vera, I want you to know that I will not allow you to remain behind in Tripoli when I leave.”

Her eyes widened. “You are leaving?!”

He smiled slightly because her feelings were so obvious. “One way or the other.”

She relaxed. “I understand. I want to help. I can help.” Her eyes held his. “We can escape together.”

He glanced around. “Hopefully a ransom will be arranged, making everything much simpler.”

“I don’t think so. Jovar hates you. The bashaw hates you. When you refuse to turn Turk, their hospitality will change.”

“You are as intellligent as you are beautiful.”

She smiled. “It doesn’t take a genius to know that. Xavier, we should start making plans now.”

“We?” He was amused.

“I want to help,” she repeated very firmly. “I am a smart woman. I can help. So can Murad.” She looked over her shoulder, but, except for the slave, they were alone. Her voice dropped. “Maybe we should escape immediately. There is a secret tunnel. That is how I come and go to and from the palace without anyone knowing. Now, while you have some freedom …”

“I cannot leave my men.”

She stared.

“I have other business to attend to, as well.”

“What other business?”

He smiled. “Vera, I cannot tell you all of my affairs.”

She seemed taken aback, dismayed.

“We will talk again, soon. However, there is one thing I would ask of your slave. To get a message to Neilsen from me.”

“That’s easy.”

He chuckled. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Her smile faded. “I am happy … to have met you.”

He wanted to tell her that he fell the same, but could not get the words out. He also wanted to let her know that he was married, but those words also failed him. “Tell Neilsen to request an audience with me. We need to meet, and soon. I am also concerned about my men.”

She nodded. “I’ll bet he’s already asked to see you.”

Xavier glanced behind him. They were still, remarkably, alone. “I think it is time for you to go. Before we are discovered.”

“Okay.” She suddenly reached out and touched his shoulder lightly. His cotton shirt was finely spun and he felt her caress as if she touched his naked skin. Their eyes locked. “Xavier, Vera is the name they gave me when I took the Moslem faith. My real name is Alex.”

He started.

“Actually, it’s Alexandra.” She smiled into his eyes. Hers were shining.

“Alexandra,” he said softly. “I like that.”

Alex barged into her room.

Murad was on her heels. They were both panting and breathless. He slammed the door closed. “The damnable stain,” he said tersely.

Alex followed him to her small bathing room, sinking down on the edge of the small, sunken marble bath. Murad turned on the gold shell-shaped faucets. Alex watched the water beginning to flow. It was warm, heated by natural hot springs. Her pulse was pounding. And all they had done was talk.

But he was even more striking and powerful than she remembered. And escape was on his mind—escape with her.

Murad picked up a sponge and a bar of laundry soap. “I don’t know how you persuaded me to help you.”