Captive (24 page)

“This will give us the gold we need to get inside the bagnio.”

Murad closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were filled with apprehension. “If Jebal ever finds out, he will kill you himself.”

Alex did not listen. Now she had the means to bribe her way into the bagnio, and maybe even to bribe Blackwell’s way out.

“Perhaps we should get rid of her.”

Paulina lounged naked in the large sunken bath that was at one end of the garden, shaded by huge palm trees. It was a beautiful, star-clad evening. “Who?”

Zoe, also nude, sat on the stone steps beside her, eating figs. “Whom do you think?
Her.”

Paulina followed Zoe’s glance. The two women watched
Alex walking, head down, along a graveled path. The iridescent red gilet shimmered in the lights cast by the moon and the garden’s torches. “What is she wearing?” Paulina cried with obvious jealousy.

“Jebal spent a fortune clothing her for this night,” Zoe said, her gaze narrowed.

“I don’t understand,” the fifteen-year-old Italian concubine said. “What is so special about tonight?”

Zoe felt like killing Paulina, as she usually did. But she knew that she was lucky that Jebal’s current favorite was so stupid. “Tonight Jebal and Zohara celebrate their first wedding anniversary. Jebal is finally going to take the American to bed.” The entire palace knew, and was giggling over the fact. Bets were being waged as well, discreetly, of course, and almost exclusively amongst the captives, as to what the outcome would be this night. The Koran forbade gambling.

Zoe had placed a wager with her lover. If she lost, she would still win. And if she won … She smiled, licking her lips, her sex already swelling.

“Oh.” Paulina scowled, lazily pawing the water with one hand.

“Don’t you care?”

Paulina tossed her damp head. “Why should I? She is old. And skinny. Jebal will soon lose interest in her.”

“Paulina, little sister, dear. Zohara is his
wife.”

“I know
that,”
Paulina said with impatience. “But when he tires of her he will divorce her.”

“How confident you are,” Zoe murmured. And how dumb. Zohara was very clever. She was up to no good. Zoe had yet to learn why she was in Tripoli, or how she had, precisely, come to be a captive there. Zoe doubted she was a spy. She thought that Zohara had a past she wished to hide. Her intuition told her that. Revealing Zohara’s past would be very interesting,
Zoe
was sure. Interesting and fun. She had no doubt that it would hurt, dismay, or infuriate Jebal. Zohara might be clever, but she was not as clever as Zoe, and Zoe was quite sure of it.

“Jebal is too kind to divorce her, Paulina,” Zoe said with remarkable patience. “He would only do so under the most extreme circumstances.”

Paulina ducked under the water and came up shaking her
head, water flying. “Well, I hardly care. He is allowed two more wives.”

Zoe stared. The hairs on her nape actually rose. She swallowed the growl that filled her throat. “I beg your pardon, dear,” she said sweedy. “But what does that have to do with Jebal and Zohara?”

Paulina smiled. “The reason I have reminded you of that is because that means he can marry me.”

Zoe almost burst out laughing. She absolutely knew that Jebal would never, ever marry the stupid Italian girl. In fact, she gave him three more months at the most before he cast her aside in favor of someone newer, younger, fresher. It was the way of men, the way of the world.

“Do you think she sleeps with her slave?” Paulina suddenly asked.

Zoe jerked, swiveled, and followed Paulina’s gaze. Murad was hurrying after Zohara, who was almost out of sight. Zoe stared. “Whatever made you say that?” But it was a fact of life in the harem. Many ladies took their eunuchs as lovers. Some, like Masa, Zoe’s slave, were truly formidable lovers.

“Murad is the handsomest slave I have ever seen,” Paulina remarked, sighing. “Have you ever looked into his eyes? They are not even gray, but silver. It is such a shame that he was castrated.”

They were so close. The entire palace knew them to be inseparable. Zoe stared across the gardens, but Zohara and Murad were now gone. And she smiled.

“Perhaps it is true,” she murmured. “We must find out. And if it is true, I do not think Jebal will be very pleased, do you?”

“Of course, he would be furious,” Paulina replied, shrugging. She stood. Water cascaded down her narrow shoulders, between her full breasts, and down her long, coltish legs. “I am hungry,” she announced. Her slave came forward, a young, ugly German girl. Paulina stood still while the chunky girl toweled her dry and wrapped her in a robe. “Are you coming?”

“No,” Zoe replied. She popped half of a fig into her mouth and sucked on it.

Zoe watched as Paulina walked away, attended by her slave.
Then, beyond Paulina, she saw her own slave returning to her—and he was not alone. Zoe was so excited that she stood, her eyes bright. “Masa! What has taken you so long?” she cried, indifferent to her nudity.

Masa hung his head. “I apologize, my lady. The old woman refused to be rushed.” His dark body gleamed with sweat. He was clad in nothing but a pair of trousers and a slave collar. He was a huge African man.

A very old bedouin woman stepped forward, staring closely at Zoe’s face. Her black eyes were piercing in their intensity.

Zoe was repulsed. She was not just ancient, she was also fat, and her face hung in tiers of flesh. Worse, the old woman’s eyes appeared to be black holes. But not empty black holes, rather, they were like black holes of fire and knowledge. Zoe took a step backward as Masa placed a robe around her. Zoe tied the sash, her gaze locked with the bedouin’s, aware of the rapid beating of her heart.

“Is it true?” she finally demanded. “That you know the past—and can see the future?”

“Danger. Blood. Fire. Death,” the woman said.

Zoe flinched. “What are you rambling about? I will pay you well. Tell me all about this woman who calls herself Alexandra Thornton.”

The old woman stared at Zoe out of burning eyes. “You must beware,” she said.

Zoe frowned, stamping her foot. “I want to know about Jebal’s other wife!”

The old woman’s expression did not change. “I have warned you, then. So be it.”

Zoe scowled. Danger? Blood? Fire? Death? That was life in Tripoli. The old crone made no sense.

“She is Alexandra Thornton. She is like no woman—or man—you have ever known. She is not from this time. She is from a place far away, a big country, across many oceans. She has come to Tripoli to find a man.”

Zoe’s pulse raced. She stared, filled with questions and swept with excitement. “She is from America,” she murmured. “I do not understand. Why is she different? What do you mean—that she is from another time?”

The old bedouin squinted. “She is from another time. She
is not one of us. She will never be one of us. She will not remain in Tripoli.”

Zoe quickly absorbed that last fact. “How can she be from another time? There is no other time!”

“She is from the future. From many years ahead of us.”

Zoe gaped. “You are not making sense,” she cried, growing angry. The future? That was ridiculous! Then, “What man has she come here to find?”

The crone did not hesitate. “The ship captain from this land called America. The man now consigned to the bagnio. The man calling himself Xavier Blackwell.”

T
HE SUN HADN’T
risen when the guards entered the compound and began roughly waking up the prisoners.

Xavier was awake. He had not been able to do more than doze last night in spite of his exhaustion. Alexandra’s betrayal had haunted him.

And with it, the question why.

He lay motionless now, eyes open, listening to the Turkish soldiers snapping out commands. Several of the Turks nudged various captives with their booted feet. More than a few men received full-fledged kicks and cried out in protest and pain.

Xavier lay on a hard straw mat in the crowded courtyard, like everyone else—except for those fortunate few who had the means with which to pay off Kadar and ‘rent’ cubbyhole rooms or the right to sleep on the terrace above them.

He rose cautiously to his feet in time to see Timmy kicked viciously in the shoulder. The boy had been sleeping; he cried out. The Turk, a small man with crooked teeth, met Xavier’s gaze and grinned. Xavier straightened, eyeing the scimitar that the Turk held loosely in his hand. He had to fight the violent urge to attack the janissary; but he would quickly be beaten to a pulp, and in the end no one would gain. Had he not told his men to resist all provocation? He had an example to set, no matter how difficult it might be.

The Turk laughed and turned his back on Xavier.

Xavier moved to Timmy, who was holding his shoulder, his blue eyes filled with tears of humiliation and pain. Xavier laid his palm gently on the boy’s back. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked softly.

Timmy nodded, but his eyes were bewildered. “Them bastards like to be mean. I did nothing. I hate ‘em!”

“Yes, they do like to be mean,” Xavier agreed. Behind Timmy, he could see the arches at the far end of the bagnio, and the night sky beyond that. Stars still winked from the inky blue-blackness, which melted into the dark, rippling sea. The prisoners were mumbling now, mostly complaints. Not only were Xavier’s thirty-five crew members present, but about a hundred other slaves of various European nationalities. The compound was overcrowded and unpleasant.

Tubbs came up to Xavier and Timmy, holding out a small loaf of bread and a small wooden bowl that contained a few spoonfuls of red wine vinegar. “Breakfast,” he said bitterly.

Xavier glanced from the meager meal to the soldiers distributing the morning’s fare. And each and every slave would be expected to work a full day on such rations. Most of the captives were seriously emaciated. Many had vacant eyes. It was insane, inhumane. He had to free his men. Soon. But first the
Pearl
must be destroyed.

Everyone ate their bread and vinegar quickly, silently. Xavier gave half of his loaf to Timmy, regretting now that he had shared the Frenchman’s bowl of soup last night. He felt guilty for having had the single morsel of lamb and the three spoonfuls of vegetables and the half cup of broth.

Kadar stepped out of the vaulted tunnel. His glance roamed the men and settled abruptly on Xavier. Xavier could not read the large man’s dark eyes. For a moment they stared impassively at one another, and then Kadar turned to his soldiers, nodding. The soldiers stepped forward, brandishing whips without using them.
“Tout le monde!
Everyone!
Saree! Delwatee!”

Xavier moved forward with Timmy and Tubbs, all of the slaves herded together tightly and pushed forward into the tunnel. No one spoke. Occasionally a whip cracked and a laggard cried out. Xavier moved closer to Timmy, shielding him with his body. In unspoken agreement, Tubbs closed ranks on the boy’s other side.

Outside, the sky was still dark, but it was turning gray now and lightening. Streaks of pink cut across the horizon. The slaves were marched through the dozing city and then through one of the city gates. Xavier’s bare feet were callused, but not sufficiently, and the road was stony and pitted with sharp shells. The soles of his feet quickly became bruised and cut. He ignored it, but grimly noticed that Timmy was already limping, as were many of his crew.

His thoughts drifted in the silence of the dawn. Alexandra Thornton. Jebal’s second wife. Had Jebal sent her to him to seduce him, perhaps to entice him to turn Turk? Or to ferret out information?

A whip cracked. Someone cried out.

Xavier turned instinctively. A tall, thin slave had fallen behind the group, and Xavier turned now just in time to see the laggard receive another whiplash on his bare, sun-blackened back. The man fell to his knees. A soldier moved forward to whip him again.

Xavier left Timmy, moving quickly backward. He heard a soldier on his periphery shouting at him, but he ignored it. The slave, a pitiful wreck of skin and bones, was on all fours. “Don’t whip him,” Xavier called out to the soldier who stood behind the slave and was raising his whip. And then, from behind, he heard the harsh crack of a lash, and an instant later it burned across his bare back. Xavier grunted.

Another whip cracked, pain seared across Xavier’s shoulders, and this time he was driven abruptly to his knees. Gravel, dirt, and shells dug into his bones.

“Stop it, stop it!” he heard Timmy screaming shrilly.

Xavier was but a few yards from the slave who remained on his hands and knees, apparently without the strength or will to get up and go on. Their gazes met. The slave was a Spaniard of indeterminate years, perhaps middle-aged, and he regarded Xavier blankly. Thick white hair fell into his unfocused, hopeless eyes. “I’ll help you,” Xavier said.

The Spaniard stared at Xavier as if he hadn’t heard him—as if he didn’t even see him.

Xavier pushed himself to his feet. The effort hurt his back, but he refrained from crying out. He half turned and then regretted it as he heard the whip again. Before he could duck,
the lash razor-cut his shoulder and his cheek. Xavier inhaled sharply, biting the inside of his own cheek.

Kadar came forward. “Get back with the others.”

Xavier straightened, not touching his face, which was bleeding. “He cannot make it. He is too weak to walk, much less work. He needs a doctor urgently.”

Kadar stared at him, his black eyes unblinking. “Get back with the others.” His tone was far calmer than before.

“If you won’t send him to a doctor,” Xavier said, knowing Kadar would not, “let me help him. I will carry him the rest of the way.”

“He is going to die. Leave him. We can replace him immediately. Get back with the others.”

“I want to help him,” Xavier said quietly—firmly.

This time, Kadar was silent.

Xavier turned to go to the slave, who remained on all fours. He heard the whip and tensed, but was unprepared nevertheless for the searing pain as his back was flayed yet again. Xavier knew that this time Kadar had delivered the blow himself, and he did not look back. He walked unsteadily forward.