Captive (38 page)

Tears streamed down her face. Alex slumped in his arms. Her heart felt shredded, ripped in two, torn out of her chest. She looked up, her tears blinding her. The dust of the street choked her, adding to the surrealism of the scene.

But the marching band of prisoners was in the distance now. Alex fought to see. But he was gone.

She collapsed, weeping.

And only Murad saw Jovar staring down at them from where he was mounted on horseback on the edge of the crowd.

Tripoli

May 1804

“S
HE WILL DIE
.”

Absolute silence greeted the physician’s words.

Then Murad moved past the small Turk in his voluminous robes. Swiftly he sat beside Alex on her bed, taking both of her hands in his. She lay limp, her face waxen. She had been unconscious since last night. Murad closed his eyes.
Alex could not die!

“She will not die,” Jebal said, blocking the doctor’s path. He was grim and pale. “She cannot die. I will not allow it.”

The bearded physician shrugged helplessly. He was also white beneath his dark coloring. He had been the first physician called in to diagnose Alex six months ago, when her lethargy had become so great that she refused to get out of bed. Since then, Jebal had paraded every physician from Tripoli to Tunis before his second wife.

“You have seen for yourself how she has grown weaker and weaker every day since last fall when I first examined her,” the small Moor said. “I still suspect poison to be the culprit, but if so, what kind of poison is it? Unless we can find out, and quickly, we shall never be able to administer the antidote in time. And how has it been given? The slave swears no one could have dosed your wife.”

Tears slipped down Murad’s cheeks. His heart beat hard.
Please, Allah, let her live,
he prayed.
Take my soul and body instead.
He would gladly sacrifice himself for his mistress, the only woman he had ever loved, a woman who was also his best friend.

Jebal clenched his fists. “This cannot be happening!”

“She is not in pain,” the physician offered.

“If you cannot heal her, then leave!” Jebal shouted suddenly. “All of you are frauds! Every single physician I have brought here is worthless! And I am not paying you another ingot of gold!”

The man picked up his medical bag and walked away, At the door he murmured a brief prayer. “Remember, my lord, Allah welcomes her with open arms.”

Jebal gritted his teeth hard and the Moslem doctor fled.

Murad stood, brushing his eyes with his fist. He knew that poison was not the root of Alex’s illness. He knew that Blackwell’s disappearance—and probable death—were the cause. For one month after being sent to the mines, he had vanished.

But Tripoli had already been in an uproar. The bashaw had been enraged that the
Pearl
had been destroyed. Jovar, Farouk, and Jebal had all been publicly chastised. Punishments had been meted out. The bashaw refused to summon Farouk, Jovar was temporarily relieved of his command, and Jebal was sent into the desert with a troop of janissaries, ostensibly to attack the roving tribes of Kabyles.

And then the news had come regarding Blackwell’s escape. An escape that should have been impossible. Alex and Murad had spied on the conference held shortly afterward. The bashaw and Jebal, newly returned home, had interviewed the guards. They swore that Blackwell had escaped, alone. But no one had ever escaped the mines, and the reinstated Farouk was suspicious. He thought that Blackwell had been secretly killed and disposed of. Alex had almost fainted when Farouk spoke—his words directed at Rais Jovar.

And Alex had waited and waited for some word from him, a sign that he was free and alive. No word had come. Alex had sent letters to Boston, and even to Preble himself. Preble had not heard from Blackwell. Xavier’s father had finally responded. He did not know where his son was—or if he was
alive. William Blackwell begged Alex to notify him if she heard from him—or of him—first.

That letter had changed everything. Alex, already anxious and overwrought, had retreated into herself. By the new year she had refused to leave her room, and soon after, her bed. Murad knew that Alex loved the other man so much that she no longer wished to live now that it was obvious that he was dead. How simple it was. “My lord?”

Jebal turned. “If she dies, you may very well die with her,” Jebal said harshly.

Murad met his gaze. “If she dies, I will die anyway,” Murad said.

Jebal started. “What do you wish to say, Murad?”

Before Murad could speak, an infant’s mewling cry came from outside. Jebal jerked, turning toward the sound. The windows in Alex’s bedchamber were shuttered; the room was shrouded in shadow, and filled with a cloyingly sweet incense. “Paulina’s son was born two days ago,” Jebal said harshly. “But I have hardly noticed. There is no joy for me, only great sorrow. I cannot lose my dearest wife. This is impossible.”

Murad did not respond. He looked at Alex lying so lifelessly on the bed. This was not his mistress. His mistress was a woman of fire and ideas, of courage and conviction.

“Well?” Jebal demanded. The baby boy, two days old, had ceased crying. Birdsong filled the dark, shuttered chamber, a room reeking of death.

But again Murad was interrupted. Both men looked up as Zoe appeared on the threshold of the room. “Has she awoken yet?”

Jebal’s face tightened. “No.”

Zoe’s face remained expressionless. She glided forward and pressed against Jebal. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.

Jebal shook her off. “If I ever learn that you were the one to poison Zohara, I shall behead you myself.”

Zoe shrank, her eyes widening. “I did no such thing! I swear to you on the Koran that I have had nothing to do with Zohara’s death!”

“She is not dead yet,” Jebal cried.

Zoe finally regarded Alex, lying on the bed. “She looks dead.”

Murad trembled. His frustration and anger coiled, seedling; he wanted to strike Zoe down. Jebal snarled, “Leave.”

Zoe paled slightly. Licking her lips, she sent one last glance toward Alex, then she turned and crossed the room. Her back was to Jebal, but Murad saw her face. She was smiling slightly, clearly pleased—triumphant.

If Alex lived, Zoe would have to be dealt with. Her hatred for Alex had grown instead of diminishing. Clearly she nursed a vendetta against Murad’s mistress. But it was not Alex’s fault that Jebal never summoned Zoe to his bed anymore. He had gone through a series of new concubines in the past year. He had been too angry to pressure Alex about their relationship in the first weeks after his return from the desert, and then Alex’s sickness had become apparent.

Murad faced Jebal. “There is a bedouin woman. She has the sight, and she has strong magic. If anyone can save Lilli Zohara, I believe it is her.”

“So be it. I am desperate, for I do not think Zohara will last another night.” Jebal turned and walked onto the galleria. Thanking Allah for Jebal’s permission, Murad abruptly left the room. He would retrieve the bedouin witch immediately.

And if the old woman failed to save Alex from the afterlife? It struck Murad then that he could follow her into the next world, too.

She was a small woman with a surprisingly round and pleasant face. She wore a dozen amulets and carried a satchel smelling of spices and herbs. Her robes were colorful and clean. The outermost garment was bright red, clasped over one shoulder and belted. The moment she entered Alex’s chamber, she paced the perimeter, not even looking at the dying woman. Murad and Jebal stood by the door, side by side, watching with doubt and apprehension.

The woman finally reached into her satchel and sprinkled herbs in her wake.

The bedouin paused in the center of the room, finally gazing at Alex. She stood utterly still, her dark eyes intense and bright.

“Well?” Jebal asked impatiently and not without a little skepticism. “I brought you here to treat my wife. They say you can heal anyone. Will you not cast a spell upon her?”

“I rarely cast spells,” the woman said, piercing Jebal with
a look. Then her intense black eyes lanced Murad. “I will tell you what you wish to know.”

Murad started.

“She does not suffer from poison, but from grief. She is willing herself to die.”

Jebal gasped.

The woman looked around the chamber again, then straight at Murad. “There is evil lurking here, as well. As you have known all along.”

Murad licked his lips. “Yes.”

“More than one force. Beware, Murad. Protect both her and yourself.”

“What is she talking about?” Jebal demanded.

The bedouin faced him. “Your wife has many enemies.”

“You have said that she wasn’t poisoned.”

“That is right.” The bedouin walked over to Alex, staring at her pale, almost peaceful face. She held both of her palms in the air, face down, over Alex’s face and chest. Slowly she lowered her hands until she had placed them on the ill woman. Her expression had tightened with intense concentration.

“What are you doing?” Jebal asked.

She did not reply. She was sweating.

Murad watched her, praying. He was perspiring, too.

Finally the old woman removed her hands and collapsed on the foot of the bed. “She will live. I have returned her soul to her.”

“Her soul was gone?” Jebal cried, turning a ghastly shade of white.

“Half of her soul was gone,” the old woman said. She regarded Murad. “Gone but not dead. I have returned her faith. She will live now. Her will is very strong.”

Chills raced up and down Murad’s spine. He had the uncanny sense that she was somehow referring to Blackwell.

The bedouin said, “I will give you a special tea. Force her to drink it for a week, three drops every hour. She will wake up tomorrow. In a few days she will be able to get up from her bed.” The woman passed her hand over Alex’s forehead, briefly touching her. “This woman has a very strong destiny.”

Murad closed his eyes, shaking. He already believed, for the most part, that Alex was a time traveler from the future. “Her destiny?” he whispered dryly.

But the bedouin woman stood and walked to the door. Fortunately Jebal only glanced at Murad before going to Alex and covering her hands with his. He knelt beside her and began to pray softly.

Murad turned to look at Alex. Oddly enough, her color seemed better, a little bit pink now, less waxen.
She has a very strong destiny.

The bracelets on the old woman’s wrists and ankles jingled softly, causing Murad to turn. She had paused, and again she gazed only at Murad, steadily. “Her journey has only just begun,” she said.

Murad remained still, a dozen questions flashing through his mind, his eyes wide. Jebal’s softly murmured praying filled the room. Murad could not move.

“Stay with her, aid her, protect her,” the bedouin said. Then, her gaze very black, she added softly, “He will return.”

And she was gone. Murad stared after her, breathless and shaken. He had no doubt about the bedouin’s meaning. Blackwell would return.

Alex woke up slowly, in stages.

She did not want to wake up. Because she was dreaming, and in her dream she was with Blackwell. They stood together on the bow of the
Pearl
as it cut through the swells of the sea. His arm was around her. The wind and the water sprayed their faces. Xavier turned and pulled her close. His mouth sought hers.

The kiss was not violent or devouring. It was very, very tender.

Alex clung to his hard, broad shoulders, half-aware that she was dreaming—even though it felt so real. Her temples were pounding. Alex moaned. She had a splitting headache, a hammer pounding inside of the front of her head so forcefully that she could barely stand it. The fog engendered by sleep lifted.

She
was
dreaming. Blackwell was gone. He had been sent to the mines, where he had vanished, while she remained a captive in Tripoli. A captive and Jebal’s wife.

Her headache somehow increasing, Alex blinked and focused on her surroundings. Her bedchamber was dark and shadowed and filled with an orange-scented incense. Her back ached. Her legs felt numb. How long had she been sleeping?

And did it matter? Farouk and everyone else thought that Blackwell was dead—murdered. Alex waited for the terrible pain to swarm up from deep inside her chest and overwhelm her. But it did not come.

“Alex? Are you awake?” A strong, callused hand stroked her brow.

“Murad,” she gasped, her eyes fluttering open.
Blackwell
was
not dead.
The voice was there suddenly, inside of her head. Blackwell was not dead! Alex didn’t know how she knew it, but she did, with her entire heart and soul, with every fiber of her being. “Murad!” She smiled tremulously at him.

He caressed her cheek. “Praise Allah that you live, Alex, for you almost died.”

Instantly her mind blazed to life. “I have been sick.”

“Very. You willed yourself to die, Alex.” Murad’s eyes filled with tears. “How could you do such a thing?”

She reached for and found his hand. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Don’t cry. Murad.”

He brushed his bare forearm over his eyes and smiled somewhat shakily at her. “You frightened me—us—very badly, Alex.”

“Us?”

“Jebal has been here night and day.”

Alex didn’t want to remember, but she did. Their relationship hardly remained amicable. She was afraid of what the future might now hold. “Is he still angry with me? I would have thought he would be glad to be rid of me.”

“I believe that, in spite of your behavior, he does love you.”

She inhaled. She could not cope with that concept now. “I am very weak.”

“You will be well in a few more days.” He smiled reassuringly at her.

“And Blackwell? Has there been any word?” Alex asked eagerly.

Murad’s smile faded. “There has been no word, Alex.”

Alex stared, her smile gone. “He isn’t dead, Murad. He still lives. I know it.”

Murad hesitated. “I don’t want to raise your hopes falsely, Alex.”