Captive (42 page)

Alex was, deep down, terrified that she was an utter romantic fool.

And then Alex realized that she had heard a small scratching sound outside of her door.

She froze. Recalling all the shouting they had done with absolute dread. She ran to the door and whipped it open—to find Zoe standing there. In that instant when the two women came face-to-face, Zoe smiled widely.

How much had she heard? They had been discussing escape, Preble’s war plans, and Alex’s true identity, dear God. And she had called him by name too many times to count.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Zoe said with a smirk. It was a blatant lie and they both knew it. Alex closed her eyes. She was shaking with fear. If Zoe had heard anything, Alex was as good as dead—and so was Blackwell.

M
URAD LEFT
N
EILSEN’S
, his steps brisk. But his expression was grim.

He held a sack containing Alex’s twentieth-century possessions. He detested what he held. He hated being reminded of the astonishing truth about her, and he feared the consequences of that truth being revealed. He was angry with Alex for trying to convince Blackwell that she was from the future. There was nothing to be gained, nothing except his approval, and Murad was glad Blackwell was using good sense and iron control to remain opposed to her. Murad could not help hoping that they never became lovers again, yet he also wanted Alex to be happy. More important, he wanted her alive.

And Murad had a sense of impending doom.

He kept thinking that Alex and Xavier would be discovered together in the harem, that it was inevitable. And whether or not they were caught in the throes of passion, Blackwell would meet the fate Alex was determined he avoid. Murad could not be happy about that, but his concern was protecting his own mistress. Jebal remained furious with her, and he was also suspicious. Zoe was too clever, and Murad knew she whispered lies in Jebal’s ears. Perhaps she had already learned too much. Alex had told Murad about Zoe’s eavesdropping last night. Murad was afraid that Alex was going to suffer the same fate as her lover.

At all costs, he must prevent that, and the only way was by helping her—them—escape.

Murad would move mountains in order to do so, even though the mere idea of her leaving Tripoli, forever, filled him with astoundingly intense grief.

Neilsen had just suggested to Murad that Alex and Blackwell escape sooner than planned. A Danish merchantman was expected in port any day now. Her next port of call would be Alexandria and than Constantinople. From there she would cruise to Leghorn, where it would be easy for Alex and Blackwell to rendezvous with the American navy.

She might be gone in a matter of days. It was too unbearable to contemplate. Yet circumstances were far too dangerous now for her to remain in Tripoli. Murad wanted to weep.

Instead, he looked down. The sack burned his hand. He felt like going to the harbor and tossing the entire thing into the sea. Bringing these damning possessions back to the palace added to his sense of impending doom. He did not want Alex’s belongings winding up in the wrong hands—hands that would use the truth as a weapon against her, destroying her chances of escaping—destroying her.

He shifted so he could see the shimmering sea. Just past the fortress on the mole, he saw two of the three American warships that were currently blockading Tripoli. If Alex was right, in less than three weeks Preble would begin to bombard Tripoli with his entire naval squadron.

Murad did not want to think about that, it was too frightening. But he had just given a letter to Neilsen to be forwarded to Preble. It had been written in invisible ink by Blackwell, but Murad knew what the lettter contained. While the American had informed the commodore of his well-being and presence inside the palace and his plans to escape, the letter had included a long, laborious analysis of Tripoli’s defenses.

War was in the air. Tripoli was already starving. Murad had a flashing image of cannons booming and the night raging and on fire. He did not think the city could withstand actual battle with the Americans. At least Alex would have already escaped, and she would not be present during such a bloody war. At least she would be somewhere far away, somewhere safe.

With Blackwell.

Murad ignored the pangs of jealousy and bitterness accompanying his thoughts. He knew what he had to do—destroy the evidence of Alex’s past—the evidence that she was from the future. Murad turned and started toward the harbor. And he came face-to-face with two janissaries.

He froze. Every instinct he had warned him of danger. He knew, without a doubt, that they were waiting for him.

The two Turks grinned at him.

Murad whirled, breaking into a run. They set chase. He heard them on his heels, ordering him to stop, shouting at him.

Murad prayed to Allah, turning a corner so tightly that he almost fell. But he did not lose his grip on the sack containing Alex’s things.

And the soldiers were still behind him, their booted footsteps pounding. Murad waited for a bullet to sear him in the back of his head. At least he would die while serving his mistress.

But no pistol sounded. Murad turned another corner and came face-to-face with two more janissaries. He halted, panting, glancing around desperately for a means of escape. There was none.

The Turks who were behind him reached him, seizing his arms roughly. The back of a scimitar blade landed on Murad’s shoulder, sending him to the ground, gasping with red-hot agony. And one of the Turks ripped the sack from Murad’s grasp, sneering. Murad forgot the throbbing pain in his shoulder immediately. His heart sank like a rock.

“Can I speak with you?” Alex asked uncertainly.

Blackwell had been writing a letter on a piece of ivory parchment. He was using a tray on his lap as a writing table. Now he laid the quill aside, looking up. “What is it you wish to say. Alexandra?” he asked quietly.

Alex swallowed, her heart beating unsteadily. She was so nervous and tense that only the strongest resolve kept her from wringing her hands—from turning and fleeing. Forcing a small smile, she entered the anteroom. “I don’t want to fight with you, Xavier.”

“We are not fighting.”

She pursed her mouth, standing in front of him. “Whom are you writing?”

“My father.” Blackwell picked up the letter and folded it in half, almost as if he wished to hide the contents from her.

But that made no sense. “He has been very worried about you. Like myself, he thought you were dead.”

“I realize that.”

“Do you miss him?” Alex sat down beside Blackwell on the mattress.

His jaw flexed, he stood and walked away from her. “Of course.”

“I thought you cared about me,” Alex suddenly said. “But now I think that I’ve been a fool. You find me attractive, but that’s as far as it goes.”

He faced her from across the antechamber. “We are strangers. We hardly know one another.”

“We have suffered through hell together,” Alex said harshly. “And we have shared a slice of heaven, as well.”

He looked away, silent, his expression resolute but otherwise impossible to read. “My feelings are irrelevant to the tasks at hand.”

Alex stood. “I want to know what your feelings for me are.” She could hardly believe her own ears. “Please.”

He stared grimly. “You are the most unusual woman that I have ever met. No other woman would demand that a man reveal his feelings to her, no other woman would remain inside Tripoli, wed to a Moslem, in order to spy.”

“I am not a spy.”

He shrugged.

“Do you really think me a cold, heartless bitch?” Alex asked bitterly. “You think I was sent here to do a job, one that included marrying a Moslem, becoming his wife? I am not heartless, Xavier! I was a captive, like you. If I didn’t marry Jebal, I would have been made a mere concubine. At least by marrying him I gained respect and some degree of power. This has not been an easy time. I’m used to being free, to coming and going as I please. Instead, I have become the possession of a Moslem prince. Do you have any idea what it’s been like, avoiding him? Pretending to be meek? To have no choice, to not be able to say no? I am not a spy. I am a survivor.”

His gaze was piercing.

Alex choked. “I sent Murad to Neilsen’s to get my things.
I have proof, Xavier, that I am from the twentieth century.”

His jaw tightened. “That is terribly amusing, you know.” But he was not laughing.

Alex grimaced, filled with despair. Blackwell was a realist, a pragmatist, a chauvinist, and a man of action. He might never believe her. In which case, how could she prove to him that she wasn’t a spy? Was it going to end this way, with their escaping—and his walking away? “I’m not trying to be funny,” she finally said.

His gaze remained riveted on her. “I cannot understand you,” he finally said. “No matter how I try.”

Alex smiled sadly. “That is because I am a twentieth-century woman, as different from you as night is from day.”

“What could you possibly gain from such a ludicrous claim?”

“Why don’t you think about that?” Alex said.

Their gazes met, his impenetrable, black and deep. A taut silence fell between them.

Alex thought about him with Zoe. She became far sadder than before.

The antechamber was very small, and as it was very hot outside, it was stifling within as well. She realized that he was studying her from across the confines of the room. “What is it, Alexandra?” he asked softly.

She hesitated. “Please stay away from Zoe. She is dangerous, especially to you. If you were ever caught with her, you would be executed immediately.”

“I would be executed immediately if I were discovered right now, with you.”

Alex met his gaze. Her eyes slipped. He was half-clad, bare from the waist up. On other men, it made no difference. On Blackwell, it was a circumstance impossible to ignore. Faced with Blackwell, of course Zoe could not help herself.

“If Jebal were to discover us now,” Alex said thickly. “I might be able to persuade him to be merciful. Being”—she swallowed—“as we have done nothing wrong.”

He turned his back on her. But Alex had glimpsed his eyes. He was fighting the heat that coursed between them too. “In his world, we have done everything wrong, and you are too intelligent not to know it There would be no mercy, not for
myself, and perhaps not for you. I think you should go back to your own chamber, Alexandra.”

Alex was hurt. There was no avoiding her own feelings, her own heart. She had the worst sense that they were never going to get over this terrible misunderstanding, that he would never trust her, never believe the truth. His will was so strong, his mind already made up.

The stakes were so high. The stakes were a lifetime as lovers and friends, as man and wife. The stakes were their rightful, God-given destiny.

But Alex did not know what to do.

She did not think she had the courage to go up to him and embrace him, holding him tightly the way she wanted to.

The door crashed open, interrupting her thoughts. Alex was only relieved for a split second, for Murad ran into the room, red-faced, disheveled, and perspiring.

“What happened?” Alex cried in alarm. Blackwell also whirled.

“I was ambushed,” Murad cried. “Alex, two janissaries were waiting for me to leave Neilsen’s.”

“Ohmygod,” Alex whispered, sharing a glance with Blackwell.

Blackwell strode to Murad and gripped his arm. “Are you all right? Did they harm you?”

“I am unhurt, but ashamed,” Murad said.

“They jumped you
after
you gave Neilsen the letter?” he asked.

Murad nodded. His silver gaze returned to Alex. “I have failed you. I am so sorry!”

It was then that Alex realized that his hands were empty. “Oh, no! My things! My passport—the lamp!” The oil lamp, which she would probably need—to return to the future alone.

“Everything is gone, Alex,” Murad said. “They stole everything.” He swallowed, shooting a look at Blackwell, who stared. “Someone has all the proof of your real identity.

Alex blanched.

Zoe bolted the door to her bedchamber.

She ran to her bed, a huge, draped, canopied affair, and dumped the contents of the sack upon it. Zoe pawed through
the items on her bed. The gold tube caught her eye, but it took her a moment to figure out how to open it. She finally pulled it apart and blinked at the bright pinkish orange color inside. What on earth was it?

Holding the tube up, she squinted at it, then accidentally twisted the base. The phallic-looking pinkish-orange object grew in size, slowly emerging from the gold tube. It took Zoe an instant to realize that it was a stick of rouge. Very pleased, she dabbed it on her cheeks and lips. She must ask Zohara about this.

Then two small books caught her eye.

Zoe threw the tube aside, opening one of the books. She was disappointed. There was hardly any writing inside, mostly strange diagrams. Then she discovered Zohara’s picture on the very first page. It was the most amazing portrait Zoe had ever seen. The likeness was incredibly exact. How had an artist rendered such an amazing portrait? It was a masterpiece.

Zoe wondered what was written in the books. But she could not read more than a smattering of her own language, so she set the two books aside. She would consider asking Jovar to translate them, but she hated giving him the power of knowing whatever was written inside those two books. Zoe’s intuition told her that the information was vitally important.

Zoe returned her attention to the objects on her bed. The metallic blue oil lamp caught the sunlight entering her room, shimmering almost strangely. Zoe felt the briefest stabbing of fear, and then she pounced upon it. Holding it aloft, her pulse racing, she stared at it, trying to understand why it was so important to Zohara. It was strangely warm in her hands.

She could not even begin to guess its significance.

The lamp seemed to grow warmer.

Abruptly Zoe dropped it. It clattered on the floor. Although she was fascinated by it, she had a sick feeling in her stomach. Zoe decided to inspect the lamp later.