Chapter 10
XAVIER LAY ON his back on the hard, cold stone floor of the cubicle where he had been imprisoned. He was alone. He was worried about his men and his ship, yet he found it hard to concentrate and plan. A pair of almond-shaped eyes haunted him.
His gut constricted. He was oddly breathless. He could not get those haunting eyes out of his mind. Xavier sat up.
Who was she?
He wanted to know.
She hadn’t fooled him for a moment. She had been disguised as a man, but when he had met her gaze he had felt the instant, eternal pull of male and female, more so than he had ever felt it before.
Worse, she somehow seemed familiar to him.
There had been an odd shock of recognition the moment their eyes had met.
But he was certain that he did not know her. He was certain that they had never met. He would never forget a pair of eyes like that, not ever.
Xavier stood up. There were no windows in his cell, there was nowhere to go.
But he remained standing, staring at the rough stone wall.
In the Moslem world of Tripoli, it was incredibly daring for a woman to disguise herself as a man.
Clearly she belonged to some male Moslem of importance.
Clearly she herself was Moslem. He might learn her identity if his stay in Tripoli was protracted, but he was a realist and he understood that he would probably never see her again.
The thought was distinctly disturbing. It made him strangely uneasy.
He wanted to see her again.
Xavier paced. His cell was four steps by six.
He was no longer naked. He had been given a pair of short, loose trousers, a wide, collarless shirt, and a small cap, which he did not use.
The four-pound iron fetter was still on his left ankle, attached by a thick chain to the manacles on his wrists.
Both his leg and arms were chafed raw and bleeding.
He ignored the pain, which he had become accustomed to and now thought of as a mere discomfort.
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.