Chapter 13
XAVIER 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.”
Alex stood, taking off her vest and stepping out of her trousers. She stepped into the water. Immediately it turned brown. “I wonder what he has to do before he can escape. Other than destroy the Pearl. And does he really think he can escape with an entire ship’s crew?”
Murad stared at her, then, as if having been in a trance, he shook his head. “He wants to be ransomed. But you are right. If and when he refuses to captain a ship for the bashaw, this period of gracious hospitality will end.”
“There is no if, only when. What do you think will happen then?”
“I don’t know. I have enough to worry about right now, with you panting after Blackwell.”
Alex blushed. “Is it that obvious?”
“It is very obvious,” Murad said tersely.
Alex remained unmoving, filled with thoughts of Blackwell. His shoulder had been so hard, like a stone wall. And he was so very proper. Of course, he was a bit of a sexist, but she would, eventually, show him that she was no frilly Regency lady, incapable of doing for herself.