Captive

Chapter 15

ALEX STARED IN absolute horror through the peephole, watching as Blackwell was surrounded by janissaries, two of whom grabbed him roughly by the arms. A moment later a heavy manacle was being locked around his wrists.

Alex moaned. She saw the leg iron being clamped around his right ankle, and then the soldier jerked him forward.

“Oh, God,” Alex whispered hoarsely. Her eyes were wide and frightened.

Murad’s arm went around her waist, supporting her and holding her upright.

Alex leaned against him, trembling, trying to think through the haze of panic engulfing her.

Had she found Blackwell only to lose him like this?

Had she, somehow, interfered so drastically with history that she was causing his even more untimely death?

“Alex, in the name of Allah,” Murad said urgently in her ear. “You must stay calm. We are not alone.”

“They’re going to kill him,” she gasped, grabbing the ends of Murad’s vest. “We must stop them!”

Murad shook her once. “There’s nothing we can do. Come with me. Now—instantly.”

“No.” She struggled against his grip, managing to free herself. Alex pushed her face so abruptly against the stucco wall that she scraped her cheek, but she ignored the pain and the blood. She stared into the hall.

At first she could not see Blackwell and she was afraid that he had already been taken away. To the public square, where criminals and traitors were beheaded or burned. Then she glimpsed him, surrounded by the soldiers. If he was afraid, he did not show it. He appeared to be carved from stone.

Alex almost fainted in relief. She still had time. But how much? And to do what?

Murad’s arm clamped around her again. “Let’s go.”

Alex ignored him. She had no intention of returning to her chamber while Blackwell’s life was at stake.

Somehow she had to stop this. He could not die now.

Alex’s gaze quickly roamed the hall. Her eyes widened, her gaze slammed to a halt.

The bashaw, whom she suddenly, intensely, hated, was surrounded by four men, and in the midst of what appeared to be an argument. Jebal stood by his elbow.

Jebal! Hope burst within her. Alex would do anything, promise anything, if he would save Blackwell from death.

Alex turned, crashing into Murad’s hard chest. “Jebal! I have to go to Jebal! He will help me, I am sure of it—he will help us!”

Murad caught her arm, swinging her back around before she could run headlong from the room, through the palace—and into the group of men where no woman, especially not Jebal’s wife, was allowed. “Alex! You are not thinking clearly. You are not thinking at all.”

“There is no time. Please, Murad, help me—help me now.”

“I am helping you, Alex, by saving you from yourself.”

It took Alex a moment to comprehend his meaning. He would allow Blackwell to die without trying to prevent it. Furious with his treachery, she punched him in the shoulder and shoved past him. And she ran right into another solid wall of human flesh.

Alex cried out.

Zoe smiled at her, her gaze calculating, sly—and knowing.

Alex shrank back against the wall.

Jebal had heard the woman’s cry. It was all he could think about; he did not hear a single word of the argument being waged between his father, Farouk, and Jovar, a debate over Blackwell’s fate. The shrill cry of panic and protest had come from his second wife, Zohara.

Why?

He was very disturbed.

Zohara did not know this Blackwell, did she? Was it possible they were friends from America? Why else would she be so distressed over his fate, his death?

Jebal turned and glanced toward the wall where the peepholes were for the ladies of the palace.

He had always thought he understood her.

She was an American, which made her very different from all the other women of his acquaintance, and although she had refused to be a real wife to him, her grief for her dead first husband was both acceptable and commendable.

In general, he found Zohara to he warm and amusing, tender and kind.

Perhaps now her kindness motivated her in regards to Blackwell?

Knowing her as he did, he was certain she would try to prevent the death of any common slave.

Jebal hoped, very much, that was the case.

And he reassured himself that Christians in general were weak and foolish in regards to their fellow man.

Jebal turned his regard on Blackwell. He grew more uneasy. The man was, physically, an arresting sight. Clearly he was a formidable enemy. Had he turned renegade, he would have made a powerful ally. He was also the kind of man women would admire and covet and desire.

Jebal’s jaw tightened.

“Jebal! Do you or do you not have an opinion on this subject?”

Jebal started and faced his glowering father. “I beg your pardon,” he said, flushing. His father made him feel like a ten-year-old boy more often than not.

The bashaw glared. “The American captain is a fool to refuse me. He destroyed four of my ships. How lenient I have been with him! And now he refuses to swear himself to me? I give him a chance at wealth beyond his imagination—and he dares to refuse. He deserves punishment. And he will pay the ultimate price—he will forfeit his head.” The bashaw folded his arms over his slightly protruding stomach.

Jovar smiled. The blond Scot was clearly pleased.

Jebal turned and met Blackwell’s steady, unflinching gaze.

Personally, he abhorred violence and believed executions should only be meted out when there was no other resort.

But Jebal had a strong sense now that he would be better off with Blackwell dead.

However, Jebal was also as politically cautious as his father was not.

“Father, we are already at war with the Americans,” Jebal began.

“We should not anger them with Blackwell’s death. ”

Jovar laughed. “War? Hah! They are cowards, the lot of them. They send their big ships here to do what? To dance and drink with the British in Gibraltar, to cruise Italy! They are soldiers? They are cowards!”

Jebal sighed. Jovar spoke the truth, actually, for the whole world knew that Commodore Morris’s wife preferred Gibraltar to the rest of the Mediterranean.

She enjoyed attending the many teas and balls given by the wives of the British officers stationed there.

Morris had not cruised the coast of Tripoli even once.

So far, no one in Tripoli was afraid of the American navy.

They had vaguely blockaded the city, which was growing low on grain, but so far, it had not affected the palace or the rich merchants, merely a few of the lowliest craftsmen and bedouin.

The soldiers and sailors, the many sea captains, the tavern-keepers, the slaves who were not American, and most of the villagers were all laughing at this so-called war.

And last week Morris had lifted the blockade, making everyone laugh harder.

But Jebal had seen two of their ships. They were huge, well manned, and heavily gunned.

Too, hadn’t everyone seen what a daring and brave American could do?

The Pearl was far smaller and had less firepower of the U.S.

flagship, the USS Constitution, and Blackwell had easily destroyed four of Tripoli’s best cruisers.

“Father.” Jebal said carefully, “if you behead Blackwell, it is the end. We can still use him. We should persuade him to renounce his faith, Father, and become one of us. Let us give him more time.”

“He has said no. He refuses. He deserves death.” Jovar said heatedly.

“We should not anger the Americans any further,” Jebal added.

“Their anger is like the yapping of a small dog,” Jovar snapped.

“I don’t care if the Americans are angry, for I am furious,” the bashaw spat.

“They deny us tribute, which they give to the bey of Algiers and the dey of Tunis,” the bashaw almost shouted.

His face was purple now. “Where is the money, the guns, the ships, the other gifts which they promised me so long ago? Blackwell should be an example to them all!”

Farouk, the prime minister, shoved his bulk into their midst. “Forgive me, my lord, but may I speak?”

“I want him dead,” the bashaw said in a very childish manner. “He mocks my generosity after destroying my very favorite ship!”

Farouk smiled obsequiously. “We do not have to kill him to punish him, my lord. Perhaps we can punish him, severely—and still gain what we want in the end? Either his knowledge or a huge ransom?”

“The Americans are cheap,” Jovar scoffed. “Cheap and poor. We will never get a worthwhile ransom for Blackwell and his men.” His laughter was scathing.

“I do not wish to ransom Blackwell,” the bashaw said, more calmly now. “He cost me four of my best ships! He destroyed my beautiful Mirabouka. He deserves punishment! Let us anger the Americans! Let us enrage them!”

Jebal glanced toward the wall, knowing Zohara was behind that wall and concerned for her countryman.

He wished he knew exactly what she felt for Blackwell, but on the other hand, tonight he would finally have her, and he was an accomplished lover.

She would not be thinking of Blackwell in an inappropriate way after this night.

Jebal forced such thoughts aside. “It is very foolish for us to purposefully anger the Americans,” he said. “Farouk is right, as always. We can punish him, and maybe even persuade him to come to us, but we need not kill him. We should not kill him. Not yet.”

“Blackwell Shipping is very rich,” Farouk said. “His father might pay very handsomely to gain his release. Not all Americans are cheap.”

“What do you wish to do with him?” the bashaw demanded. “Give him women and slaves and allow him to live like a prince until we receive his father’s gold?”

“Let us show him the lot of a slave,” Farouk suggested. “A palace slave—the lowest one, a sweeper, of course.”

Jovar’s fists were clenched. “A palace slave hardly suffers. I cannot believe you will not behead him this very moment!”

The bashaw scowled.

“Send him to the quarries,” Jebal said calmly, aware that deep within himself he would not mind if Blackwell died there. Indeed, his “accidental” death could even be arranged. “Show him the lot of a beylik slave.” His gaze shifted.

Blackwell’s stare was direct and hard. His mouth formed a tight, hard line. He did not speak or move.

Farouk hesitated, and darted a glance at the bashaw.

The bashaw was smiling. He clapped his hands.

“A good idea, my son and heir. A very good idea! We shall teach him the lot of the lowliest slave, teach him his place—teach him humiliation—and when he comes begging us for a reprieve, then, maybe, we will offer him again the chance to share Tripoli’s power and wealth.

” The bashaw pounded Jebal on the shoulder.

And the two men stared at one another, the richly dressed prince in jewels and velvets and the captive in leg irons and chains.

Xavier was sweating, but the manacles prevented him from reaching up to wipe his face. But he would not die this day.

He was exultant, but careful to remain expressionless.

“Your life is spared,” Jebal said quietly.

“I am grateful,” Xavier replied.

“Do not be too grateful,” Jebal returned. “Your life hangs in the balance, and within moments the scales may change.”

Xavier watched Jebal walk away, his longest gilet flowing behind him. He was fully aware that his life could be taken away from him at any moment.

But now, at least, he had time to continue his plans.

Jovar sauntered forward, and suddenly spat out a series of commands in Arabic that Xavier did not, could not, understand. But his enemy was smiling. His pale eyes gleamed.

“So your life remains, dog,” Jovar said, taunting him. “But for how long?”

Xavier said nothing.

Jovar stared at him. “Your bravery will not get you far in the quarries, Blackwell. To the contrary. It can—and shall—be the death of you.”

“Is that a threat?”

Jovar laughed. “No, a warning.” He motioned abruptly to the soldiers guarding Xavier.

Rough hands jerked on Xavier’s chains. Xavier was pulled forward so roughly that he almost fell. The soldiers walked swiftly, and Xavier shuffled along with them, the leg iron chafing his ankle. He ignored it.

He felt that her eyes were following him.

Alexandra. Was it his imagination? Or was she really there, behind that wall? He had not imagined a woman’s anguished cry when the bashaw had shouted for his blood.

They left the palace, entering the outer courtyard, which was filled with soldiers, bodyguards, slaves, merchants, and supplicants.

Xavier stumbled again. This time he fell, his hands hitting the cobbled stones of the ground, but he was yanked up hard by his chains by one of the soldiers. Blood dripped from his wrists.

“Oh God,” she cried. “Oh, God!”

Xavier was being propelled forward when he heard her. He recognized her voice immediately. Shocked, he halted in mid-stride, so abruptly that he dragged the two soldiers holding him backward. Whirling, he saw her.

And he did not understand.

It was Alexandra, he would know her anywhere, and even though a dozen feet separated them, and as many soldiers, he was looking into her eyes.

But she was not wearing a slave giri’s simple vest and trousers.

She was dressed like a wealthy Moslem lady, in many flowing robes, the material bejeweled and embroidered, and she wore a huge veil that revealed only her mouth and nose and eyes.

Her identity was, however, unmistakable.

Alexandra was on the verge of tears. Her face was starkly white. Her hands were outstretched.

Their gazes remained locked. Xavier could not look away. His heart hammered uncontrollably, but he was dazed, confused, disbelieving. What the hell was this?

And Murad grabbed her from behind, his face twisted with anger. He began pulling her backward. She struggled against her own slave, her gaze holding Xavier’s.

Who the hell was she?

“American dog!” A scimitar landed, flat bladed, hard on Xavier’s shoulder. The blow was brutal and unexpected, and Xavier went down to his knees. Pain stunned him, diverting his thoughts.

She screamed.

The next blow took Xavier squarely on his back. His head hit the cobblestones, and for a moment his world turned black. Then white-hot stars began shooting in front of his eyes. He strained to hear her cries, but heard only Turkish and Arabic murmured above him, around him, and shouted commands.

He was hauled to his feet as his vision cleared. Xavier got one more glimpse of her from the corner of his eyes. Murad was dragging her away. Alexandra—dressed as a wealthy Moslem woman.

But surely it was a disguise.

Xavier suddenly realized who stood beside him. He stiffened, and faced Jovar.

Peter Cameron also stared after Alexandra’s heavily veiled form.