Chapter 19 #3
His gaze settled on hers. “That was before I discovered who and what you really are,” he finally said.
“Ohmygod,” she said, for it suddenly struck her that nothing was happening the way it should, and that he might leave without her, and she might be trapped forever in nineteenth-century Tripoli with no way of even returning to the future.
“Do not cry,” he ground out. “Your tears are a weapon I refuse to entertain.”
Alex turned her head aside, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to cry like a helpless female.
“I will think about it,” he finally said.
She jerked her gaze to his.
His jaw flexed.
A heavy silence fell between them. It was then that Alex became aware of how harshly and rapidly his chest was rising and falling, how rigid was his stance. He was as tense and agonized as she.
She tried to collect her wits. He was her destiny.
He had to be. Why else would she have time-traveled?
His supicions made sense. But she firmly believed in the power of love.
And hadn’t love begun to blossom between them from the moment they had first met?
This was merely a misunderstanding, one that could be unraveled.
Years from now, perhaps, they would both laugh about it.
“I had to deceive you,” she whispered. “If Jebal ever found us together, he would kill you, and, Murad swears, me as well.”
Blackwell was silent, his gaze shrewd and penetrating.
Alex wet her lips. “I am a romantic,” she finally said, forcing a small, uncertain smile.
“I had heard about you. About your exploits in the Quasi War, and of course, as Dali Capitan. I know about Blackwell Shipping, too. I … I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time.
When you became a captive here, I was compelled to go to you.
” She heard the pleading note in her tone.
A moment passed. “What, may I ask, is the Quasi War?”
“The war with France which ended in ‘Ninety-nine. You were a hero.”
“I have never heard it called that before.”
Alex swallowed. She had to be careful—this man was no fool.
“Are you attempting to tell me that you fell in love with me, sight unseen?” he asked abruptly.
Alex stiffened. She wanted to shout, Yes! She did not dare reveal herself to such an extent. She was already so exposed, so vulnerable.
“Do you take me for an idiot?” he asked coldly. “Nor do I believe in love at first sight.” He was savage. “You will have to do better than that, Mrs. Thornton.”
“Everything I have said is the truth,” Alex said, but she knew she was flushed. After all, there was no Mr. Thornton. But now was not the time to reveal that.
His smile was knowing. He saw, apparently, the lie in her eyes. “I suggest that you leave.”
Alex had never known such dismay, or such crushing disappointment. She looked blindly away.
He shoved past her. “Murad. Take her and go. And make certain that she doesn’t come back.”
“Let us go now, Alex. Jebal is probably looking for you as we speak,” Murad said softly. His voice was filled with compassion.
Alex shoved past Blackwell, determined not to cry. Murad wrapped his arm around her as she stumbled out of the cubicle. She had to look up, one last time.
His gaze was dark and penetrating, intense and disturbing. He did not say good-bye.
Blackwell stood staring after her as she weaved her way through the sleeping captives with her slave. He was aware of the tension filling his body so stiffly that his every joint ached.
He turned as someone came up behind him; it was the scribe, Quixande.
“Well, well,” he said softly. “You failed to mention to me that you knew this woman so well, Captain.”
“I don’t.”
Pierre regarded him.
Xavier finally tore his gaze away, for Alexandra had left the couryard, entering the tunnel, and she was no longer in sight. His heart felt heavy, his soul strangely bereft. “She says she is married to Jebal in name only,” he muttered. He did not believe it for an instant.
“I believe that is the truth.”
“What?” Xavier was surprised.
Quixande smiled. “An unconsummated marriage is a very big topic of gossip, Captain. In some quarters Jebal is a laughingstock. Not to mention that the bashaw wants a grandson.”
“He does not have an heir?”
“No. His first wife, Zoe, has only given him daughters.”
Xavier looked into the scribe’s dark eyes. “There is more, is there not? Something which you have not told me?”
“Yes.”
His pulse accelerated. “Feel free.”
“There is some speculation in Tripoli about her first marriage.”
“I do not understand.” But he had a dark inkling, one he did not like.
“There does not seem to ever have been a diplomat named Thornton stationed at Gibraltar.”
Xavier remained motionless. Another lie.
“Indeed, no one seems to quite know the name of the ship she arrived in Tripoli upon. But then”—Pierre’s smile flashed—“no one seems to care.”
It struck him then. Clearly. She was a spy.
And Quixande read his mind. “Yes. Captain, obviously she is a spy, planted here just last year. But the question looms. For whom?”