Captive

Chapter 21 #2

“Dear Lord, I cannot believe she is a spy. But it would certainly explain her daring and intellect,” Neilsen said. Then his brows furrowed. “But why will you take her with you?”

“I hate the idea of leaving any civilized woman in Barbary, and maybe—just maybe—I am wrong,” Xavier said.

Alex paced outside of Blackwell’s chamber, angry that she was being excluded from their plans—angry and hurt.

He did not appear to be even close to falling in love with her; if anything, he was more hostile toward her than ever before. What was happening?

Alex shuddered. But at least he had said that he would take her with him when they escaped. She hoped he meant it.

And in case he did not, she would have to somehow unearth the plans they were making now, and be prepared to join them in their escape.

Alex was not going to be left behind. The very idea made her blood run cold.

But the idea of spying on him also chilled her to the bone.

If he ever caught her in such a game, he would never come to trust her.

She turned and met Murad’s intense, probing regard. She averted her eyes. He knew she was upset. She did not feel like discussing her dismal relationship with Blackwell now. Not when he was just a few feet away.

Blackwell and Neilsen stepped outside. Alex turned and stared.

Had they decided on a firm course of action?

She could not tell, for Blackwell Ignored her, bidding Neilsen good-bye, while the Danish consul averted his eyes from her.

Alex strained to hear. Neilsen said something about getting word back to Blackwell as soon as possible.

Neilsen finally glanced at her, nodding briefly, and then he left.

Alex met Blackwell’s intense, dark eyes. What should she do? The thought crossed her mind that she should seduce him. In spite of what he thought about her, Alex was certain he remained as physically attracted to her as she was to him.

He strode over to her. “Still present?”

“Yes.” Deciding to take the upper hand, Alex glanced at his broad bare chest. Did she have the courage to touch him?

His jaw flexed. He shifted his weight. “Where does Jebal think you are at this moment?”

Alex shrugged. Did she have the courage to kiss him? She felt faint at the prospect. And if he actually rejected her again, she would be devastated. “He is dining with Paulina again tonight. His fifteen-year-old Italian concubine.”

“Jealous?” Blackwell asked softly.

“Are you kidding?” Alex laughed. “I am thrilled!”

He stared. Their gazes locked and her laughter died.

She stared back. Wishing he could read her mind, feel her heart, know her soul.

He did not look away. “Has he hurt you?” he asked suddenly.

Alex had not expected such a question. “No,” she said, on a deep breath. “Basically he is kind.” She hesitated. “He has allowed me an entire year to grieve for my first husband.” She lowered her eyes. “But …”

“But?”

She looked up, into impenetrable depths. “My time is finally running out.”

A muscle moved in his cheek. “And that means?”

“Jebal does not want to wait much longer to consummate our marriage.”

A moment passed, in silence. Blackwell said. “You are resourceful. I imagine you will do what needs to be done.”

Alex felt like striking him.

His gaze was piercing. “Surely you do not intend to remain faithful to a ghost?”

For one instant. Alex misunderstood. She was confused, because the only ghost that had ever interested her was Blackwell’s, and he was no longer dead.

“Mr. Thornton,” Blackwell prompted.

Alex flushed. “He died while I was en route to visit him at Gibraltar.”

“So I have heard,” Blackwell said.

His tone was strange. Alex glanced up and was shocked by the intensity of his scrutiny. She had the awful feeling that he knew she lied.

“And which ship was it that you traveled upon?”

Alex tensed. “What does it matter?”

“I am merely curious.” Blackwell smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “Your husband was a British diplomat, was he not? However did the two of you meet?”

Alex hesitated. Blackwell was clearly not making pleasant social chitchat. She told him exactly what she had already told Jebal. “We met in New York City. He was a diplomat there. We were hardly wed when he was sent to Gibraltar. I remained behind to organize my affairs before joining him.”

“So you were traveling from New York to the Straits.”

“Yes.”

He waited.

Alex took a breath. “I believe she was called the Eagle.”

“A passenger ship called the Eagle, out of New York, bound for Gibraltar?”

“No, of course, she was a merchantman,” Alex said quickly. He was trying to trap her. There were no passenger ships plying the Mediterranean in the early nineteenth century. “She was a British merchantman,” Alex said. She could feel her cheeks burning.

She could also feel him regarding her intently—and then he smiled. As if he approved of her performance.

“Now what?” she said cautiously.

“I did not say a thing.”

Alex realized just how crushed she was feeling. “Blackwell, please, let’s not fight. You are the very last person in this universe whom I wish to battle with.”

“Then what is it you wish to do?”

An image of herself in his embrace flitted through her mind. “I want to help with the escape.”

“Help? Or hinder it?”

“Help.” She was firm, even though dismayed.

“Let me tell you something. I know a little bit about naval warfare. I know that if you think to escape with your crew, you will need a viable plan, one involving a land or sea rescue operation.” His brows had lifted; he was wide-eyed.

Alex plowed on, determined. “Tripoli is surrounded by water, and historically, no one survives overland escape attempts. Therefore the rescue will be from the sea. This worries me.”

“Really.”

“Yes! Are you aware that Commodore Morris is an idiot? And very inept as a commander?”

He stared at her as if she were growing horns.

“Whatever you and Neilsen are up to, you must factor in Morris’s indecisiveness. He is not a battle-seasoned veteran like yourself,” Alex said desperately.

“How have you come by all of this information?”

“I read about it,” she snapped.

“Good God,” was his reply.

Alex had the awful feeling that she was digging herself into a hole. She closed her eyes briefly. “If only Preble were here,” she muttered under her breath.

“What?” he demanded. “What did you just say?”

She backed up. “Nothing.”

“You said, ‘If only Preble were here.’”

Alex kept her mouth shut. She could not remember when Morris was relieved of his command, or when Preble attained it, but she must not reveal all that she knew. “I said, if only it were possible.”

It was clear that he did not believe her.

“And you expect me to trust you, Mrs. Thornton?” He was openly mocking.

“Yes! And I expect us to work together.”

“Never,” he replied. And he turned his back on her, returning to his cubicle, his strides swift and hard.

Alex stared after him, shaken. She almost called him back. To blurt out the truth. But he would be even more skeptical then. He would laugh in her face.

Blinking back sudden tears, Alex whispered, “Let’s go, Murad. There is no point in remaining here.”

The sun was higher, hotter, than the day before. Every inch of Xavier’s body burned. Sweat streamed down his naked, sinewed torso in small rivulets. On his back, it burned every newly opened wound. Blood mingled with perspiration, dirt, and grime.

It was only noon. As Xavier moved away from the sledge where they had finally loaded the twenty-ton block, he wondered again how any man could survive for very long in this kind of labor, in this kind of heat, without sustenance and medical attention. How cruel and inhuman it was. How barbarous.

Tubbs dropped to the ground at Xavier’s feet, panting. It had taken the hundred-odd slaves a day and a half to load up this block. The first mate blinked up at Xavier. “Good God, sir. I don’t think I can make it.”

“You can make it,” Xavier said firmly. “Rest for another minute, but then you will get up.” Xavier turned to study the rest of his men. One by one, like flies, they had all fallen to the hot desert ground to rest, oblivious to the burning heat they lay upon.

Timmy still stood. His face was badly sunburned, flushed with exertion as well, but he was young and strong. He was gulping hot air, though, the way one might gulp cool water.

Xavier looked up and immediately gauged the sun.

It was not yet noon. Dear God, Pierre Quixande was right.

The slaves were considered less than human, beasts of burden, valueless and replaceable.

The Tripolitans worked them to death with purpose and deliberation.

And when this lot was dead, there would be new captives to take their place—captured in acts of bloody piracy committed on the high seas. Hatred filled Xavier.

Thank God Robert had died before ever being doomed to such a living hell.

It was the first time Xavier had ever had such a thought. Never before had he ever seen Robert’s violent, untimely death as positive, as an event to be thankful for. For the first time in almost two years, tears did not fill Xavier’s eyes as he thought about his younger brother.

Robert had been spared this.

“Up with you, up with the lot of you,” the Turks began shouting. Whips cracked. Someone cried out, someone else moaned. The slaves quickly got to their feet.

Xavier knew what awaited them now. He squinted at the huge block of stone, now tied to the sledge. The sledge was man-drawn.

The entire herd of slaves was moved into the traces attached to the sledge.

Slaves had some choice about where they were positioned, and there was much jostling amongst them for advantage.

Xavier immediately recognized that to be at the very back of the human herd, closest to the sledge, was the most dangerous place to be.

If, on a downhill slope, the sledge slipped forward, out of control, the men closest to the sledge would be crushed first.

And there was a good section of downward slope between the quarries and Tripoli.

“Timmy, you and Tubbs go to the front,” Xavier ordered.

“I want to stay with you, sir,” Timmy protested, his blue eyes on Xavier’s face, his freckled nose wrinkling.

“To the very front,” Xavier said firmly. He shot Tubbs a glance and watched as the bowlegged first mate guided the thirteen-year-old boy to the front ranks, not an easy task. Xavier strode resolutely toward the back.

“You, Blackwell, halt.”

Xavier recognized Kadar’s voice and he turned slowly, which was not quite the same as halting. He tensed slightly, waiting for the lash of a whip.

But Kadar did not use his whip. “I want you in the front,” Kadar said, his black eyes gleaming.

Xavier was surprised, but he said nothing, nor did he move.

“To the front,” Kadar said, his tone becoming dangerous. “Someone has paid well for your welfare, Blackwell—but you know that already, don’t you? To the front. Where it is safest.”

Xavier walked grimly to the front. Did Kadar know that the bedouin boy was a woman?

Did he know her real identity? He was grim.

Alexandra might be working for Britain or France, but Jebal undoubtedly believed her to be his wife, and if her activities were ever discovered, she would be in serious jeopardy.

Kadar could be bought far too easily. And even though he told himself that her fate was not his concern, he was disturbed.

Somehow her fate was his affair, and he did not wish to see her die—the victim of a barbaric Moslem prince.

He moved forward and found a place close to Timmy. At least this way he could keep an eye on his cabin boy and first mate, protecting them if need be.

All the men were in the traces, braced against the leather harnesses and ropes. The whips cracked. The Turks shouted commands. The slaves grunted and groaned, straining to move the sledge forward. For many moments, the sledge with its twenty-ton block did not budge.

“Harder, heave harder,” Kadar commanded, whips sounding.

Everyone cried out, pulling hard, and the huge wheels of the sledge suddenly turned. The sledge rolled forward.

The slaves had to move faster now as they pulled the sledge, which began to gain its own momentum.

There was a small incline ahead. Xavier judged it quickly, and decided it would not be a problem, as long as the slaves kept up a fast pace. He glanced at Timmy’s bright red face. “How are you doing, laddie?”

“Good,” Timmy huffed.

Xavier regarded Tubbs.

“Fine, sir, all thin’s considerin',” Tubbs replied.

The sledge moved a little faster now, but so did the herd of slaves pulling it. Xavier’s pulse roared. They were halfway down the incline—there was not going to be a problem.

And then Timmy tripped.

Out of the corner of his eye, Xavier saw him stumble and begin to go down.

He moved like lightning. Acutely conscious of the mass of men behind him, and the sledge with its twenty tons of stone, Xavier stooped, reaching for Timmy, to drag him upright.

The slaves behind him ran into him, causing Xavier himself to stumble slightly and miss Timmy, who fell to the ground.

Xavier saw it all then, the boy in the dirt, freckled face half-turned, raw fear in his eyes, and the thundering mass of humanity, which could not stop. “Timmy!” He righted himself while reaching down again.

“Cap’n!” Timmy screamed.

Too late. The men behind Xavier pushed him forward—while Timmy was trampled to death.