Captive

Chapter 24

HE COULD NOT help himself.

Murad had retraced his steps, compelled. He stared through two palm fronds at the bathing pool. He knew what he was doing was wrong, terribly wrong. Alex was his mistress. He had no right to spy upon her.

Except that he wasn’t really spying, he was merely watching, unbeknownst by her.

He stared at her as she floated in the water.

At her long, pale, lovely legs, at her denuded pubis, at her narrow hips and waist, at her full, glistening breasts.

At her stunning face. Her red hair, catching the midday sun, was on fire.

The glass rubies on the replica of the gold collar Jebal had given her also gleamed.

They were almost the same color as her erect nipples.

He wasn’t sure when he had first fallen in love with her. But it was proper for him to adore his mistress, so he had ignored the intensity of his feelings, just as he had ignored the strange longing. Serving her, being with her, protecting her, had been enough. Until recently.

Until Blackwell had come, until he had seen Alex’s passion for the other man.

Murad clenched his fists. He did not want to feel this way. He did not want to be jealous of her love for another man—especially a man he respected and admired. He did not want to look at her with love and lust. He was, after all, half of a man—a eunuch and a slave.

But he did not walk away. He continued to stare at her as she slowly sat up.

Her hair, partially wet, curled in tendrils around her face and neck.

One strand caught on one of her breasts.

Never in his entire life had he seen a woman as beautiful, nor had he ever met a woman so intelligent, forthright, and determined.

She was unique. So unique that if it were not so completely impossible, he might believe her a time traveler from the future.

Murad closed his eyes. He was torturing himself, thinking thoughts he had no right to—allowing himself the beginnings of fantasies as illicit, in which Alexandra was not his mistress, but his lover.

“Murad,” she whispered.

Murad jerked, his eyes flying open. Paulina stood behind him. He felt himself flushing hotly.

Paulina looked past Murad, through the two fronds. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze to Murad’s face. She smiled ever so slightly. Her dark eyes glittered.

Alex’s image remained engraved on Murad’s mind. But he was faced with Paulina, who was staring far too knowingly at him. He coughed to clear his throat, wondering if she knew what he was doing, what he was thinking. “Are you looking for me?” he asked, wetting his lips.

She smiled. “Actually, I was. But what were you doing just now, Murad?” Her dark eyes slitted. “Were you watching your mistress bathe?”

“Of course not,” he snapped tersely.

Paulina laughed softly and stepped closer to him.

So close that the embroidered vest she wore—and she wore nothing under it—brushed Murad’s own chest. He, too, was wearing only a vest on the upper half of his body.

Her bare arm brushed his naked waist; her palm, his thigh. His gaze shot to her face.

He had noticed her before, of course. She was spectacularly beautiful, somewhat stupid—a perfect plaything for Jebal. But that was as far as his thoughts had gone.

“I think you were lusting after Lilli Zohara,” Paulina said softly.

Murad stiffened, a denial forming on his lips. But he did not succeed in getting the words out. For Paulina reached between his legs, her fingertips instantly finding his penis. And instead of moving away, Murad froze.

She slid her fingers up his length, then back down. “You are the handsomest man I have ever seen,” she murmured, rubbing the tip now. He was stunned, unable to breathe, sweating. “I have been thinking about you.”

Many thoughts flashed through Murad’s mind.

He had never made love to a woman before, not out of choice, but because, as a eunuch and a slave, he did not have either the normal inclinations of other men or the opportunities.

But now he understood that he could have Paulina.

Yet he did not want Paulina, he wanted Alex.

He ached with the wanting he felt for his mistress, not just in his loins, but in his soul.

But his blood had never raced as fast or as heatedly. He had never felt such excitement before. Paulina’s fingertips were magical and dexterous on his flesh.

Paulina smiled, slipping to her knees. Murad was almost, but not quite, in a state of disbelief. She pulled him through the slit in his trousers, bent, and flicked her tongue over the bulbous head. Murad gasped. Praise Allah, this was paradise.

Paulina sucked him into her mouth.

Then she sucked him down her throat.

Murad gripped her head, his last coherent thought being that she belonged to Jebal, and if he was caught, he would be put to death.

But then he could think no more. Paulina’s mouth was hot and hard, sucking voraciously.

Murad gripped her head, pretending that the hair slipping like silk through his fingertips was Alex’s mane.

A moment later he was on the ground with her, rolling her over, pushing apart her vest. He reached for her big breasts. Tonguing her large nipples. She cried out, wrapping her slim legs around his waist, undulating against him.

Murad hesitated. This was as close as he would ever come to loving Alex, through pretense with another woman. He bent over her, palming her sex. He cried out. She was wet and warm and wonderful.

“Oh, yes, please Jesus, God, yes,” Paulina wept, clinging to him.

Murad slid his fingers into her. So this was what a woman was like. Hot, sweet, tight, so incredibly tight … Murad wished that he could be inside of her himself. Paulina began convulsing as he stroked her with utter dedication, his body taut and strained.

Then he felt that he was being watched. He looked up— and met Zoe’s sly, laughing eyes.

“She is with her slave, in the garden bath,” Zoe said.

Jebal, who rarely entered the women’s quarters, nodded and continued down the galleria. Zoe smiled, staring after him.

Jebal stepped off of the galleria and started down one garden path.

He was turning a corner when he thought he heard a noise, perhaps a human moan, perhaps an animal, somewhere to his right.

He started toward a group of shrubs, behind which were two large palms, but then instinct made him face forward again. He froze.

Zohara lay naked in the bathing pool.

Jebal felt that he had been socked in the abdomen. He could not breathe. His loins stiffened immediately.

He finally managed to think through the encroaching lust. Zohara had lied to him, and he had come to the harem to learn the truth, not to lust after her or even bed her.

Jebal had spent most of the night and that following morning deciding what he would do. And if she was a complete fraud, she would be severely punished. He might even divorce her and sell her at auction to the highest bidder. Of course, he would have her first.

Resolutely now, he strode down the path. His sandals crunched on the shells.

Her eyes flew open. She saw him, her gaze widening, sitting up. Her face turned red. “Jebal!”

He did not smile, staring at her openly. Her color increased. He could not help thinking of entering the pool with her, taking her first, and then demanding the truth. Instead, he folded his own arms and stood above her, gazing down at her. He had to know the reasons for her lies.

“Jebal,” she said again. She forced a smile, her gaze darting to the pile of clothing just to his right. “You are looking for me?”

“Yes, I am.” He did not move.

She licked her lips. “I would like to dress.”

He felt perverse. “I prefer you to remain just the way you are.”

Her eyes widened.

Jebal smiled tightly. “Is it true? There is no dead first husband? My understanding is that there has never been a British diplomat named Thornton stationed at Gibraltar.”

Her hot red flush disappeared. She was unnaturally white. “That is correct,” she said hoarsely after a pause. “Thornton was never stationed at Gibraltar.”

“What was your real name, Zohara?” he demanded as coolly as possible. But his temper surged. Anger mingled with lust.

“My real name is Alexandra Thornton.”

“Is there a dead first husband?”

“No.” She stared up at him.

He wanted to strike her. He actually saw red. He would beat her—fuck her—destroy her. “You have lied.”

“There was a man. I loved him. I thought we would wed. He promised. I gave myself to him. And …” Tears fell. “He left me, Jebal. He left me.”

“Who?”

“His name was Todd. Todd Whitman.”

“An American?”

“Yes.”

Jebal regarded her. Her story made sense. His anger had faded. “Are you telling me the truth?”

She nodded, her green eyes huge and luminous. “I knew Todd since we were very small children. I loved him from the time I was four or five years old. We were inseparable in grammar school. We were sweethearts by the time we were fourteen and fifteen. Even our families knew we would one day wed.”

Jebal believed her. He saw the emotions there in her eyes—not so much the love, but the sadness, the regret, and the last remnants of rejection and an old hurt. “And he took your virginity and abandoned you.”

“He met another woman,” she said softly, staring down at her knees.

“I am sorry,” he said, abashed.

Not looking up, she whispered, “May I put on my clothing now?”

He felt terrible, uncomfortable with his own lapse into cruelty. Jebal picked up her tunic and held it out to her. She stood swiftly, flushing again. She almost tore the long garment from his hands, pulling it swiftly over her head.

But he had seen all that there was to see. She was the most magnificent women he had ever beheld. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

She met his gaze, quickly looked away. “Because I gave myself out of marriage to a man, and in my country, that is an unforgivable sin.”

“Here, too, but I understand,” Jebal said, laying his hand on her shoulder. He felt her trembling. He also noticed how her silk tunic had become damp, clinging to her generous breasts, her flat belly, and even the mound of her femininity. “I have one more question.”

She nodded, her gaze remaining downcast.

“Why were you on your way to Gibraltar?”

“I was running away. Todd made a fool of me. I didn’t care where I went, didn’t care if I lived or died. I took the first ship I came across. Had I wandered to a different part of the city, I would have gotten on the first train.” Her gaze crept upward. “Fate brought me here.”

It crossed Jebal’s mind that Zoe would be the one punished for trying to destroy his relationship with Zohara. Zoe was pushing too hard, too often. He was growing very tired of her demanding, deceitful ways.

“Now I truly understand,” he said gently, pulling her against his side. He turned slightly, the movement placing her in his arms. Her gaze flew to his, wide with comprehension.

“Do not be afraid,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her back.

“You are not a virgin, after all, and we have waited long enough.” His palms moved lower.

He cupped her high, hard buttocks, and could not stop himself from pressing her fully up against him.

She gasped as she came into contact with his very long arousal.

“Here? Now?”

“Why not? I am ready. I have been ready for a very long time, dear Zohara.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. Jebal took it as a sign of acquiescence. He kissed each lash, then found her mouth. He meant to be gentle, but he had the terrible feeling that he would make love like a virgin himself.

She made a noise. It might have been a moan. Jebal chose to think so. Panting, he tore his mouth from hers. “I love you. I want you. I am maddened with lust. Zohara.”

Her eyes opened, filled with fear. “Not here. Please, not here.”

The anger flared. “I will not wait another minute, Zohara.” He bent and sucked her nipple into his mouth, through the wet silk tunic. Then he took her hand and placed it on his erection. When she did not grip him, he forced her to do so. A haze of lust consumed Jebal.

But Zohara said, her tone strangled, “Jebal, you would consummate our relationship like this? Publicly? For anyone to see? Here in the gardens—on the ground—in the dirt?”

Jebal lifted his head. Their gazes locked. He wanted her desperately, but just past her shoulder he saw a pair of slaves crossing the galleria. Frustration filled him. “Come with me, now, to my rooms.”

Zohara stiffened. She was unnaturally white. “Can you not give me just a little more time?” she finally whispered.

Jebal grimaced, but before he could answer he saw one of his own slaves hurrying toward them.

The African’s strides were purposeful, and Jebal had not a doubt that he was bearing him a message or a summons.

He sighed. Unsure of what to do. Lust warred with his generous nature.

“I will think about it,” he said. “Fila, what is it?”

“The bashaw summons you, my lord, to his hall.”

Tension filled Jebal. “Whom is he with?”

“Farouk and Jovar, my lord.”

Jebal looked at his beautiful wife. “I must go. I may summon you tonight, Zohara. If I do, be prepared.”

She nodded, her gaze wide and glued to his.

As they stared at one another, her slave appeared behind her.

Jebal glanced briefly at Murad, then turned and strode away.

But as he left the gardens, he glanced behind him one last time.

Zohara was leaning against her slave, gripping his arm, watching him, her expression taut with fear.

“Alex?” Murad asked in a low tone of voice.

“I have had another narrow escape,” Alex said hoarsely. She was ill. Not even relieved. “Murad? What am I going to do?”

“I do not know. Alex, there is news.”

“What’s happened?” Alex asked quickly.

“The Americans are making some changes,” Murad said, “which is why the bashaw is in conference with Farouk and Jovar.”

Alex dismissed Jebal and his advances from her mind. “What changes?”

“Commodore Morris has been relieved of his command. Effective immediately,” Murad said. “The new commander of the United States squadron is Edward Preble.”

Alex stared. The ramifications of what Murad had just said sank in quickly. “Ohmygod.” Her gaze held Murad’s. “All of our plans have been made. But how will we escape now?”

Murad did not answer her.