Chapter 25
XAVIER SAT ON the terrace of the bagnio with Tubbs and the French scribe.
He was exhausted. In fact, he had never been so tired in his entire life, but he forced himself to think.
For in less than two weeks time, he intended to execute the mass escape of his crew along with the simultaneous destruction of the Pearl.
Everything was falling into place. Commodore Morris had agreed to support the escape with a covering and rescue operation.
The precise location of the rendezvous had been agreed upon, as had the exact time and date.
The bribes had already been placed. Now it was merely a matter of leaving the prison, setting the Pearl on fire, making it undetected through the city in the ensuing chaos, and fighting their way out of the eastern gate.
Xavier did not fool himself. The odds were not favorable; too much could go wrong.
Alexandra Thornton’s lovely, seductive image came to mind.
Xavier stood, recalling too well their last encounter.
He was still ashamed of his behavior, but he could not regret kissing her.
Unfortunately, his lust for her had merely been whetted.
Next time he must exercise greater self-control.
She had let too much information slip. He no longer had any doubt that she was a spy—one with very valuable sources of information.
He would still give her the opportunity to escape with him and his men.
As an enemy agent, her life was in danger every moment she remained in Tripoli.
It went against his nature to leave a woman, any woman, even a spy, in such dangerous circumstances.
At the exact moment he and his men left the bagnio, he would send word to her to meet him at the eastern gate.
If he and his men were caught, trapped, or died, she would suffer the very same fate.
The idea was somehow highly disturbing. Yet she was clever enough to comprehend the exact risks she was taking. On a certain level, he could not help but admire her courage.
Shoving her image aside, Xavier walked to the edge of the terrace and stared into the night and at the shimmering, ink blue sea.
The moon was still mostly full. Just beyond the entrance of Tripoli Harbor, he saw a Swedish brig cruising past a British man-of-war at anchor. But no American ships were in sight.
The Americans had given up their blockade of Tripoli two weeks ago. Just when the city was beginning to feel more than a pinch. What kind of decision had Morris made?
Unfortunately, Xavier had little respect for the commodore.
His reputation preceded him. Alexandra had been right.
Morris was inept and he should have never been given command of the United States Mediterranean squadron to begin with.
Xavier sighed. How he wished someone other than Morris would be covering the escape.
But surely Morris could manage to send out two gunboats while covering the rescue with the necessary broadsides and gunfire from his flagship.
“You have a visitor, Cap’n,” Tubbs murmured softly.
Xavier turned. It was like speaking of the devil. His jaw tightened as he stared in disbelief at Alexandra rushing toward him up the stairs, her slave behind her. They were, of course, both disguised as bedouins.
Was she mad? Or did she wish to destroy them both?
And he must not remember the wild passion he had been consumed with when he had held her in his arms. At all costs.
“Xavier.”
There was a wild light in her eyes. He was wary, alert. “I hope that you have a very good reason for coming here tonight.”
“I do.” Her gaze flashed. She grabbed his wrist and dragged him away from the scribe and Tubbs. “Morris has been relieved of his command, effective now.”
Xavier stared, shocked.
“How will we escape?” she cried.
All of their planning was ruined, destroyed, by this incredible twist of fate.
Because Xavier had been in the military long enough to know that it would be almost impossible to gain approval of this plan, at this time, by whoever was newly in command.
It had been hard enough to convince Morris to approve.
Whoever succeeded him would want to analyze the entire Mediterranean situation first. Goddamn it.
“Captain Rodgers has temporary command of the squadron,” she said, watching him closely. “What are we going to do?”
Xavier suddenly focused on her. “How did you learn of this. Alexandra?”
“The news is all over the palace. Murad told me. The bashaw, Farouk, Jovar, and Jebal have been meeting all afternoon.” Her tone was anxious. “Can Rodgers give us the go-ahead?”
“Only if he is a very brave man,” Xavier said, trying to understand her. She appeared to be as distraught as he was. Why? Was he wrong about her? But how could he be wrong? Or was this some kind of elaborate trap on her part?
“Most military men are overly cautious,” she said bitterly.
“Once again, you are correct. Just how familiar are you with naval men?”
She met his gaze. “My … hobby is the study of naval history.”
“Yes.” he said slowly, “so you have said.”
Their gazes remained locked.
The memory of how she had felt and tasted hit him hard then. Constricting his lungs, causing his blood to rush and pool in his loins.
They were in the midst of a crisis, but the unholy idea was crossing his mind—why not? She is already here. She is not a lady, she is a spy. I will make her weep with pleasure. Dear God, why not? Just this one single time.
Her eyes had turned a darker shade of green. Her lashes lowered. Xavier knew that she understood the new direction his thoughts had taken. Her cheeks were flushed.
And the night was vast around them, vast and silent and starlit and still.
Xavier no longer heard the quiet murmurs of the slaves who had yet to sleep, or the snores of those who did.
He no longer saw Tubbs sitting beside Quixande, or the soldiers in the courtyard below.
In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult to think.
He was sweating, even though he wore nothing but a pair of thin cotton trousers.
His shoulders stiff, he turned his back on her, trying to get a grip on himself.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered from behind him.
She was wearing perfume. He hadn’t noticed it before, something light, faintly sweet, and spicy. Exotic. He noticed it now.
“Xavier?”
He folded his arms, but did not face her. “I do not know.” He wished to tell her to leave. But the words died unspoken in his throat.
She touched his arm from behind. A single touch that felt like a caress. “There must be a way.”
He turned slowly. Instantly their gazes collided, locked. Why not? They were both captives, a man and a woman, the night was old, dark … society’s rules could not apply. “I am tired, Alexandra. Good night.”
Her eyes widened as he shoved past her, striding down the steps. But he strained to listen—and heard and felt her following him.
His pulse raced now, his mouth was absolutely dry, and he was very hard. His entire body felt clammy. There might never be another opportunity. Life was fragile in the bagnio.
He paused outside of his cubicle and looked at her.
She was silent, but everything was there in her eyes.
Unable to speak, he waited, and she moved past him into the cubbyhole chamber.
He followed, almost in disbelief. Then he dropped down the woven cane shade, which served as a door.
She stood in the center of the cell, facing him, breathing shallowly.
He clenched his fists. He was mad. Insane. To be doing this.
“I am scared,” she said.
He believed her. “I won’t hurt you.”
She smiled, but only for an instant, into his eyes. “I know.”
Suddenly she seemed to be the guileless captive, Vera, not the treacherous spy. Unaware of what he was doing, Xavier reached out and touched her smooth cheek. Her skin was like silk. Touching her was heaven.
Her mouth opened, she breathed his name. Her eyes glistened.
He lifted her chin and bent. Their mouths brushed. Once, twice. Oh God, Xavier thought. Emotions so powerful, so intense, suddenly immobilized him, while his heart galloped at a pace it had never endured before.
He held her face, staring.
As she began to unwind the kaffiyeh slowly, he was mesmerized.
Something he could not fathom, perhaps was even afraid to understand, pulled at him from deep inside.
She pulled the headdress off of her head.
Her red hair was unbound. She lifted up her tresses, allowing them to spill over her shoulders, back, and bound breasts.
He took a step back, releasing her. He had to. It was either that or strangle from lack of air.
She shrugged off her tunic. Images were flashing through his mind, images from the recurring dream. He saw them racing through Tripoli, past burning houses and mosques, racing for their lives, hand in hand.
He shoved his thoughts aside. She was unwinding the strips of linen binding her breasts, and he stared helplessly. He heard himself say, “You are so very beautiful.”
She stood bare-breasted before him. “I am in love with you, Xavier.”
He looked up, into her eyes, startled. He did not believe her, did he? Yet he could not look away. He was shaking.
She stood uncertainly, her red hair curling over her broad shoulders and full breasts, her nipples erect.
He touched her shoulder. She inhaled. His hand drifted down her arm, then over her breast.
She swayed toward him.
And he moved. Like lightning. He seized her; she clung. Their mouths met, opened, fused. Her bare breasts were crushed against his equally bare chest.