Chapter 30 #2
“It has been a stagnant war, with very little action.” Alex’s heart raced and she managed a smile. “In early August, and I am not sure of the exact date, Preble will attack Tripoli with all of his forces. He will even attack the palace itself. That is the real reason we must escape immediately.”
Blackwell stared at her, turning oddly white beneath his sun-darkened skin. “My God! You know our plans of war?” he cried.
Alex backed up, also losing color. She had made a monumental mistake. She realized that now, too late.
He pounced on her, seizing her shoulders, hauling her up close. “And this is my second question. Whom do you work for, dear, sweet Alexandra? Or should I call you Mrs. Thornton? Or Lilli Zohara?”
Alex shook her head. “How can you still think me a spy?”
“Whom do you spy for?” he nearly shouted.
“I saved your life,” she cried. “And you still do not trust me? Maybe Neilsen told me all of this.”
He threw her away. “You are obviously a spy, and I have known it from the first. Otherwise you would not remain here, when you could leave so easily, or have so much valuable and secret information. Do you work for us—or against us—Alexandra?”
Alex stared, very afraid. How could Xavier still believe the worst of her? She had been so certain that his suspicions were buried along with the past. But she had been wrong.
What should she do now? What should she tell him? How much could she tell him?
“Answer me,” he said very dangerously.
“I am not a spy. I love my country. I love you.”
He laughed, the sound bitter, mocking.
“It’s true.”
“Everything is true with you,” he said harshly, his eyes flashing.
Alex inhaled, wounded by his tone; worse, frightened and desperate. “Xavier, I am different.”
“That has been obvious from the start.”
She forced herself to remain standing, to keep her shoulders squared. “My real name is Alexandra Thornton, and I am an American, one loyal to my country. I am not a spy. I am …”
“What?”
“A time traveler.”
He looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was born in Connecticut in November of 1973. When I was last in New York City, where I lived until recently, it was the summer of 1996. I was a graduate student at Columbia University. My specialty was—is—naval history.”
He had not said a word. Now, he laughed. “Come, Alexandra, that is surely not the best you can do?”
“I swear to you that I am from the future. I swear, Xavier! That is why I know so much! I was studying this war, and the one before it, between the United States and France. I read about you. I.…” She faltered.
She had already declared her love for him once.
She did not think she should make herself any more vulnerable by declaring her love for him again.
“That is absurd,” he snapped. “I am disappointed in you, Alexandra. You could have come up with a better story—even insisting that you work for us.”
“I am not a spy.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. I do love you.
“That will not work,” he said tightly.
“Murad believes me,” Alex flung.
“I don’t give a damn what your slave believes!” He was shouting again.
“You will wake up the entire harem.”
He folded his arms, glaring at her. “And I am supposed to trust you in this matter of escape?”
She stormed across the room, her fists balled, and began to swing wildly at him. He caught her wrists, restraining her. “Yes!” she shouted. “You had better trust me, damn you, Blackwell! I saved your life, remember?”
His grip eased. His expression changed. Something infinitely sad flitted through his eyes. “How could I ever forget?” He released her, turning away.
Alex blinked furiously, watching him reach for the door to Murad’s antechamber. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”
He did not answer, not even pausing, slipping from her room.
Alex hugged herself, panting, her heart banging hard, hurting now, badly, inside of her chest. Why was this happening this way?
Why? Why wasn’t he in love with her—enough so to believe her at her word, to trust her with his heart?
And how could she prove to him that she was a time traveler, not a spy?
Her passport! She would show him her American passport, not the forged one.
Surely that would be the proof he needed!
She would send Murad to Neilsen’s to fetch it tomorrow, along with the rest of her belongings.
Once he saw the American document and everything else, he would believe the truth—he had to.
But Alex gripped herself in despair and fear.
She must finally admit the truth to herself.
Secretly she was afraid that it was never going to work out the way she had been dreaming that it would.
Secretly she was afraid that Blackwell would walk away from her and return to Boston, that they would never become lovers, that her love was one sided—and that she would remain forever trapped and alone in the nineteenth century.
Alex was, deep down, terrified that she was an utter romantic fool.
And then Alex realized that she had heard a small scratching sound outside of her door.
She froze. Recalling all the shouting they had done with absolute dread. She ran to the door and whipped it open—to find Zoe standing there. In that instant when the two women came face-to-face, Zoe smiled widely.
How much had she heard? They had been discussing escape, Preble’s war plans, and Alex’s true identity, dear God. And she had called him by name too many times to count.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Zoe said with a smirk. It was a blatant lie and they both knew it. Alex closed her eyes. She was shaking with fear. If Zoe had heard anything, Alex was as good as dead—and so was Blackwell.