Chapter 36 #2
Warmth flooding her, Paulina whispered. “Murad, you should not be here! Jebal seeks to have you arrested. I think he intends to put you to death because he is so angry with Zohara.”
“I know,” Murad said grimly. “Will you betray me?” he asked.
Paulina blushed, glancing down at the floor. When she lifted her eyes she was smiling slightly. “Of course not. We have shared far too much, you and I.” Her soft gaze held his. “I have been worried about you.”
He smiled, but it was fleeting. “Will you help me, Paulina?”
She tensed, and the baby released her nipple, wailing. Quickly Paulina rocked her son, guiding her nipple back to his mouth. “I will do anything you ask me to do,” she whispered now, but she was frightened.
Murad was satisfied. “I want you to do two things for me,” he said. And then he explained.
Alex did not expect another visitor. She was sinking rapidly into a deep depression, one born of despair and defeat. She did not rise when Paulina entered her room. All she could think about was that it was noon now, and that at dawn tomorrow Xavier’s head was going to be chopped off.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She hated history, she hated fate.
“May I speak to you?”
“I am not allowed visitors.” Alex did not look up.
“Jebal has given me permission,” Paulina said, coming forward.
“That is a surprise,” Alex said with uncharacteristic bitterness. Still she did not regard Paulina.
Paulina moved swiftly then, and sat down beside her. “I am so sorry he has locked you up.”
Alex nodded.
“Do you think you are with child?”
“I do not know. Hopefully not,” Alex said. She would go insane if she was pregnant, not knowing who the father was. She could not stand the thought of bearing Jebal’s son while Xavier was buried in some anonymous grave, murdered practically by Jebal’s own hand.
Paulina lowered her voice so the two guards standing in the open doorway could not hear. “Murad sent me.”
Alex jerked. Her gaze flew to Paulina’s. “He is all right?” she whispered back.
“Yes. But he is hiding. He asked me to give you this.” Paulina withdrew a scrap of paper from her robes. Her cheeks were burning with guilt.
Alex opened it and read it immediately. It was written in English, which Paulina could not read. Be prepared to escape tomorrow at dawn from the execution square.
Alex looked up, swallowing, her pulse racing wildly. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.
Paulina stood quickly. “I know nothing. I do not know what that note says. He merely asked me to give it to you—and he asked me to speak with Jebal as well.”
Alex also stood. “What did you say to Jebal?”
Paulina hesitated. “I merely told him that he should make you watch Blackwell die.”
And Alex understood.
He wasn’t afraid. Not for himself.
Xavier stood beside the stone block where he would kneel and place his head, his wrists manacled behind his back, four soldiers surrounding him.
It was the crack of dawn. The sky was gray, the sun a rising orange ball on the horizon.
The square was already filled with restless, jeering people.
The children laughed at him, shouting dirty names at him in Arabic; the women hissed and booed.
Xavier remained oblivious—in fact, he did not even hear them.
Alexandra’s image remained in his mind, at once comforting and disturbing.
She might be a spy. It no longer mattered.
He only knew that he had never felt such frighteningly intense feelings for anyone as he did for her—a combination of love and lust, of joy and sadness, of fear and hope, of utter, bitter regret.
He did not care about dying himself. All men must die.
He had had his revenge. Preble would destroy the city and the palace with the information Xavier had passed along.
The United States would win this silly war.
The bashaw would not be able to terrorize the seas, to bribe and blackmail and thieve.
Robert’s soul could cease haunting Sarah and Blackwell House. He could go comfortably to heaven now.
But he did not want Alexandra to die. And he did not want her to remain in Tripoli, damn it, a captive and Jebal’s wife. And what if she was with child? What if she carried his child?
Xavier would be overjoyed, as he had never known joy before—and he would be triply frightened for her. Dear God, was there no way out?
“Blackwell!”
He finally realized that someone was shouting his name. He did not care—but the voice had been urgent and the accent familiar in spite of the noise of the crowd. Xavier looked up.
And met Neilsen’s wide, urgent gaze.
Immediately he knew that something was afoot.
Jebal gripped her wrist. Alex knew he was bruising her, but she could not care. She had eyes only for Blackwell.
How could he be so calm in the face of death? And would he die? Clearly Murad, God bless him, had arranged an escape attempt. But how? And at this eleventh hour, how could it possibly succeed?
Her heart was lodged unpleasantly in her throat. She was ill, nauseated, breathless, and afraid. So deathly afraid for Blackwell.
And she felt Jebal’s eyes burning upon her. He was eager to have her watch Blackwell die.
If Alex had to watch his head roll off that block, she knew she herself would die. She could never bear it.
Alex finally tore her gaze from him. She glanced around the crowd, which was vicious and eager for blood.
There were soldiers milling about everywhere.
Alex despaired. It seemed impossible that Blackwell could escape, much less herself, but she would be prepared to react to anything that came her way. She prayed.
And across the crowd she glimpsed Murad. She bit off a gasp.
Murad held her gaze, then bowed his head, disappearing from view. He was, of course, wearing bedouin robes. Alex saw him a moment later—he was threading his way through the crowd, moving slowly toward her.
The crowd roared.
Alex jerked and saw the bashaw riding forward toward the bloodstained stone block on his bejeweled, pristinely white Arabian horse, Jovar beside him.
Worse, she saw the executioner striding forward, a huge man in flowing robes carrying an unusually large, glinting scimitar with a heavy ivory handle.
Jebal jerked her forward. “Come.”
Alex was propelled toward the center of the square, toward the block where Blackwell stood with four guards. He must have sensed her immediately, because his head whipped around.
Their gazes met.
Alex wanted to rush headlong into his arms, to hold him one last time, to tell him how much she loved him—to tell him good-bye.
As if sensing this, Jebal tightened his grip on her bruised wrist. Alex realized she was panting.
They paused in front of the crowd; Jebal surely wished for her to have a perfect view. The bashaw and Jovar remained mounted on Blackwell’s right, the block where prisoners were beheaded exactly in the center between them.
The crowd saw her and began to cheer and jeer. It took Alex a moment to realize that she had become the focus of their taunts. Her heart, already beating overtime, raced more wildly. How ill and faint she felt. Please, God, she prayed again. Don’t let him die!
“They all know you are a whore,” Jebal spat. “They want your blood as well as his.”
“I don’t care,” Alex said, straightening her shoulders, her back. Blackwell’s gaze held hers again. It was incredibly tender, incredibly soft.
Oh my God. She was bowled over by what she saw in his eyes, and her own closed. He is telling me that he loves me, she thought, and she could not bear it. Grief overwhelmed her.
“Let us proceed,” the bashaw shouted. “Off with his head!”
The crowd cheered.
Blackwell was jerked forward. In another moment he would be pushed to his knees, his cheek pressed to the rough, reddish brown stone.
He was really going to die. Alex was terrified.
And suddenly wild shouts rang out.
Alex had heard these shouts before—in modem movies. They were bloodcurdling Arabic war cries.
Alex turned and saw a horde of horsemen riding through the crowd, scattering the men, women, and children.
The Turks guarding Blackwell moved forward to meet them, blades drawn—instead of closing in around Blackwell, to guard him.
The executioner drew his blade, the bashaw screamed incoherently, and Jovar spurred his horse forward, raising his pistol—pointing it at Blackwell.
Alex jerked free of Jebal with superhuman strength, picking up a stone. She flung it at Jovar as his pistol went off.
The stone hit Jovar’s horse and the horse bolted, so Jovar’s bullet missed Blackwell completely.
Alex turned just in time to see the executioner’s blade landing harmlessly in the ground—but mere inches from Blackwell’s feet. Blackwell kicked him viciously in the groin. The executioner went down.
Blackwell began to run, toward Alex. His hands remained chained behind his back.
And suddenly the horsemen were everywhere. A rider galloped up to Blackwell, gripping his arm. Xavier leapt astride behind the Arab. Alex cheered.
“Bitch!” Jebal dragged her backward. Alex fought him now, wildly, but could not break free of his iron grasp. From the corner of her eye she saw Jovar shooting at Blackwell again, but he missed because the soldiers fighting around him were jostling his frightened horse.
There was hand-to-hand fighting everywhere.
Alex turned to face Jebal, who was enraged. She kicked his shins as hard as she could, but his grip did not loosen. “You won’t escape!” he shouted at her, wrestling her back to him.
Alex darted a wild look over her shoulder and saw that Blackwell was now mounted alone—and riding directly at her.
“Alexandra,” he shouted.
Alex turned and bit down hard on Jebal’s wrist. She tasted blood. He screamed, releasing her abruptly.
Alex reached for Blackwell’s leg as he thundered past her. She caught his thigh and was dragged alongside his horse. The ground burned her sandal-clad feet. The horse’s hooves clipped her ankles. She had never been more determined; she had never been more afraid. She would not let go.
Alex did not think she could continue to hang on. But the horse careened into two other animals whose riders were violently wielding their scimitars. The horse reared, Alex hanging on to Blackwell’s leg desperately. The animal pranced wildly. “Jump up!” he shouted at her.
Alex debated releasing Blackwell’s leg so she could grip the saddle and try to jump up behind him.
Before she could dare try, she was jostled from behind—and abruptly heaved upward.
She scrambled behind Blackwell, putting her arms around him and reaching for the reins.
The gray reared again. Alex looked down and saw Murad beside the gelding’s flanks, his face flushed and wet.
“Go,” he shouted at them. His silver eyes blazed. “Go!”
Alex wrapped her arms around Blackwell’s waist as the steed shot forward in response to them both. Ahead Alex could see the harbor. She realized that they were following two other Arabs.
And someone grabbed her foot.
Alex looked down, panicked, as she began to slide off of the horse. Her hold on Blackwell was so tight that he also slid sideways with her.
It was Jebal. He had appeared out of nowhere. He was hanging on to her, being dragged by the horse, savage, hate-filled determination stamped all over his face.
Alex knew he was not going to release her—and in another moment she would be on the ground. If she did not release Blackwell, he would be pulled off of the horse and recaptured, too.
Alex let go.