Chapter 39
ALEX LAY EXHAUSTED on the small, narrow bunk. She could hardly move—but she would never be able to sleep. For, in spite of the fatigue that was far more than bone deep, exhilaration coursed through her veins. They had escaped.
They had changed history.
Laughter bubbled up and out, from deep within her chest. She chuckled up at the ceiling.
Alex was in Preble’s cabin. The moment she had boarded the squadron’s flagship, he had come forward to bow over her hand, to inquire as to her well-being, and to apologize profusely, on behalf of the United States Government, for the two years she had spent in captivity and all that she had endured. He had insisted she take his cabin.
Alex closed her eyes. It was still so hard to believe. She was free, finally free, with Blackwell. She was on board Preble’s ship, and she had just survived a devastating battle, had lived through one of history’s great moments. Dear God! But now what would happen?
Xavier had risked his life to rescue her; that was clear. Certainly he loved her. Would they not share the rest of their lives together? In any case, there was no question of her ever returning to the twentieth century. The oil lamp had been left behind.
The cabin door opened.
Alex eyes’s pierced through the twilight gloom and she inhaled sharply. Blackwell stood on the threshold, holding aloft a lantern. He stared unblinkingly at her.
Slowly Alex sat up.
And she drank in the sight of him, her heart pounding.
He had not changed his clothes since the battle, although he had obviously washed the dried blood from his face.
He had, of course, long since shaved off his beard.
He was dirty and tattered, his arm in a sling, a bandage on one side of his head … but he was utterly magnificent.
“I did not mean to awaken you,” he said, making no move to enter the cabin.
Alex wet her lips. How she wished to be in his embrace. To hold him, to confess the depth of her feelings for him. “I wasn’t sleeping. How could I? Xavier … thank you.”
His nostrils flared. Something else seemed to flare between them, knowledge, perhaps, that this was meant to be and that the first time, their having missed one another had been a grave universal mistake. “I could not leave you behind in Tripoli, Alexandra,” he said softly.
Alex swung her legs over the side of the bunk. She was still wearing her Moslem clothing. She realized that she must be as filthy and disheveled as he. “Please, come in.”
He hesitated. “It is not correct.”
Alex’s eyes widened. He was worried about her reputation. She smiled faintly. “I don’t give a damn what this entire ship thinks of me. I’m sure that they all think the worst, anyway, because I have lived for two years in a harem.”
“No one thinks anything of that nature,” he said sharply. “No one thinks that you are anything but brave and beautiful.”
His words thrilled her. “Please come in. We have to talk.” She felt herself flushing.
Glancing away from her, he closed the door behind him.
Alex stood, her heart banging very hard, and crossed the room to stand in front of him, mere inches between them. “I owe you my life. How can I possibly express my gratitude?”
His gaze lifted, touched hers. How soft it had become. “You owe me nothing. I did what any American man would do.”
“Xavier.” Tears filled her eyes. Helplessly she reached up and cupped one side of his face. Love ballooned in her chest. She choked on the magnitude of her feelings.
His eyes fluttered closed. He did not move.
Alex’s fingertips stroked his cheek and jaw, the most she could do in that moment to express the depth of her emotions.
And then she was crushed in his arms and their mouths were fusing. Alex felt the joy, all of it, welling from her toes, from her heart, from her soul, and as he kissed her, she began to cry. Thank you, Lord, she thought silently Thank you.
“What is it?” He cupped her face, his fingers long and strong. “Alexandra, why are you crying?” he asked with open concern.
“I am crying because I am so happy,” she whispered.
He stared at her, then finally he smiled, too. And because his smiles were so rare, Alex’s heart turned over, hard. “I am happy, too,” he said.
They lay together in the small bunk, naked and entwined. Xavier’s large hands ran up and down her shoulders, her spine, her arms. Alex sighed.
“I cannot stay with you, as much as I wish to,” he said, kissing her shoulder very, very tenderly. His arms slipped around her and he held her close.
Alex smiled at him, snuggled fully against him. “Everyone already knows what we have been doing, I am sure. If I do not care, why do you?”
“I do care,” he said darkly. Abruptly he sat up.
But instead of standing, he turned and looked down at her, making no effort to leave the narrow bunk.
Alex reached out and rubbed each one of his scarred shoulder blades. He sighed. “Don’t go,” she whispered.
“I must.”
She refused to let him leave. Just the thought made her miss him terribly. Alex rose to her knees and, her breasts swinging against his back, she began to nibble one of his ears. He groaned.
Alex shifted and very sensually began to rub against him. He went still.
She tongued his ear.
“Witch,” he murmured.
Alex slid her hands around his chest, her tongue still in his ear. Then lower, down his flat, tense belly. He tensed even more.
She nipped his neck.
His breath escaped in a rush.
And Alex seized his penis. “Do you really want to leave?”
“No,” he gasped.
They had fallen asleep. Alex awoke alone and cold, her body nude and uncovered. Realizing that Xavier was gone left her stricken with fear. But then her eyes adjusted to the cabin’s darkness and she saw him standing naked by the porthole, staring out to sea.
Alex relaxed. But she had been very frightened, thinking him gone.
“Xavier?”
He turned.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
“That is all?” He hesitated. “I am thinking about home.”
She was silent. “You must be very anxious to return to Boston.”
His reply was odd. “Yes … and no.”
“I don’t understand,” Alex whispered.
“It is hard to explain.” His tone was terse. Signaling her that he did not wish to explain.
Alex’s pulse was running wild again. This was the moment she had been waiting for, a chance to discuss their future together.
But now that the opportunity had arrived, she was so very afraid.
But why? He loved her. His rescue had proved that, as had his lovemaking—at once voracious and greedy, at once gentle and tender. “What will happen now?” she whispered.
Xavier put his back to the porthole but did not walk to her.
“Preble is not through with the bashaw. He will attack again. First, though, he intends to drop you in Tunis on the morrow. The American consul there is very capable. He will arrange your passage back to America. I will enclose a letter to him, as well. You shall travel home with an escort, Alexandra, which Blackwell Shipping shall pay for. You have nothing to fear.”
Nothing to fear. His words were terrifying her. “Xavier, I do not want to return home without you.”
“I will see out this operation.”
Her heart beat harder. “You will continue to fight the bashaw?”
“Yes.” His jaw was set.
“What if this war goes on and on?!” Alex cried.
“It will not. Their defenses are already vastly weakened. Another attack like the last one, perhaps even two, and Tripoli will surrender.”
Alex gripped the sheets. She could hardly breathe. “And then what?”
“And then I will go home.”
A silence fell between them, thick and tense. Alex tried to assimilate what was happening. He had not said he would return home to her.
And he was insisting on fighting this war to its conclusion. Had he only rescued her because it was his patriotic duty to do so? Because he was a nineteenth-century hero?
No! Alex refused to believe it. “I will wait for you in Tunis,” she decided.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He strode forward. “Alexandra, haven’t you learned your lesson? You are an incredibly bold, brave, and intelligent woman, but the Moslem world is cruel and no place for any woman, much less you. You are going home on the next American-bound vessel.”
She stared at him in growing dismay—with growing dread. “I don’t want us to be separated again!” she finally cried.
His entire face seemed to set in stone. He looked away.
Alex didn’t understand. Why was he doing this? He was supposed to tell her that he loved her, supposed to propose marriage to her, wasn’t he? What was this man thinking?
She swiped at her tearing eyes. “Xavier. In case the fact has escaped you, I love you.”
His gaze pierced hers. He did not speak.
Alex began to pant. It was so hard to breathe. And then a thought struck her, hard. “You don’t still believe me to be a spy, do you?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I am not a spy!” she cried. She was on the verge of weeping.
“Xavier, I love you. I came to Tripoli to find you. I am from the twentieth century—where I read all about you—where I fell in love with you. I did travel back in time—I swear it! That is why I have known so many things no average person should know!”
He gazed at her, his dark eyes unusually luminous, glistening even. “Alexandra,” he said hoarsely, “no human being can travel through time.”
She was on her feet. “I did!” She stalked across the room, taking the top sheet with her.
Now it was her turn to stare rigidly out of a porthole.
She was desperately afraid. Would she lose him now, after going through hell to find him, after they had found love and passion and a very real magic for such a very short time? “How do I prove myself to you?”
“You don’t have to prove yourself to me,” he said slowly. His eyes were wet. “Alexandra, I don’t care that you were a spy.”
She turned.
“I love you, too,” he said thickly.