“She will not die,” Jebal said, blocking the doctor’s path. He was grim and pale. “She cannot die. I will not allow it.”
The bearded physician shrugged helplessly. He was also white beneath his dark coloring. He had been the first physician called in to diagnose Alex six months ago, when her lethargy had become so great that she refused to get out of bed. Since then, Jebal had paraded every physician from Tripoli to Tunis before his second wife.
“You have seen for yourself how she has grown weaker and weaker every day since last fall when I first examined her,” the small Moor said. “I still suspect poison to be the culprit, but if so, what kind of poison is it? Unless we can find out, and quickly, we shall never be able to administer the antidote in time. And how has it been given? The slave swears no one could have dosed your wife.”
Tears slipped down Murad’s cheeks. His heart beat hard.Please, Allah, let her live,he prayed.Take my soul and body instead.He would gladly sacrifice himself for his mistress, the only woman he had ever loved, a woman who was also his best friend.
Jebal clenched his fists. “This cannot be happening!”
“She is not in pain,” the physician offered.
“If you cannot heal her, then leave!” Jebal shouted suddenly. “All of you are frauds! Every single physician I have brought here is worthless! And I am not paying you another ingot of gold!”
The man picked up his medical bag and walked away, At the door he murmured a brief prayer. “Remember, my lord, Allah welcomes her with open arms.”
Jebal gritted his teeth hard and the Moslem doctor fled.
Murad stood, brushing his eyes with his fist. He knew that poison was not the root of Alex’s illness. He knew that Blackwell’s disappearance—and probable death—were the cause. For one month after being sent to the mines, he had vanished.
But Tripoli had already been in an uproar. The bashaw had been enraged that thePearlhad been destroyed. Jovar, Farouk, and Jebal had all been publicly chastised. Punishments had been meted out. The bashaw refused to summon Farouk, Jovar was temporarily relieved of his command, and Jebal was sent into the desert with a troop of janissaries, ostensibly to attack the roving tribes of Kabyles.
And then the news had come regarding Blackwell’s escape. An escape that should have been impossible. Alex and Murad had spied on the conference held shortly afterward. The bashaw and Jebal, newly returned home, had interviewed the guards. They swore that Blackwell had escaped, alone. But no one had ever escaped the mines, and the reinstated Farouk was suspicious. He thought that Blackwell had been secretly killed and disposed of. Alex had almost fainted when Farouk spoke—his words directed at Rais Jovar.
And Alex had waited and waited for some word from him, a sign that he was free and alive. No word had come. Alex had sent letters to Boston, and even to Preble himself. Preble had not heard from Blackwell. Xavier’s father had finally responded. He did not know where his son was—or if he was alive. William Blackwell begged Alex to notify him if she heard from him—or of him—first.
That letter had changed everything. Alex, already anxious and overwrought, had retreated into herself. By the new year she had refused to leave her room, and soon after, her bed. Murad knew that Alex loved the other man so much that she no longer wished to live now that it was obvious that he was dead. How simple it was. “My lord?”
Jebal turned. “If she dies, you may very well die with her,” Jebal said harshly.
Murad met his gaze. “If she dies, I will die anyway,” Murad said.
Jebal started. “What do you wish to say, Murad?”
Before Murad could speak, an infant’s mewling cry came from outside. Jebal jerked, turning toward the sound. The windows in Alex’s bedchamber were shuttered; the room was shrouded in shadow, and filled with a cloyingly sweet incense. “Paulina’s son was born two days ago,” Jebal said harshly. “But I have hardly noticed. There is no joy for me, only great sorrow. I cannot lose my dearest wife. This is impossible.”
Murad did not respond. He looked at Alex lying so lifelessly on the bed. This was not his mistress. His mistress was a woman of fire and ideas, of courage and conviction.
“Well?” Jebal demanded. The baby boy, two days old, had ceased crying. Birdsong filled the dark, shuttered chamber, a room reeking of death.
But again Murad was interrupted. Both men looked up as Zoe appeared on the threshold of the room. “Has she awoken yet?”
Jebal’s face tightened. “No.”
Zoe’s face remained expressionless. She glided forward and pressed against Jebal. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
Jebal shook her off. “If I ever learn that you were the one to poison Zohara, I shall behead you myself.”
Zoe shrank, her eyes widening. “I did no such thing! I swear to you on the Koran that I have had nothing to do with Zohara’s death!”
“She is not dead yet,” Jebal cried.
Zoe finally regarded Alex, lying on the bed. “She looks dead.”
Murad trembled. His frustration and anger coiled, seedling; he wanted to strike Zoe down. Jebal snarled, “Leave.”
Zoe paled slightly. Licking her lips, she sent one last glance toward Alex, then she turned and crossed the room. Her back was to Jebal, but Murad saw her face. She was smiling slightly, clearly pleased—triumphant.
If Alex lived, Zoe would have to be dealt with. Her hatred for Alex had grown instead of diminishing. Clearly she nursed a vendetta against Murad’s mistress. But it was not Alex’s fault that Jebal never summoned Zoe to his bed anymore. He had gone through a series of new concubines in the past year. He had been too angry to pressure Alex about their relationship in the first weeks after his return from the desert, and then Alex’s sickness had become apparent.
