He was aware of softness, coolness, and silk.
He wasn’t sure where he was, but for the first time in a very long time he actually felt comfortable. He had been sleeping deeply, and he felt curiously refreshed—and almost vital again. Whatever he was sleeping on was suspiciously soft, and felt almost like a plush down mattress. His head seemed to be nestled in a fluffy pillow, and his body seemed to be caressed by silk.
Clearly he wasn’t outside. The hellish, blazing sun did not beat down upon his head and body, turning his skin black while torturing him. Instead, a gentle, whisper-soft, cool breeze fanned his face and arms, which rested atop the silky fabric covering him.
And his stomach, while hungry, was not so empty that it ached.
He was afraid he was dreaming. For as sleep continued to leave him in slow, creeping stages, his memory began to return, and it was not possible that he was so well cared for. He recalled his escape from the mines, his capture by the fierce Kabyles, and another, crueler slavery, where he was shackled to the plow and worked as if he were an ox or a mule. He recalled starving. He recalled burning. He recalled the kind Jewish merchant who had helped him escape. The merchant had been murdered by bandits, his possessions plundered. Xavier, half-dead, had been left on the road to die.
And the slave trader had found him there just outside of some small, anonymous oasis village, and he had added him to his human collection of wares.
But where was he now?
Xavier was afraid to open his eyes. But he did.
And his gaze widened.
He was in a small, immaculate room tiled in blue and white. A simple woven rug covered the floor. A single window was open, and outside Xavier could see lush blooming gardens. A fan rotated slowly overhead.
He did lie on a thick mattress on the floor. The sheet covering his naked body was silk—there was no mistake about it. Xavier realized that he was caressing the folds with the fingers of one hand, relishing the sensuous feel.
He had never thought to sleep on anything other than the hard ground again, or to ever again feel a fabric like silk in his hands.
And beside his shoulder was a low, small table containing a tray. Slowly Xavier sat upright. Disbelieving. On the tray was a pitcher of tea and a plate of figs accompanied by a wedge of goat cheese.
His stomach lurched. He salivated.
Xavier picked up the pitcher and drank and drank, the tea running down his face and beard and chest. When he had finished the tea he reached for a fig and popped it into his mouth, chewing voraciously. Nothing hadevertasted so good.
“Xavier—you’re awake!”
He froze. He could not believe his ears—or, an instant later, his eyes.
He had not forgotten her. Although slavery had made him mindless, her image had remained engraved on his mind, in the very back, always there, a reminder of the past, somehow haunting him. But he had forgotten how beautiful she was. He had forgotten the impact she had on him. But this time was different.
This time there was something else. Something more than a stunning physical attraction and a deep admiration for her unusual character. Something else very much like joy was welling up slowly, pulsating throughout his entire being, from deep inside his soul.
She was crying as she approached him.
Xavier used the back of his hand to wipe the tea from his beard. He did not remove his gaze from hers. “You have saved my life.”
“I know.” She sank down beside him, but did not try to touch him.
His pulse rioted, raced. “Alexandra.” He wet his lips. Emotions he did not understand—was afraid to understand—overwhelmed him, and for a moment he could not speak. “Thank you.”
She smiled slightly, through her tears, and said the strangest thing. “Now I have your soul.”
Xavier stared.
“The Chinese believe that when one person saves the life of another, that person has the other one’s soul—forever.” Her gaze was green and intense.
Xavier was afraid that she might be right.
Not for the first time, Zoe crept into Zohara’s room. Zohara was with Jebal. He had summoned her to dine with him, and probably to share his bed afterward.
Not a single oil lamp was on, which was fine with Zoe as she carefully closed the door behind her. Her pulse raced, but not with fear, with excitement. Murad was also with Zohara and Jebal, so she was certain that she would not be discovered as she searched Zohara’s room.
She could not shake the image of the small metallic blue oil lamp from her mind. She sensed that it was important to Zohara, and that it held some clue about her—perhaps the entire key to who she really was and what she was hiding. Zoe was determined to find it—to steal it.
