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.
31
MURAD LEFTNEILSEN’S, his steps brisk. But his expression was grim.
He held a sack containing Alex’s twentieth-century possessions. He detested what he held. He hated being reminded of the astonishing truth about her, and he feared the consequences of that truth being revealed. He was angry with Alex for trying to convince Blackwell that she was from the future. There was nothing to be gained, nothing except his approval, and Murad was glad Blackwell was using good sense and iron control to remain opposed to her. Murad could not help hoping that they never became lovers again, yet he also wanted Alex to be happy. More important, he wanted her alive.
And Murad had a sense of impending doom.
He kept thinking that Alex and Xavier would be discovered together in the harem, that it was inevitable. And whether or not they were caught in the throes of passion, Blackwell would meet the fate Alex was determined he avoid. Murad could not be happy about that, but his concern was protecting his own mistress. Jebal remained furious with her, and he was also suspicious. Zoe was too clever, and Murad knew she whispered lies in Jebal’s ears. Perhaps she had already learned too much. Alex had told Murad about Zoe’s eavesdropping last night. Murad was afraid that Alex was going to suffer the same fate as her lover.
At all costs, he must prevent that, and the only way was by helping her—them—escape.
Murad would move mountains in order to do so, even though the mere idea of her leaving Tripoli, forever, filled him with astoundingly intense grief.
Neilsen had just suggested to Murad that Alex and Blackwell escape sooner than planned. A Danish merchantman was expected in port any day now. Her next port of call would be Alexandria and than Constantinople. From there she would cruise to Leghorn, where it would be easy for Alex and Blackwell to rendezvous with the American navy.
She might be gone in a matter of days. It was too unbearable to contemplate. Yet circumstances were far too dangerous now for her to remain in Tripoli. Murad wanted to weep.
Instead, he looked down. The sack burned his hand. He felt like going to the harbor and tossing the entire thing into the sea. Bringing these damning possessions back to the palace added to his sense of impending doom. He did not want Alex’s belongings winding up in the wrong hands—hands that would use the truth as a weapon against her, destroying her chances of escaping—destroying her.
He shifted so he could see the shimmering sea. Just past the fortress on the mole, he saw two of the three American warships that were currently blockading Tripoli. If Alex was right, in less than three weeks Preble would begin to bombard Tripoli with his entire naval squadron.
Murad did not want to think about that, it was too frightening. But he had just given a letter to Neilsen to be forwarded to Preble. It had been written in invisible ink by Blackwell, but Murad knew what the lettter contained. While the American had informed the commodore of his well-being and presence inside the palace and his plans to escape, the letter had included a long, laborious analysis of Tripoli’s defenses.
War was in the air. Tripoli was already starving. Murad had a flashing image of cannons booming and the night raging and on fire. He did not think the city could withstand actual battle with the Americans. At least Alex would have already escaped, and she would not be present during such a bloody war. At least she would be somewhere far away, somewhere safe.
With Blackwell.
Murad ignored the pangs of jealousy and bitterness accompanying his thoughts. He knew what he had to do—destroy the evidence of Alex’s past—the evidence that she was from the future. Murad turned and started toward the harbor. And he came face-to-face with two janissaries.
He froze. Every instinct he had warned him of danger. He knew, without a doubt, that they were waiting for him.
The two Turks grinned at him.
Murad whirled, breaking into a run. They set chase. He heard them on his heels, ordering him to stop, shouting at him.
Murad prayed to Allah, turning a corner so tightly that he almost fell. But he did not lose his grip on the sack containing Alex’s things.
And the soldiers were still behind him, their booted footsteps pounding. Murad waited for a bullet to sear him in the back of his head. At least he would die while serving his mistress.
But no pistol sounded. Murad turned another corner and came face-to-face with two more janissaries. He halted, panting, glancing around desperately for a means of escape. There was none.
