Alex, her face buried now against his chest, shook her head in negation. “No.”
“You’ll feel better if you tell me,” he said softly.
Her glance met his, wildly. She had never seen this side of him before. If only a different cause were the reason for exposing his sensitivity, his compassion, his concern. “I can’t,” she choked. “Maybe, one day, not now.”
“You did what you had to do,” Blackwell told her, his eyes glistening. “You had no choice. Do not blame yourself.”
“There are always choices,” she heard herself say, echoing his very own words spoken so very long ago.
“You had no choice,” he said very firmly. “You are a survivor.”
Their gazes locked. He spoke the very exact words she had spoken, not so long ago, when she had begged him to believe in her.
He bent slowly and kissed her forehead, very tenderly.
Alex felt all of the self-loathing then. She ducked away.
He was still, silent. Alex really hadn’t wanted to reject him, but she hated herself, hated Jebal, even hated him. She started to cry, trying very hard not to. The result was that a few tears streamed silently down her face.
He slid his arm firmly around her waist, as if to anchor her against him. “Bathe. You will feel better.” It was an order and a promise. She could feel his iron will. He would not allow his words to be false.
Alex nodded.
He guided her into the bathing room. Keeping one arm around her, he turned on the faucets and faced her. Suddenly his hands were cupping her face. “Talk to me, Alexandra. Dear God, talk to me.”
“Yes,” Alex whispered, beginning to really cry, “he hurt me very much.”
“I’m sorry. I will kill him. I promise,” Blackwell cried.
Alex shook her head. “I hate this place. I hate him. I only want to escape.” She was clinging to his wrists.
“I will kill him anyway.”
Alex wept. She did not want to cry in front of Blackwell, but could not stop herself. And Blackwell folded her in his arms. Alex sobbed harshly, bitterly, in defeat, against his chest.
When the tub began to overflow, her fist opened. A bright, bloodred piece of silk fluttered into the water, where it was washed away.
She had stopped crying but had not bathed when Murad dashed into the bathing room. Alex now sat on the side of the tub, wiping her eyes, while Blackwell sat on a small stool, quietly watching her. The silence had become strangely companionable. They both looked up.
Murad looked from Alex to Blackwell, an odd expression on his face, then he said, “I just received word. The Danish ship has anchored outside of the harbor. She will berth tomorrow—and leave at first tide the day after that.”
Alex’s heart began to pound. Her gaze held Murad’s, comprehension sizzling between them, then moved and connected with Blackwell’s. He was on his feet. “That is very good news,” he said savagely. His eyes pierced hers. He smiled triumphantly.
Alex was also standing. She could hardly believe what was happening—could hardly believe that tomorrow they would make their escape.
“What the hell is that?” Blackwell suddenly said.
Alex heard the thundering noise of racing booted steps coming down the corridor outside of her rooms at the very same time. She stiffened with dread. Murad, also understanding, turned white.
The door to Alex’s bedroom burst open, slamming loudly against the wall. Alex was frozen, incapable of movement. Both Murad and Blackwell seemed equally paralyzed.
The soldiers pounded into the bedroom. And then Jovar stood on the threshold of the bathing room. He ignored Alex and Murad—he had eyes only for Blackwell. A wolflike grin spread across his thin face.
In that instant. Alex knew. History was being faithful to itself. They had been discovered. There would be no escape. And Blackwell would die.
“Arrest him,” Jovar snapped.
Five Turks swarmed all over Blackwell, who did not move. His gaze locked with Alex’s as his wrists were jerked behind his back, manacles slapped on and locked.
