But as she fell into step with the Frenchman, a half dozen black slaves behind them, she said, “Where are we going? What happens now?” Her voice was unsteady.
Rigaux smiled at her, although his blue eyes remained cold. “I have good news. Word of your appearance has already spread through the city, and the bashaw wishes to see you before any other possible buyers.”
Alex stumbled. She lengthened her strides to catch up to her captor, trying to assimilate what she had been told. The idea of coming face-to-face with the man her research told her was responsible for terrorizing American shipping for more than a dozen years frightened her. But that meant that they were going to the palace. Was that where Xavier Blackwell was? Was her every step taking her closer to him?
Tense with a combination of dread and anticipation, Alex hardly noticed her surroundings as they marched down the hard, sandy street. Several heavily laden camels, driven by men and boys, passed her group. Alex and her entourage walked by a mosque surrounded by date trees, and then they passed through a small souk.
The palace loomed before them. It was no longer a monument of history, but a real fortress complex. Alex stumbled as an escort of Turkish soldiers fell into step beside them as they passed through the open front gates—the very same gates Alex had not been able to pass through the day before—almost two hundred years in the future.
“Jusef Coramalli’s bodyguards,” the Frenchman said with a smile.
Alex’s mouth was dry. She stared up at the walls as they approached the first gate. Yesterday real, live cannons had not been mounted on those walls.
More soldiers guarded the front gate just inside the ward. The Frenchman was halted and interrogated briefly, then waved on by. Alex’s heart began to pound.
The outer ward was crowded with soldiers and royal supplicants—Turks, Arabs, bedouins, priests, and Europeans. It no longer ressembled the courtyard of the palace that Alex had visited last night. They passed into a smaller ward. At one end, on a dais, a heavily clothed official sat, attended by numerous slaves. The Frenchman gripped Alex’s arm and propelled her to the foot of the dais. He bowed deeply.
The official, who Alex would later learn was the chiaus, the admiral of the bashaw’s private guard, studied Alex while the Frenchman spoke at great length. After some time—and Alex could not fathom what Rigaux could possibly be saying—they were again allowed to pass inside.
Alex was led into a huge paved piazza supported by marble pillars. At the far end of the courtyard, atop a set of marble steps, was a golden throne. No one sat there.
Alex could hardly breathe. Her gaze wandered—she was looking for Blackwell. Like her, he was a captive. But he was an important captive, which meant he might have some degree of liberty and he might actually be roaming about the palace. “Where are we?” she whispered.
“The bashaw holds court here. He will be with us shortly; he knows we are here.”
Her pulse pounded with irregular force. Alex clawed her robes, trying to keep a grip on her wits. The marble door atop the stairs opened. A short, bearded man clad in a crimson velvet vest over a gold and purple tunic stepped through it, a huge, bejeweled turban upon his head. He was followed by another man, also wearing a short vest over a colorful tunic, with flowing white trousers, yellow stockings, and red shoes. Both men had a white mantle pinned to one shoulder, the pin consisting of diamonds and gems. Both men had bejeweled, ceremonial swords tucked into their solid gold belts.
The Frenchman knelt.
The bashaw waved him up. Both the bashaw and the younger man stared at Alex.
Alex’s face was burning. She was faint with anxiety, with dread.
The Frenchman stood. Before Alex knew what he was doing, he had whipped off her headdress and her veil, revealing her face. He said nothing. Alex felt her face flushing. She tensed. The slave trader put his hand on her robes. Alex looked at him, realized his intention, and cried out.
The Frenchman ripped her robe open, jerking it off of her shoulders and down to her waist. Alex was wearing nothing beneath it.
She stood very still with her breasts exposed, her cheeks burning. She was frightened, furious, and humiliated.
The bashaw stared.
Alex regarded the ground, trying to count to a hundred. This was nineteenth-century Tripoli. She was a captive and a Christian and a woman; her feelings did not matter. These men, she decided, were all pigs.
The man behind the bashaw moved decisively forward.
Alex was compelled to look up and she started. He was close to her own age, slim and olive skinned, with hazel eyes. His face was almost too handsome; some might have called him pretty. Yet it was a very pleasant face, unlike that of the stem-eyed bashaw. His hair was a dark, sandy brown color.
“I am Jebal,” he said, smiling. His smile reached his eyes. “The bashaw’s son and the bey of Tripoli.”
Alex stared at him with hostility, refusing to answer, not when she stood before him bare breasted. The Frenchman jerked on her arm, sending her a warning glance.
Jebal gave the slave trader a hard look, reaching out toward Alex. Alex flinched, thinking he meant to touch her. Instead, he pulled her robe up, covering her. “What is your name?” Jebal asked. His English was almost perfect, nearly without accent.
Alex was so grateful she almost swooned. “Alex,” she said hoarsely.
“That is a strange name.” He was still smiling, into her eyes.
“It’s … it’s really Alexandra.”
