“It will not. Their defenses are already vastly weakened. Another attack like the last one, perhaps even two, and Tripoli will surrender.”
Alex gripped the sheets. She could hardly breathe. “And then what?”
“And then I will go home.”
A silence fell between them, thick and tense. Alex tried to assimilate what was happening. He had not said he would return home to her.
And he was insisting on fighting this war to its conclusion. Had he only rescued her because it was his patriotic duty to do so? Because he was a nineteenth-century hero?
No! Alex refused to believe it. “I will wait for you in Tunis,” she decided.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He strode forward. “Alexandra, haven’t you learned your lesson? You are an incredibly bold, brave, and intelligent woman, but the Moslem world is cruel and no place for any woman, much less you. You are going home on the next American-bound vessel.”
She stared at him in growing dismay—with growing dread. “I don’t want us to be separated again!” she finally cried.
His entire face seemed to set in stone. He looked away.
Alex didn’t understand. Why was he doing this? He was supposed to tell her that he loved her, supposed to propose marriage to her, wasn’t he? What was this man thinking?
She swiped at her tearing eyes. “Xavier. In case the fact has escaped you, I love you.”
His gaze pierced hers. He did not speak.
Alex began to pant. It was so hard to breathe. And then a thought struck her, hard. “You don’t still believe me to be a spy, do you?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I am not a spy!” she cried. She was on the verge of weeping. “Xavier, I love you. I came to Tripoli to find you. I am from the twentieth century—where I read all about you—where I fell in love with you. I did travel back in time—I swear it! That is why I have known so many things no average person should know!”
He gazed at her, his dark eyes unusually luminous, glistening even. “Alexandra,” he said hoarsely, “no human being can travel through time.”
She was on her feet. “I did!” She stalked across the room, taking the top sheet with her. Now it was her turn to stare rigidly out of a porthole. She was desperately afraid. Would she lose him now, after going through hell to find him, after they had found love and passion and a very real magic for such a very short time? “How do I prove myself to you?”
“You don’t have to prove yourself to me,” he said slowly. His eyes were wet. “Alexandra, I don’t care that you were a spy.”
She turned.
“I love you, too,” he said thickly.
These were the words Alex had been waiting a lifetime to hear—if not many lifetimes—but now they did not bring joy and exhilaration. She remained sick, terrified. “Then return to America with me!”
“I cannot. I have my duty to perform.”
“You have done your duty to your country,” Alex snapped, enraged. “You spent two years in captivity, for godsakes; let someone else die now fighting the bashaw!”
“I am avenging my brother,” Xavier said in a whisper. “Whom the bashaw’s corsairs killed.”
Alex stared.
His expression changed. “I am avenging you.”
Stunned, Alex did not speak.
“I have no choice, Alexandra,” he said. His eyes were hard. “Not in this.”
