“Alexandra,” Jebal said, and brightened. “How pretty. Of course, after your conversion to Islam, you will take a proper Moslem name. Perhaps Zohara. It suits you. Zohara means fire and light.” His gaze moved to her hair.
Alex stiffened. “I beg your pardon. I am not converting to your faith.” There was no way in hell that she would do so.
Jebal was unperturbed. “You must, and you shall. Otherwise I cannot lie with you.”
Alex stared, his words sinking in. How was she going to survive her captivity if she was forced to sleep with this man? “I am an American, and I protest everything that has happened to me—that is happening now. You seem kind. You seem reasonable. Surely you understand that I have rights. But I have been kidnapped off of the street like some animal—like some inanimate object. I ask to be set free. Please.” She did not care what the French slave trader thought of her sudden change of nationality.
Jebal’s gaze wavered.
The bashaw laughed. “This one is fire, Jebal. I want her for you. Zohara. The name suits her well. She will breed you fierce, red-haired sons.”
The Frenchman gripped Alex’s wrist hard, but smiled and spoke to the bashaw. “She is a wild one, my lord, and I am sure she will please you and your son to no end once you have tamed her and taught her her place. In time, she will understand how she must behave now that she is in Tripoli.”
“Yes, certainly.” The bashaw’s eyes glinted. “An American woman. How fitting, eh?”
Alex was in shock over the bashaw’s statement that she would breed sons for Jebal. And she did not like the look now smoldering in the bashaw’s eyes.
“She is different,” Jebal mused, staring at Alex. “I have never seen a woman this bold, this fierce—or this beautiful.”
Alex was desperate. She spoke only to Jebal, her gaze holding his. “Please, Jebal. Please set me free.”
Jebal’s jaw flexed. It seemed to Alex that he was kind, and that her appeal was not falling upon deaf ears. But the Frenchman was furious. He jerked roughly on her arm.
And the bashaw laughed again. Heartily, causing everyone to turn and regard him. “Zohara, know this. Even if my son were to set you free, my word here is the law, and I would disallow it.”
Alex was filled with dread. She believed the bashaw’s declaration, she sensed his will—and his hatred. This was a man without compunction. This was a man who could starve his slaves and work them to death. She had read about it—it was common amongst all the Barbary states—but she had seen it for herself firsthand that morning.
Alex did not hesitate. Again she implored Jebal. “I wish to see the American consul. Please.” If anyone could help her, it was he.
“There is no American consul here anymore. The American dog fled Tripoli when we tore your flag down,” the bashaw said, his eyes gleaming. “Like the rest of your people, he was a coward, all words, nothing more.”
Alex’s hopes sank like a rock. “Are there any Americans here?” She was thinking about Blackwell.
“Perhaps a few captives, slaves who have been here for many years,” Jebal responded, his gold-flecked eyes soft with sympathy.
Alex hesitated, wanting to ask about Blackwell. Instinct told her that now was not the lime, and she remained silent.
“Nothing will happen to you that is unpleasant,” Jebal said kindly. “I am going to purchase you, wild Alexandra, and I will make you very happy. And you shall be named Zohara, for it suits you perfectly.”
Alex stared. And did he hope that she would breed him sons?
“But I understand that you are frightened and overwrought. After all, you are but a woman, in a strange land. My father spoke the truth. The American consul fled when we declared war against your country. But in his absence, the Danish consul has been the acting American chargé d’affaires. I will allow Neilsen to visit you.”
Alex gripped Jebal’s sleeve impulsively. “Thank you.”
He was pleased and he smiled broadly.
The bashaw grunted. “You will ruin her as you have ruined your wife, Jebal. Soon she will be ordering you about instead of the other way around.”
Jebal’s easy expression vanished. He stiffened, his face tensely set. “Zoe does as I wish.”
The bashaw spat.
Jebal folded his arms. He stared at the ground sullenly, like a young boy.
“You will never be a successful ruler if you do not know when to punish those defying your wishes,” the bashaw said harshly. “Zoe should be bastinadoed a few times. That would teach her her place.”
“I know when to punish those deserving of punishment,” Jebal said, not looking up.
