It was warm in the room. But the latticework shutters were already wide open and a cool evening breeze was sweeping inside from the sea. Walking over to one of the tables, he stooped, pouring himself a glass of lemonade. He thought about the past evening, wondered how much time he had before he would be pressed to reveal his decision. He thought about the almond-eyed Moslem woman who had been disguised as a bedouin. Why did he keep thinking about her? It made no sense.
He heard voices outside of his door. Xavier became still, listening intently, growing annoyed. A man spoke with one of his guards. They used the lingua franca. He knew enough French, Spanish, and Italian from all of his voyages to make out what they were saying. He did not want to view another slave girl tonight.
A knock sounded and his door opened. Xavier’s arms were crossed over his chest. His jaw was flexed. He was about to dismiss the two soldiers and the pair of slaves, one of whom was male, the other female. But his mouth opened, and closed. His heart slammed to a halt.
He stared at the girl. Out of almond-shaped green eyes, she stared back at him.
He was shocked. It was her, the woman from the slave market, the one who had worn the bedouin disguise.
“May we come in?” the male slave asked.
Xavier nodded, his gaze on her face—a striking face with high cheekbones and full lips. Her hair was braided tightly against her head in a hundred strands, perhaps more, but it did not detract from her strong, startling beauty. His gaze dropped and widened. He had never seen a woman with such a body before. He could see the tendons and muscles in her arms and shoulders. Her body was as striking as her face—and soft where it should be soft. She was full breasted and long legged.
And he was as hard as a rock.
She had dropped her eyes during his inspection. She was flushed. She might be a mere slave, but she was a woman, and from the looks of her, not native, either. He was embarrassing her.
“Please,” he said. “Do not be afraid. My name is Xavier Blackwell.” He could not smile. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to make love to her, almost violently, immediately. But he would not do such a thing. Not unless she was willing, as eager as he.
Her glance lifed. Then she looked at her companion, as if for encouragement. He spoke for her. “My, er … Yes, Vera speaks English.” He was flushing, too.
“Vera,” Xavier said slowly, wondering about the male slave’s blush. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”
Her gaze shot to his. Her eyes were wide, uncertain. “Thank you.”
She spoke so softly that he could hardly hear her. He glanced at the male slave. “You may leave us. I won’t hurt her. I swear on the Bible to that.”
The silver-eyed slave smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Xavier saw that sweat beaded on his brow and his upper lip—he was nervous, frightened. Xavier frowned.
“Very well. If … if you need me. I shall be outside the door.”
Xavier nodded, his gaze shifting to the woman. She was hugging herself, but her eyes remained fixed on him.
The male slave left.
“Vera,” he said softly. “Where are you from?”
She hesitated.
She was either shy or cautious. He said, “I saw you in the slave market this morning. That was you, was it not?”
“Yes. It was me.”
His heart seemed to stop before it resumed a wild cadence. “You’re American!”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He stared at her, trying to assimilate this, and then the full implications of what she had revealed hit him, and he was furious. She was an American, his countrywoman, but enslaved by the bashaw. He was outraged. It cooled his lust considerably. He could never make love to her now.
He moved toward her; she tensed. “How did you come to be captured?” he demanded, pausing directly in front of her. “How long have you been in Tripoli? No one in the United States knows of any American women held in captivity here. Who is your master?”
She spoke thickly. “My master is Jebal.”
Xavier could not help it He was jealous. He had traveled around the world enough times to be an utter realist. This woman lived in the harem and she was a slave. She was exotic and beautiful. Jebal had to have used her; others probably had, too. A decision was made before he was even aware of making it. He would attain her release—or escape—along with that of his men and himself. “Have they hurt you?”
She took a breath. “It’s been difficult,” she said. Her eyes never left his face. She gazed at him with an intensity that was almost unsettling.
And her eyes continued to make his heart hammer as if he were a nervous schoolboy. “Vera, I am so sorry for what has happened. On behalf of my country, my government, I apologize. I want you to know that you have a friend and ally in myself.”
