Alex barged into her room.
Murad was on her heels. They were both panting and breathless. He slammed the door closed. “The damnable stain,” he said tersely.
Alex followed him to her small bathing room, sinking down on the edge of the small, sunken marble bath. Murad turned on the gold shell-shaped faucets. Alex watched the water beginning to flow. It was warm, heated by natural hot springs. Her pulse was pounding. And all they had done was talk.
But he was even more striking and powerful than she remembered. And escape was on his mind—escape with her.
Murad picked up a sponge and a bar of laundry soap. “I don’t know how you persuaded me to help you.”
Alex stood, taking off her vest and stepping out of her trousers. She stepped into the water. Immediately it turned brown. “I wonder what he has to do before he can escape. Other than destroy thePearl.And does he really think he can escape with an entire ship’s crew?”
Murad stared at her, then, as if having been in a trance, he shook his head. “He wants to be ransomed. But you are right. If and when he refuses to captain a ship for the bashaw, this period of gracious hospitality will end.”
“There is no if, only when. What do you think will happen then?”
“I don’t know. I have enough to worry about right now, with you panting after Blackwell.”
Alex blushed. “Is it that obvious?”
“It is very obvious,” Murad said tersely.
Alex remained unmoving, filled with thoughts of Blackwell. His shoulder had been so hard, like a stone wall. And he was so very proper. Of course, he was a bit of a sexist, but she would, eventually, show him that she was no frilly Regency lady, incapable of doing for herself.
Alex shuddered. She wanted to touch Blackwell very badly, she wanted to be touched by him. Touched, kissed, caressed, held … made love to. Wildly.
Murad took a sponge and soap to her face. She winced. “You’re hurting me.”
“You deserve the bastinado,” Murad said grimly, not easing the pressure. The sponge had become nut brown, the water even darker. “I’m not going to participate in your own ruin. Stay away from him, Alex.” Suddenly he stopped what he was doing. “Why did you tell him your real name? What if he talks about you?”
Alex stopped scrubbing her hands, both of her palms a shade of golden ivory now. “I had to tell him. I hate being called Vera. And I hate lying to him, deceiving him, but I have a very bad feeling that if he knew I was Jebal’s wife, he wouldn’t come near me with a ten-foot pole. Murad, I need your help. I can’t do this alone.”
He glanced at her, then averted his eyes. “Turn your other cheek,” he snapped. “I wish he would find out the truth. Because I think you’re right. If he knew that you were Jebal’s wife, he would refuse to even speak to you. Blackwell is not a fool.”
Alex gripped the edges of the tub as Murad scrubbed her other cheek. “Don’t you dare tell him! I will never forgive you if you do!”
“What are you thinking of, Alex? Seducing him—hooking him—and then telling him oh so casually that Jebal is your husband? And what if you are wrong? What if he accepts the bashaw’s offer?”
“He won’t. And I will tell him in my own good time.” She was uneasy. “I pray to God we will escape Tripoli soon. Maybe he’ll never find out about Jebal.”
Murad gripped her chin, anchoring her face in place.
“Ow!”
“Hold still,” he said almost savagely. “Alex, let me tell you something. Lust is not love, and love can have little to do with lust.”
She pulled free of him and briefly submerged her head. The henna turned the bathwater a blackish red. “I know the difference.”
“Do you?”
“Do you?” she challenged.
Murad went rigid.
Alex realized what she had said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” she said, reaching out to him.
He stood, shaking off her hand. “You meant it.”
“Murad, no!”
