“Yes, you did,” he said very softly. “You knew. You think to outmaneuver me?” His tone was dangerous. The pressure he was exerting on her increased.
She whimpered. “No.”
He released her nipple and stroked her breast tenderly. “Never hide anything from me.”
Zoe closed her eyes, flushed up to her neck. She arched toward him. “I won’t.”
They both knew that she lied.
He released her but did not stand up. “This is very interesting,” he said. “Because many months ago I made inquiries, and failed to discover which of my ships brought her to Tripoh.”
Zoe stared. After a long moment she said, “Is it possible that she did not arrive in Tripoli as a prize on one of the corsair ships?”
He smiled coolly. “Anything is possible, Zoe.”
She wrapped both arms around him from behind, this time undulating her hairless sex against the small of his back. “So who is she? What is she hiding?”
“That, my dear, I am certain you will find out.”
Zoe smiled and kissed his neck. When he did not respond, she pulled away. “What are you thinking about? You were preoccupied the entire time you lay with me,” she complained. Usually he stayed half the night, alternately torturing her and pleasuring her.
“Blackwell. We must pressure him for his answer now.” The man did not move.
Zoe shifted and sat down beside him. “You said he will never embrace Islam and captain our ships.”
“And I meant it.” He rose abruptly and stared down at her, his eyes cold. “The sooner he refuses us, the sooner he will die.”
And Zoe’s lover smiled.
Alex was trembling. It was the following day. Blackwell had been summoned to the bashaw’s hall, undoubtedly for an answer to the bashaw’s demand that he become a renegade. She and Murad hurried through the palace to the women’s room. Alex was terrified.
Please, God, Alex prayed silently, do not let him die. She was afraid to even imagine what the bashaw would do when Blackwell refused him. But she had heard about the bashaw’s temper and his cruelty. Had he not had Rais Jovar whipped and bastinadoed for the loss of theMirabouka—his very own admiral?
“Alex!” Murad gripped her elbow. “Your husband!”
Alex stumbled as Jebal walked through an archway, clearly on his way to the bashaw’s hall. He saw her and faltered. Then he changed direction, smiling as he approached her.
Alex was in no mood for Jebal now. She pasted a smile on her lips. “Good morning.”
“It is a beautiful day, is it not?” Jebal said cheerfully. “And tonight shall be even better.” His gaze was direct.
Alex could not think about that night and their celebration, not now. Not when Blackwell’s life might be at slake. It had occurred to her just moments ago that, as history was not being true to itself, Blackwell might very well wind up dead for denying the bashaw, instead of being executed next summer for a love affair. She was more than ill.
“Are you still unwell?” Jebal asked, staring closely.
“My stomach is upset,” Alex said shakily. But it was the truth. She ignored the expression of displeasure on Jebal’s face, seizing his sleeve. “Jebal, what will your father do to Blackwell if he refuses to turn Turk?”
Jebal’s gaze hardened. “We do not use that expression, Zohara; only Christians use those words. You are offending me. I am not Turk.”
“I am sorry.” Too late, she knew she had made a mistake by even raising a topic so dear to her own heart.
“What does it matter to you?”
She swallowed. “He is my countryman.”
“He is? But you are Moslem now, a Tripolitan, and my wife.”
Alex was speechless.
