Alex wet her lips. “Unlike some women, when I give myself to a man in passion, it is also with love.”
Zoe understood and her eyes turned pitch black.
Lilli Fatima clapped her hands, her plump face wearing a soft, benevolent expression. “Zohara’s sentiments are wonderful, and that is why, of course, she will soon go to her husband and please him the way every wife should.” She turned her hopeful eyes on Alex. “My son adores you. And he is such a good man. You are so strong, Zohara, surely you will give him the son and heir he deserves.”
Alex averted her eyes. “Yes,” she murmured.
“Tell me one thing, Zohara,” Zoe snapped. “Which ship were you on when our corsairs seized it?”
“Which ship?” Alex asked. “A British merchantman, of course.”
“I do not recall a British merchantman as a prize last year.”
“Then your memory is very poor,” Alex said dryly.
A commotion in the greeting hall made all the women turn to their peepholes. Alex forgot about Zoe’s dangerous questions. Xavier Blackwell was striding across the room.
Ohmygod. Her heart skidded to a stop. She lost the ability to breathe. He was such a magnificent sight. And he emanated authority, power, and virility. It was almost impossible to believe that he was a captive.
Zoe said, hushed, “Oh my. He is a beautiful man. Big and strong. How I wish he were my slave. Oh my. He is probably a bull in bed.”
Alex whirled. Lust was written all over Zoe’s face. It infuriated her. It worried her.
Mildly Fatima said, “Come, Zoe, he will never be your slave. Hopefully he will be a rais for ray husband.”
Zoe was too involved in spying, and she did not reply.
Alex stared at Zoe, accutely aware of just how sultry and seductive the other woman was. But she and Blackwell would never meet. Would they?
Had Alex not found a way to meet him?
Alex turned back to the hole in the wall, resolved to ignore Zoe, who wished only to provoke her. Blackwell was exchanging pleasantries with Farouk. And suddenly his head lifted, his gaze jerking upward, away from Farouk—directly toward the wall behind which Alex was concealed.
The bashaw entered the hall, smiling broadly. His outermost gilet was crimson silk, heavily embroidered with pearls and gold thread, and the floor-length sleeves flowed about him. He allowed various subjects to kiss his beringed hands, and finally he approached Xavier. Xavier also kissed the proffered hand. He was aware of the fact that he was perspiring slightly and that the bashaw wore a thick, cloyingly sweet scent.
The bashaw threw his arm around Xavier and they moved to one end of the heavily laden table. “I trust you have passed a pleasant night?”
“My room is comfortable, yes, I have,” Xavier lied. He had hardly slept a wink since setting foot in Tripoli.
“How pleased I am. Come, let us sit down, eat, drink,” the bashaw said expansively.
Xavier sat down beside the king of Tripoli. He nodded at the bashaw’s son, seated opposite him. Jovar and Farouk also sat at the same end of the table with the bashaw, Jebal, and Xavier. The Scot smiled at Xavier. It was a menacing smile, and Xavier ignored it.
Slaves clad in billowing trousers and short vests began piling up various roasted fishes, curried and baked lambs, and spicy, marinated vegetables upon their plates. Aqua vitae and coffee began to flow freely. The bashaw’s guests conversed and laughed, but everyone kept glancing at Xavier. One and all knew exactly why he was present.
Xavier could not eat—even though this might be his very last meal. He sipped the potently brewed, thickly black, heavily sugared coffee. His adrenaline, already flowing, increased. He would need all of his wits about him now.
His gaze moved of its own accord to the far wall. And he was almost certain that he felt her eyes upon him.
Xavier was familiar with the Moslem custom of having their women observe occasions like this from hidden rooms. Was Alexandra watching him from a secret chamber? He wished she were not present. Not because her presence was a distraction, which it was, but for her own sake—he wished to spare her any unpleasantness.
Two images assailed him simultaneously. The bloodstained stone beheading block in a sunny town square, and her tearstained face behind iron prison bars.
Very grim and very disturbed, Xavier shook himself free of his morbid fantasies.
“How are my men?” he asked Jovar.
“They are complaining—all captives complain.” Jovar smiled. His pale blue eyes were cool.
