“I refuse you,” Xavier said. His hand had also automatically crept to his hip—but he had no weapon sheathed there. His pulse was pounding; he tasted fear.
The bashaw turned red. He sputtered with rage—and then he pointed at Xavier. “Give me blood—his blood—all of it!” And somewhere not too far away, a woman screamed.
“No!”
15
ALEX STARED INabsolute horror through the peephole, watching as Blackwell was surrounded by janissaries, two of whom grabbed him roughly by the arms. A moment later a heavy manacle was being locked around his wrists.
Alex moaned. She saw the leg iron being clamped around his right ankle, and then the soldier jerked him forward.
“Oh, God,” Alex whispered hoarsely. Her eyes were wide and frightened.
Murad’s arm went around her waist, supporting her and holding her upright. Alex leaned against him, trembling, trying to think through the haze of panic engulfing her. Had she found Blackwell only to lose him like this? Had she, somehow, interfered so drastically with history that she was causing his even more untimely death?
“Alex, in the name of Allah,” Murad said urgently in her ear. “You must stay calm. We are not alone.”
“They’re going to kill him,” she gasped, grabbing the ends of Murad’s vest. “We must stop them!”
Murad shook her once. “There’s nothing we can do. Come with me. Now—instantly.”
“No.” She struggled against his grip, managing to free herself. Alex pushed her face so abruptly against the stucco wall that she scraped her cheek, but she ignored the pain and the blood. She stared into the hall.
At first she could not see Blackwell and she was afraid that he had already been taken away. To the public square, where criminals and traitors were beheaded or burned. Then she glimpsed him, surrounded by the soldiers. If he was afraid, he did not show it. He appeared to be carved from stone.
Alex almost fainted in relief. She still had time. But how much? And to do what?
Murad’s arm clamped around her again. “Let’s go.”
Alex ignored him. She had no intention of returning to her chamber while Blackwell’s life was at stake. Somehow she had to stop this. He could not die now. Alex’s gaze quickly roamed the hall. Her eyes widened, her gaze slammed to a halt. The bashaw, whom she suddenly, intensely, hated, was surrounded by four men, and in the midst of what appeared to be an argument. Jebal stood by his elbow.
Jebal! Hope burst within her. Alex would do anything, promise anything, if he would save Blackwell from death.
Alex turned, crashing into Murad’s hard chest. “Jebal! I have to go to Jebal! He will help me, I am sure of it—he will help us!”
Murad caught her arm, swinging her back around before she could run headlong from the room, through the palace—and into the group of men where no woman, especially not Jebal’s wife, was allowed. “Alex! You are not thinking clearly. You are not thinking at all.”
“There is no time. Please, Murad, help me—help me now.”
“I am helping you, Alex, by saving you from yourself.”
It took Alex a moment to comprehend his meaning. He would allow Blackwell to die without trying to prevent it. Furious with his treachery, she punched him in the shoulder and shoved past him. And she ran right into another solid wall of human flesh.
Alex cried out.
Zoe smiled at her, her gaze calculating, sly—and knowing.
Alex shrank back against the wall.
Jebal had heard the woman’s cry. It was all he could think about; he did not hear a single word of the argument being waged between his father, Farouk, and Jovar, a debate over Blackwell’s fate. The shrill cry of panic and protest had come from his second wife, Zohara.
Why?
He was very disturbed.
Zohara did not know this Blackwell, did she? Was it possible they were friends from America? Why else would she be so distressed over his fate, his death?
Jebal turned and glanced toward the wall where the peepholes were for the ladies of the palace. He had always thought he understood her. She was an American, which made her very different from all the other women of his acquaintance, and although she had refused to be a real wife to him, her grief for her dead first husband was both acceptable and commendable. In general, he found Zohara to he warm and amusing, tender and kind. Perhaps now her kindness motivated her in regards to Blackwell? Knowing her as he did, he was certain she would try to prevent the death of any common slave.
