Blackwell’s stare was direct and hard. His mouth formed a tight, hard line. He did not speak or move.
Farouk hesitated, and darted a glance at the bashaw. The bashaw was smiling. He clapped his hands. “A good idea, my son and heir. A very good idea! We shall teach him the lot of the lowliest slave, teach him his place—teach him humiliation—and when he comes begging us for a reprieve, then, maybe, we will offer him again the chance to share Tripoli’s power and wealth.” The bashaw pounded Jebal on the shoulder.
And the two men stared at one another, the richly dressed prince in jewels and velvets and the captive in leg irons and chains.
Xavier was sweating, but the manacles prevented him from reaching up to wipe his face. But he would not die this day.
He was exultant, but careful to remain expressionless.
“Your life is spared,” Jebal said quietly.
“I am grateful,” Xavier replied.
“Do not be too grateful,” Jebal returned. “Your life hangs in the balance, and within moments the scales may change.”
Xavier watched Jebal walk away, his longest gilet flowing behind him. He was fully aware that his life could be taken away from him at any moment.
But now, at least, he had time to continue his plans.
Jovar sauntered forward, and suddenly spat out a series of commands in Arabic that Xavier did not, could not, understand. But his enemy was smiling. His pale eyes gleamed.
“So your life remains, dog,” Jovar said, taunting him. “But for how long?”
Xavier said nothing.
Jovar stared at him. “Your bravery will not get you far in the quarries, Blackwell. To the contrary. It can—and shall—be the death of you.”
“Is that a threat?”
Jovar laughed. “No, a warning.” He motioned abruptly to the soldiers guarding Xavier.
Rough hands jerked on Xavier’s chains. Xavier was pulled forward so roughly that he almost fell. The soldiers walked swiftly, and Xavier shuffled along with them, the leg iron chafing his ankle. He ignored it.
He felt that her eyes were following him.
Alexandra. Was it his imagination? Or was she really there, behind that wall? He had not imagined a woman’s anguished cry when the bashaw had shouted for his blood.
They left the palace, entering the outer courtyard, which was filled with soldiers, bodyguards, slaves, merchants, and supplicants. Xavier stumbled again. This time he fell, his hands hitting the cobbled stones of the ground, but he was yanked up hard by his chains by one of the soldiers. Blood dripped from his wrists.
“Oh God,” she cried. “Oh, God!”
Xavier was being propelled forward when he heard her. He recognized her voice immediately. Shocked, he halted in mid-stride, so abruptly that he dragged the two soldiers holding him backward. Whirling, he saw her.
And he did not understand.
It was Alexandra, he would know her anywhere, and even though a dozen feet separated them, and as many soldiers, he was looking into her eyes. But she was not wearing a slave giri’s simple vest and trousers. She was dressed like a wealthy Moslem lady, in many flowing robes, the material bejeweled and embroidered, and she wore a huge veil that revealed only her mouth and nose and eyes. Her identity was, however, unmistakable.
Alexandra was on the verge of tears. Her face was starkly white. Her hands were outstretched.
Their gazes remained locked. Xavier could not look away. His heart hammered uncontrollably, but he was dazed, confused, disbelieving.What the hell was this?
And Murad grabbed her from behind, his face twisted with anger. He began pulling her backward. She struggled against her own slave, her gaze holding Xavier’s.
Who the hell was she?
“American dog!” A scimitar landed, flat bladed, hard on Xavier’s shoulder. The blow was brutal and unexpected, and Xavier went down to his knees. Pain stunned him, diverting his thoughts.
She screamed.
