“I don’t know! Something! Anything!” Alex began to cry.
Murad went to her and held her.
And Alex was fully aware that she did not have a lot of time on her side. Jebal was expecting her to dine with him, alone, that night. It was the celebration of their first wedding anniversary. He had made it clear that he also intended to sleep with her.
Alex trembled whenever she dared to think of the upcoming evening. Which was why she resolutely kept pushing it from her mind. Xavier came first.
Yet nothing was happening the way it had happened in recorded history. Nothing thus far was happening the way that it should. Alex felt as if any control she might have had, due to her foreknowledge of the future, was slipping rapidly through her fingertips. She could no longer be certain of what would happen. It made her afraid.
But Blackwell was not going to die in the quarries. Alex was resolved.
Xavier stared down at the bowl of steaming broth. Two chunks of onions, a piece of carrot, and a forkful of lamb floated in the soup. The other slaves in the bagnio had been given a single small, coarse loaf of bread and a few spoonfuls of vinegar for their supper. Pierre Quixande had also placed a loaf of finely ground white bread on the table where they sat, as well as a bottle of red wine.
“Eat,mon ami,”Pierre said, tearing off a hunk of bread and pouring them both mugs of wine.
“I cannot,” Xavier said. He stood, taking the bowl of soup with him, and stepped outside of Pierre’s chamber, which he ‘rented’ from Kadar. Timmy and Tubbs were wolfing down their meager rations just beyond the open door. Xavier smiled at them and set the bowl in front of them. “Share it and enjoy it well, lads,” he said.
Timmy’s face brightened. “Cap’n, sir?”
“I order the two of you to eat that entire bowl of soup.”
Timmy began to dig in. Tubbs’s brows lifted. Xavier smiled at him and returned to Pierre’s table.
“You are a very noble man, Captain,” Pierre said, regarding him over the rim of his glass of wine.
Xavier shrugged, reaching for the white bread.
“If you wish to live a long life, you must think of yourself first. In the bagnio, a man needs his wits and his strength in order to survive.”
“My men rely on me. The boy is starving.”
“Everyone here starves, except for those clever enough to find a way to pay off Kadar for ‘privileges.’”
Xavier shrugged.
“In any case, your nobility is refreshing.” Pierre stood, left the table, and returned with another bowl. “I will share my broth with you, Captain. But this time I insist you eat your share.”
Xavier smiled. “I think I can manage that.”
The two men devoured their rations, then began to sip the wine. Xavier’s eyes brightened. “My friend, this is French wine—I do not think I can be mistaken.”
Pierre grinned. “You are right, a full-bodied Bordeaux—1799 … a very fine year.”
“In Tripoli?” Xavier took another sip of the full-bodied, smooth-as-satin wine. “My God, this is heaven.”
Pierre laughed. “Occasionally the corsairs bring home a prize filled with a cargo that is quite interesting.” He sipped. “And the Moslems do not drink.”
“How convenient,” Xavier murmured, the wine going straight to his head.
Pierre refilled their nearly empty mugs. “I have a dozen more bottles, Captain. I love each one more than I have ever loved a single woman.”
Xavier laughed. Then a pair of green eyes came to his mind. His laughter died.
“Woman troubles, Captain?”
Xavier put his mug down and met the Frenchman’s brown eyes. “Quixande, while I was at the palace I met a woman, an American captive. At first I thought her a mere slave girl. She introduced herself as Vera. But she told me that was her Moslem name, and that her real name was Alexandra.” Xavier felt the tension riddling his body. “The next time I saw her she was fully dressed and veiled like any noble Moslem lady. She has red hair and green eyes. What, if anything, do you know about her?”
Pierre stared, “There is only one American captive in Tripoli, and she does reside in the palace. They have named her Zohara, however, not Vera. Which, in any case, is not an Islamic name.”
