“Go on,” Xavier said tersely.
“But her Christian name is Alexandra. Alexandra Thornton.” Quixande stared. “She is Jebal’s wife.”
Xavier knew that he must have misheard the scribe. “I beg your pardon?”
“She is Jebal’s wife. His second wife. He fell in love with her at first sight, the moment she arrived in Tripoli, aproximately thirteen or fourteen months ago.”
Xavier was frozen.
“They say that she is quite extraordinary. Beautiful, as tall as many men, and very clever. Already she is fluent in the crude lingua franca, and can converse quite well in Arabic, too. She is inseparable from her eunuch slave, which Jebal gave to her when she first arrived at the palace. It is also said that Jebal is besotted with her still.”
She had lied.She had deceived him. She was not who, or what, she had said. She was the bashaw’s daughter-in-law, the wife of his son and heir.
“Captain, are you all right?”
Xavier was on his feet. “No,” he said harshly. “I am not well, not at all.”
17
ALEX REGARDED HERSELFin the mirror.
Standing just behind her, Murad made no comment, although he was grave.
Jebal had instructed Murad as to how she should dress for the evening. He had gone so far as to even send clothing to her.
Alex was wearing three layers of silk, which was very little for a Moslem woman. The first layer was a knee-length tunic with sleeves that reached her hips. The gauze fabric was the color of warm ivory. The high neckline and cuffs were beautifully embroidered with multicolored threads. Alex’s trousers were the same pale, transparent ivory silk, the hem embroidered in an identical fashion. Although both garments were generously cut, they reminded Alex of a pair of Victoria’s Secret “pajamas,” the fabric was so sensuous and so sheer.
On top of her pajamas she wore a floor-length, side-slit crimson gilet with sleeves. It was the finest softest silk, also paper-thin, yet dyed in such a manner that it appeared iridescent. This garment was also embroidered at the neckline, cuffs, and hem, and along both edges of the slit. Sparkling in the woven strands of silver, black, and gold thread were thousands of tiny, shimmering diamantés. That is, Alex assumed they were glass. They could not possibly be real.
Finally she wore a short, hip-length sleeveless gold vest. It was made of a heavier damask fabric, but fit Alex as if it had been designed for her alone; that is, it fit her like a second skin. Eight coral and pearl buttons closed the vest. Alex wore a huge rope of eighteen-karat gold cinched tightly around her waist. It was studded with jade.
After being so heavily clothed in Jebal’s presence, Alex felt naked.
Worse, he had ordered her to wear her hair down, and it flowed in thick, rich strands past her shoulders. Using red henna, Alex had managed to recover her original hair color. How pleased Jebal would be.
She had refused to wear rouge and kohl or any other cosmetic.
Alex was sick.
“How can I do this?” she asked Murad tersely. Their gazes met in the mirror. “I love another man, and he has been consigned to a terrible, cruel fate, perhaps even death. I cannot even imagine what is happening to him right now. And I am supposed to calmly allow another man to use my body?”
“He is not another man. He is your husband, Alex.”
“Thanks. I think I am going to be sick.”
Murad was alarmed. He rushed for a chamber pot. Feeling very close to tears, Alex walked over to the bed and sat down at its foot. Time was running out.
“If it is any consolation, you have never been more beautiful,” Murad said.
Something in his tone caused her gaze to widen. His silver eyes were intensely bright. Alex was taken aback. And surely she was mistaken?
Murad walked away. Alex took a deep, fortifying breath. Murad had not been admiring her in a very male manner. He was her friend, her brother. He was a eunuch, incapable of normal relations. She must focus on the evening ahead. But how to survive? And why did she have to deal with this now? When all she wanted to do was plot and plan in order to aid Blackwell? “There must be a way to get myself out of this mess. If I am horrible in bed, if I do not react, if I am as stiff as a board, maybe he will never want me again.”
“I don’t think that is a good idea,” Murad said. “You will only infuriate him.”
“Maybe I should accept the inevitable,” Alex said miserably. “I’m not a virgin. Jebal has been kind to me. If I could play the devoted bride, then he would never guess at what is being planned under his very nose. It would be a wonderful smoke screen.”
“What’s a smoke screen?”
