He sagged a little in Xavier’s grip. Xavier realized that he had fallen asleep while walking. His gaze met Tubbs’s. His first mate’s expression was grim.
Xavier concentrated on the task facing him. Every step was torture. His feet were raw and growing rawer with each moment, blood trickled down his face, and his back was on fire, ablaze. The Spaniard remained a deadweight between him and Tubbs. Ahead Xavier saw the huge pit that was the quarries, rimmed with soaring limestone. Over the yellow rock rim, Xavier realized that the sun was finally emerging, pale and golden, turning the sky a gentle shade of blue.
It was then that utter comprehension hit him. His feet were bloody and blistered, his back whipped raw, and a dying man half lay in his arms—and the day had only just begun.
“Nielsen is not expecting us. I hope he is alone,” Murad murmured as they turned a corner. Ahead of them stood a small white house with a tiled roof and two palms in front of the arched doorway. A white stone wall separated the house from its clustered neighbors. The Danish flag flew from the house’s terraced rooftop.
Alex didn’t hear him. It was early morning and they were both disguised as bedouins. Alex had slept deeply and soundly last night. Apparently she had passed out in Jebal’s arms. According to Murad, who had been immediately summoned. Jebal had been filled with worry—and then, realizing that some foul play was at work, he had been furious.
Very tersely he had told Murad that he would speak with Alex the next day—and that she should await his summons.
Alex did not want to think about the upcoming interview. It made her too nervous. And itwouldbe an interview. Nor would she think about this evening—or any other one.
In any case, Jebal would not summon her this early in the morning. Alex had some time. And she had promised Blackwell yesterday that she would deliver a message to Neilsen. Now that Backwell was consigned to the quarries and imprisoned in the bagnio. Alex felt that it was imperative she visit Neilsen herself and discuss these new circumstances and his fate.
She was so frightened for him.
Alex stepped ahead of Murad, but before she could even knock, the door was swung open and the Danish consul appeared. In spite of the heat, Neilsen was clad in a dark blue frock coat, a beige waistcoat, a shirt and cravat, tan breeches, and pale stockings. His perplexed gaze skewered Alex and then Murad. Alex began to unwrap her kaffiyeh. Neilsen started and an instant later he waved them both inside, slamming and bolting the door closed behind them.
Nielsen was staring at her, clearly stunned by her disguise. “You are endangering yourself vastly, Mrs. Thornton.”
“I do what I have to do.”
Nielsen still stared, although his brow furrowed. “I am concemed for your welfare. I do not think you understand. We are not in America. We are in Tripoli. Your husband would be enraged if he found out that you have left the palace without his permission, much less alone and in disguise as a man.”
“Mr. Neilsen, I don’t have any choice.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There are matters we have to discuss. Life-and-death matter.” Alex did not mind being dramatic. “Blackwell sent me here with a message for you.”
He started, eyes wide, and gestured her and Murad into a European-style salon. Alex sank down abruptly onto the striped damask sofa. She rubbed her temples. “You know they’ve thrown him into the bagnio.”
“Considering that he refused the bashaw, I was not surprised.”
“And I suppose you will lodge an official protest?” Alex said bitterly.
“There is little else that I can do.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He looked away, then back again. “What would you have me do? I have already notified Morris, as well.”
“And what will Morris do?”
Neilsen sighed. “Very little, I am afraid. The Commodore’s wife is about to deliver and he is preoccupied. The bashaw is not disposed kindly toward Captain Blackwell, and he ignores my protests in cases like these. I am afraid that very little can be done.”
“That is a defeatist attitude,” Alex said hotly. “Is there any hope at all of a ransom for Blackwell and his crew?”
“The bashaw might be persuaded to ransom the crew, in time. After his temper cools over Blackwell’s rejection of his offer. He is greedy, that has been proven, and he is aware that Blackwell Shipping is privately owned, the Blackwells rather rich.”
“Once negotiations begin,” Alex mused, “I would imagine Blackwell’s fate would become a part of the trade.”
Neilsen gaped. “You are very astute for a woman, Mrs. Thornton.”
Alex ignored the sexist statement. “Can you pressure the bashaw now about the crew? And can you also insist that Blackwell be removed from the bagnio to more amenable quarters? It is insufferable that he labor in the quarries and live in the bagnio.”
“I have already insisted—and been refused.”
