He had borrowed a quill, ink, and parchment from Pierre Quixande. Ignoring the heavy drumming of his heart, Xavier penned long-overdue letters to his family in Boston.
My dear Sarah,
I hope all is well with you and that you are having a good spell while I am gone. What passes at home? How is Father? Is Bettina well? Am I missed? What novel are you reading now? How homesick I am! How I long to hear you playing the piano in the salon, while Father and I sip our after-dinner port. How I miss the view of the gardens, which even now must be in full summer bloom, and if I try very hard. I can sniff the air and recall the particularly salty smell of Boston nights at this time of year.
Xavier paused. It was so hard to write to his wife, especially with a light tone, which he must maintain. The real problem was that they were strangers, with nothing to say to one another. It had always been that way. Even as children, he had found it difficult and taxing to converse with Sarah. Robert, of course, had not had that problem.
Somehow, he had always understood her, had been able to draw her out, make her laugh, and he would hold her when she cried. He had seemed to understand her, even when she lasped into one of her withdrawn, noncommunicative moods. The three of them had grown up together. Xavier had always felt left out when the three of them had played as children, and even later, in their adolescent years.
God, he still missed Robert. Would he always miss his carefree younger brother? Would there always be this deep, dark, piercing pain inside of his chest whenever he dared to think of him? How well he understood Sarah’s melancholia, He just could not understand her weakness.
He recalled the two of them on the night they had announced their engagement to William and himself. It had not been a surprise. And they had been wreathed in smiles, holding hands. They had been a beautiful, perfect couple, and apparently a wonderful future had stretched out in front of them. Except fate had intervened. Robert had drowned because of the Barbary corsairs, and Sarah was a shell of a woman, lost in grief and depression. Life could be so cruel, so incredibly unfair. The parchment in front of him blurred as he stared down at his heavy scrawl. For a moment he thought his eyesight was failing him, and he was confused.
But then a teardrop splashed on the page, causing the D inDearto run.
Xavier sucked in his breath, straightening, brushing his fist over his eyes. He was a man. Men did not cry. Life continued, always. He had his men to care for now. And his ship to destroy.
But he had failed Timmy.
Just as he had, truly, failed Robert.
Xavier gritted his teeth, his heart pounding hard now, and he dipped the quill in the inkwell and continued.
My dear wife, by now you may have heard the news that I have been captured and taken to Barbary. Please do not be frightened. I am well, as are my men. It is only a matter of time until we are freed and allowed to return home.
Xavier felt no guilt at telling Sarah such a lie. There was no point in frightening her and causing her to take to her bed for the next three or four months.
He laid the quill down and rested his head on his hands. The widow-spy’s green-eyed image came to his mind. He stiffened. How dare she intrude upon his grief now.
But he could not help but make the comparison. How brave and determined she was. So different from his frail, melancholic wife. Yet Sarah was good. Alexandra Thornton was calculating, clever, and deceitful. But who was she, really? And dammit, whom did she work for?When you escape, I am escaping with you.
I am a captive just like you.
It was a ruse. Alexandra wanted to learn his plans, nothing more—she had no intention of actually leaving Tripoli. He was almost certain.
In any case, the escape plan was fraught with risk. Every aspect had to work perfectly. Like a jigsaw puzzle, not a single piece could be missing or the entire plan would fail. And failure meant death.
For escape attempts were severely punished in Barbary. With public execution. Leniency was rare or nonexistent. Death was a strong deterrent for the other captives who might be harboring their own plans to escape. Both Quixande and Neilsen had stressed the risks involved. Xavier had already assumed as much.
He sighed harshly, picking up the quill. He began the next paragraph of his missive by describing the beauty of the Barbary coast, then ended with a vivid description of the palace and its royal inhabitants. Sarah would be amused and intrigued. She would love the mere concept that the men and women wore so many beautiful, colorful, gem-encrusted clothes. It did not take much effort to entertain her. He signed the letter, “Your devoted husband, Xavier Blackwell.”
“Xavier?”
He froze, incredulous.What was she doing here?
He had already stiffened, not just with his body, but with resolve, within his heart. Xavier stood and turned. Alexandra had removed her kaffiyeh. Her long-lashed green eyes were riveted to his.
She was the very last person that he wished to see.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to come here?”
“I heard. I heard about the poor cabin boy.” Her gaze remained on his, intense, searching.
His shoulders tensed. She was the very last person with whom he would discuss Timmy’s death.
She moved forward and laid her hand on his bare biceps. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
He came to life, jerking his arm away from her touch with unmitigated fury. He hated her for being so damnably seductive when she did not even try. He hated himself for being so damn tempted. “Oh, come! Save the theatrics for someone more naive than myself.”
