“No. Blackwell is being incredibly closemouthed. He speaks only with Tubbs and the scribe.” Murad sat down on the foot of the bed. “Is he really the inept buffoon everyone claims him to be?”
“Yes,” Alex said, more worried now. “If only Decatur were covering our escape. He becomes a hero during Preble’s assault on Tripoli,” she explained. “Which, as I already told you, happens next summer.”
“I don’t like it when you talk about the future,” Murad said uneasily.
“I’m not a witch, Murad.”
“I know. But you have the vision. I can’t help being frightened by what you can see.”
“It’s not vision. Iamfrom the future.” Alex stared at him. They had not discussed this subject since she had first revealed the truth to him.
“All right, Alex,” Murad said.
He was her best friend, but he did not believe her. And if he did not believe her, Blackwell never would. She said, “Morris brought his pregnant wife with him and the squadron. She is due any day. He has avoided Barbary all summer long. He left the blockade of Tripoli to theVixenand theSirenwhile the rest of the squadron has pleasantly cruised the Mediterranean. And now, just when the Tripolitans are starting to feel the pinch, when even here in the palace flour and rice are in short supply, he lifts the blockade. He is truly a stupid man.”
“I would imagine that his role in the escape is to pick all of you up on the beach somewhere outside of Tripoli.”
“Yes, I think so too, and any fool can do that.” She gripped her hands. “Ohmygod. In two weeks I will be free, if all goes well, and with Blackwell.”
“Yes, in two short weeks,” Murad said, his tone strange.
Alex turned. He had been sitting on the edge of the bed. Now he stood and walked away and stared out of the open shutters into the bright, blooming gardens.
Alex, ever in tune with him, regarded his rigid back. She realized what was upsetting him now. “Oh, Murad,” she said softly, and she quickly approached him from behind. She only hesitated a heartbeat. She put her arms around him and laid her cheek on his strong, hard back. She felt his body tensing.
“I can’t leave you here,” Alex whispered, releasing him. She walked around him to face him. His silver eyes reflected ancient sadness. “Murad, did you hear me? You must come with us.”
“I don’t think so, Alex.”
Alex was immobilized, then she cried, “Why not!”
He forced a smile. “I want what’s best for you, Alex. I want you to be happy. I know that you are in love with Blackwell, and actually, I’ve seen the way he looks at you—I think he might be in love with you, too.”
Alex’s eyes widened. “You never said a word.”
“I did not want to encourage you.”
She wet her lips. “If he would allow himself to trust me, if he would let down his guard, get to know me, itwouldbe love, Murad, I am sure of it.”
His smile was infinitely sad. “Yes, I am sure of it too. You are the kind of woman every man dreams of loving.”
Speechless, she stared at him. He was two years her junior, but he was not a boy—he had never been a boy. He was tall, broad shouldered, olive skinned, and gray eyed. His face was striking in its near perfection—but not at all effeminate. It was horrible that he had been castrated when he had been born, but that was the fate of boys born to palace slaves. Otherwise most women would look at him and fall in love at first sight. And not only was he a stunning man, he was warm, sensitive, loyal, and kind.
His words haunted her now. She was afraid to dwell on their real meaning.
“I can’t leave you behind,” Alex whispered. “Murad, you’re my best friend. I love you. I can’t imagine life without you in it. Murad, you must come with us!”
His eyes brightened a little. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes! Of course I do!”
His chest rose and fell. “Tripoli is my home, I was born here in the palace, I have served Jebal my entire life, now I serve you—my life is here. I know nothing else.”
“Life is far better in America. In America you would be free.”
“There I will be an oddity, Alex,” Murad said flatly.
He was the most astute man she had ever met. “I can’t lie. You are Moslem and a eunuch—I guess to some, you would be different, exotic.” But she knew he was right. He would never be accepted in nineteenth-century Boston. He would be an oddity—a laughingstock.
