Free Captive by Brenda Joyce

and finally saw a man approaching on one gravel path.
    She assumed it was Neilsen; then, as clouds blocked the blinding sun and the man came closer, she saw a lean figure clad in a vest, trousers, and sandals, which she knew now to be slave dress. He was carrying a tray laden with dishes and bowls. And her Coach backpack was slung over his arm.
    Alex’s pulse quickened. But not because her possessions were being returned to her. She stood up, staring, as the olive-skinned man came forward, pausing in the doorway. He was a few years younger than she, his hair dark, his clieekbones high. He bowed, looking down, murmuring a greeting in Arabic. Then his lashes lifted and he came forward, carrying the tray, staring. Out of silver eyes.
    “Joseph?” Alex whispered.
    His silver eyes flared for a single instant, and then his lashes lowered again. His striking face was expressionless as he set the tray down on a long, low table.
    “I am Murad,” he said. He did not look up at her as he handed her the backpack. “I am a eunuch and a slave. I was born in the palace, in captivity. Jebal ordered me to return your belongings to you.” He set down the tray and poured a pale yellow liquid from a pitcher into a glass. “Jebal has instructed me to serve you. If it pleases you, of course.” Finally he straightened, gazing directly into her eyes.
    Alex stared back and could not reply.
    Neilsen arrived a few moments after the slave. He was wearing a tan frock coat, a blue waistcoat, breeches, and stockings. He was blond, sunburned, and sweating. Fanning himself with a tricorn hat, he paused on the other side of the latticework door, studying her out of sharp blue eyes.
    Alex wet her lips. She had asked Murad to leave them alone, but he had told her that he was not allowed to do that. The silver-eyed slave stood silently in one corner of the room. Although his gaze was lowered, Alex thought that he was aware of everything.
    “Mr. Neilsen,” Alex said. “Thank God you’re here. My name is Alexandra Thornton.”
    Neilsen smiled and entered the room. “I guess you havebeen told who I am, Sven Neilsen, the Danish consul, and in lieu of an official from your government, I am the acting American chargé d’affaires. You are American, as they said,” he said. “Are you all right, Mrs. Thornton?”
    Alex blinked. His words struck a spark of hope in her—and a brilliant accompanying idea. “I am frightened.”
    “I know. But you have had some fortune after all, for Jebal is taken with you, and he is kind.”
    But Alex wasn’t comforted. “I don’t care. This is intolerable. I wish to be set free. I am an American citizen!” She already knew that it would be much easier for her to find Blackwell if she were a resident of Tripoli—instead of Jebal’s slave and mistress, which would be unbearable in any case. “Can’t you help me, Mr. Neilsen? Can’t you convince Jebal to release me—if he is indeed as kind as you say?”
    Neilsen sighed. “That is not the way of the East, Mrs. Thornton. That is not the custom. The Barbary powers survive on plunder, the ransom of captives, and the slave trade; it is their lifeblood.” He moved to the cushions and plopped down. “Not that it makes a lot of difference, because these barbarians violate their treaties at will, but America has no treaty with Tripoli for the return of our nationals as the British and French do. We are not in America, nor are we in Europe. Tripoli is a barbaric land, built upon blood and death and their heathen faith. Too, America is at war with Tripoli, although so far little has come of it.” Neilsen popped a date into his mouth. “The bashaw hates your country and your countrymen with a passion.”
    Alex was despondent. She watched Murad kneel and pour them both glasses of a lemon-flavored beverage. “Are you telling me that you cannot help me?”
    “You belong to Jebal now, Mrs. Thornton. He has purchased you for a considerable sum. I can lodge an offical