Free Captive by Brenda Joyce Page A

protest, that is all.”
    Alex vaguely recalled that the first few years of the war had been so eventless that the Tripolitans had laughed about being at war with America. Soon, though, when Preble arrived, that would change. “But I am already married,” Alex lied.
    Neilsen shrugged. “They assumed as much. They do not care.”
    Murad looked up. Their glances caught. For one singleinstant his was sympathetic and concerned. But then he looked away, rising and moving back to the corner of the room.
    “I will lodge a protest. I will try to convince Jebal to leave you alone. I have little faith, though, in my powers of persuasion. There is only one real hope.”
    “What is that?”
    “Ransom. These people are greedy. If your husband is very rich, the bashaw would not care that Jebal is taken with you. He would want the gold.”
    Alex stared at Neilsen almost blindly. She thought of her bank account … in the twentieth century. “No. He is not rich.” Alex hugged herself.
    Neilsen sighed. “I am so sorry.”
    Alex nodded. She stared dismally at the table laden with nuts, fruits, and cheeses. She was exhausted. She needed to rest. Perhaps this was her destiny, to be a captive too. At least she was in nineteenth-century Tripoli, where Blackwell was. Somehow, in that moment, the notion was not very consoling.
    Murad came and handed her the glass of lemon-flavored liquid. Alex found herself grateful to him. She sensed that his compassion was genuine.
    “I will forward any correspondence you wish,” Neilsen said, standing.
    Alex did not bother to respond.
    “Mrs. Thornton, might I ask you how you came to be captured here in Tripoli?”
    For a moment, Alex did not answer. “It is a strange story. You would not believe me if I told you.” Alex realized that she had better invent a good tale to tell, but she was too despondent, worried, and exhausted to do so now.
    “When you are ready to talk to me, please send for me. Jebal will allow you to see me again, I am sure. Even after your conversion.”
    Alex stiffened. “I cannot convert to Islam. I will not.”
    Neilsen blinked. “But now that I have told you that there is no hope of your being freed, surely you would not refuse Jebal’s offer?”
    Alex stood up, swaying and unbalanced. Murad gripped her arm. “How can you encourage me to become that man’s mistress? That is what he intends, you know.”
    Neilsen gaped. “I am not encouraging you to become his mistress, my God!”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Clearly you do not. Jebal did not tell you?”
    Alex said tersely, “He did not tell me what?”
    “He wants you to become his wife,” Neilsen said.
    Alex froze.
    “His second wife,” Neilsen said. “You did not realize? Actually, it is a great honor. He has fallen in love with you, Mrs. Thornton.”
    Alex did not hear a single word the Dane was saying as he continued to speak. Her stunned mind began to function.
Jebal wished to marry her. And Xavier Blackwell had been executed in July 1804 for his affair with the Moslem wife of the bashaw’s son.
    “Mrs. Thornton? Are you unwell?”
    Alex knew that all the color had drained from her face. She knew that Murad held her upright. That both men, the consul and the slave, stared at her with concern. But her blood began to pump again, the shock and amazement began to abate.
    Ohmygod!
    Destiny … this was her destiny, it was all predestined … She was to be Xavier Blackwell’s lover.
    But then what?
    She shook free of Murad and gripped Neilsen’s hands. “There is an American here, an American sea captain, Xavier Blackwell. Tell me where he is?”
    The consul appeared thoughtful. “I know of no such man.”
    “That’s impossible! He was captured with his entire crew, and they are here, in captivity. His ship was the
Pearl,
a merchantman from Boston. She was blown up before she could be taken as a prize back to the bashaw. His name is Xavier Blackwell. He is here, somewhere, in Tripoli. I know