Captive by Brenda Joyce Page A

knew that. A few moments later Zoe was gone and Alex and Murad slipped out from the shrubs. The harem gardens were beautifully landscaped with trees and flowers and shrubs, with fish pools and marble bathing tubs, bisected by numerous shell paths. The bashaw’s two wives and oneremaining single daughter had their apartments on the eastern side of the garden. Alex and Zoe had their quarters, which adjoined Jebal’s, on the western side of the gardens. The bashaw’s other two daughters and their families had apartments just behind Jebal’s.
    Alex and Murad hurried through the gardens. “Why does she hate me so?” Alex asked. “I don’t love Jebal. It has to be obvious. He doesn’t take me to his bed. He is enamored of his new Italian concubine, Paulina. She should hate Paulina, not me.”
    “Jebal had one wife, Zoe herself, until you. And that is why Zoe hates you so much. Alex,” Murad said gravely. “We both know he will never marry Paulina. She is a passing fancy.”
    They left the harem, entering the palace. Alex pulled on her veil. Alex and Murad were silent as they approached the chamber where the four men were discussing war. Another corridor took them to a small room with peepholes set in the walls. No one saw them enter.
    “I am not happy about this,” Murad remarked.
    The room was not secret. Everyone knew of its existence; the women were free to come and go and use the room to watch the feasts and celebrations that took place in the bashaw’s hall. There was a similar room attached to Jebal’s hall, for the same purpose. But neither room was meant to be used to spy upon a political and private discussion held amongst the men.
    Alex glued her eye to the peephole. Sure enough, the bashaw sat grimly upon his throne. Jebal and Jovar were in the midst of a heated argument, while Farouk, who was huge and fat, popped dates and nuts into his mouth.
    Jovar, a tall blond Scots renegade, was red in the face. “We must send a dozen cruisers to attack the American dogs—destroy them.”
    “Father,” Jebal said quickly. “Send three. In case the Americans destroy everything sent their way.”
    “They are cowards, they will turn tail and flee,” Jovar scoffed. “Have they avenged the loss of the
Franklin,
or the
Sarah
before that?”
    Alex turned to Murad. “He hates the Americans so much,perhaps more than the bashaw. Why?” She spoke in a low, careful whisper.
    “No one really knows,” Murad returned as carefully. “Ssh.
Es-mah-ee.”
    Alex returned her attention to the men. The two men went back and forth, Jovar adamant, Jebal sulking, as the debate progressed. Finally the bashaw intervened. “Enough,” he roared. “I agree with Jebal. We shall send three ships.” His cold black glance held Jovar’s.
    Jovar was flushed, furious. He stood and left the room abruptly.
    Farouk finally spoke. “My lord, you have chosen wisely. To test the Americans now under new command. But perhaps I should go after Rais Jovar—and soothe his ruffled feathers?”
    The bashaw nodded. “Go.”
    “Father, does this mean that I will command the operation?” Jebal asked.
    “You are my only heir,” the bashaw said. “You cannot go to sea with the three ships.”
    Jebal’s face fell. “Father—”
    “My word is law,” the bashaw said, his eyes black.
    Jebal bowed. While he knelt, the bashaw swept out of the room, his many layers of silk and velvet and fur flowing about him.
    Alex stared through the peephole at Jebal, feeling sorry for him. Unlike the bashaw, he was not a thief or a murderer or a bad or evil man. He was kind to Alex, and to his household and slaves. Kind, that is, for a Moslem prince who was mostly Turk. She straightened. “Let’s go.”
    Murad sighed as Alex opened the door. And came face-to-face with Jovar.
    She turned white, starting.
    Jovar smiled at her. His eyes were an ice-cold blue, however, and they did not change. He was clad in flowing trousers and robes, wearing both a huge dagger