pulse roared in her ears.
She recognized the many corsair ships immediately. They were wooden sailing vessels, each about forty feet long, single or double masted, capable of carrying a dozen guns or so. She still could not believe her eyes. She stared at the corsair cruisers, expecting them to metamorphose into modem-day sailboats and luxury yachts. But they remained the same—nineteenth-century Barbary pirate ships.
She was not hallucinating.
She was not insane.
There were also a half dozen European merchantmen at anchor in the harbor, both frigates and brigs, as well as several slave galleys. Smaller fishing vessels bobbed about the larger ships. Meanwhile. Turkish janissaries stood on the closest wharf, the curved blades of their scimitars glinting in the sun, supervising the unloading of one corsair ship that had clearly just been berthed.
Baled cotton, corded chests, casks of wine and vinegar, and oak barrels were being unloaded by dozens of men clad in rags. Some were black, some olive skinned, and many were as white as Alex herself. She blinked. Her pulse rate increased dramatically. Not only were these men underweight and ragged,they were all barefoot—and each and every one had a thick iron shackle around one ankle.
It was one thing to read about slavery—it was another to witness it firsthand.
Her wide gaze lifted. Panting now, she saw that the fortress on the mole was flying a tricolored flag with a crescent symbolizing the Moslem faith. From her research she recognized the flag as belonging to the nineteenth-century state of Tripoli.
Not even aware of it, Alex sank down on the marble bench. She could still see the entire harbor. Cannons were mounted on the ramparts of the fort. Hadn’t she read somewhere that the old fort had boasted about a hundred cannons? How lethal the fort looked. When just yesterday it had been defenseless and in ruins.
Alex jerked. Just beyond the bottleneck entrance to the harbor, she had spotted another ship cruising. It was a nineteenth-century warship—and she was flying the thirteen stars and stripes of the United States of America.
Chills raced up and down Alex’s body. Her mouth was bone-dry. She felt dazed, shell-shocked. Punch-drunk, crazy. Somehow, she had traveled back in time, to the early nineteenth century!
But that was absurd. That was crazy.
She stared, hard, but the harbor remained unchanged.
She was not insane. Somehow, she had traveled back in time. She was in nineteenth-century Tripoli. And the comprehension struck her with stunning force.
Ohmygod.
Xavier Blackwell was here.
Alex gripped the marble bench with both hands. Her heart was pounding so hard, it seemed ready to explode out of her chest. She was still in a state of disbelief, yet she knew what she was seeing. She must calm herself, she must think. Her wildest dreams had come true. Hadn’t they?
And now Alex instantly understood why, ever since she had awoken, she had been unable to summon Blackwell’s ghost. Because he was no longer dead.
Now she merely had to find him.
Alex wiped her eyes, clearing her vision, breathing deeply. Her fear had abated. Of course, she would find him. Why else would she have made such a fantastic journey if he were nother destiny? If their union were not predestined—meant to be—inevitable?
But Alex’s thoughts quickly screeched to a hah. She was forgetting something of major importance—Blackwell was going to be executed by the bashaw. In the middle of July, in 1804.
She stared blindly at the harbor. What date was it, exactly?
She knew that it had to be before Blackwell’s execution date. It had to be. Otherwise her traveling through time made no sense.
Her breathing still shallow and rapid, Alex glanced back toward the two black guards in the room she had Just left. She understood now that they were slaves. The Frenchman was clearly a slave trader. And he was about to trade her.
Alex wet her lips. She hadn’t quite realized the extent of her
She recognized the many corsair ships immediately. They were wooden sailing vessels, each about forty feet long, single or double masted, capable of carrying a dozen guns or so. She still could not believe her eyes. She stared at the corsair cruisers, expecting them to metamorphose into modem-day sailboats and luxury yachts. But they remained the same—nineteenth-century Barbary pirate ships.
She was not hallucinating.
She was not insane.
There were also a half dozen European merchantmen at anchor in the harbor, both frigates and brigs, as well as several slave galleys. Smaller fishing vessels bobbed about the larger ships. Meanwhile. Turkish janissaries stood on the closest wharf, the curved blades of their scimitars glinting in the sun, supervising the unloading of one corsair ship that had clearly just been berthed.
Baled cotton, corded chests, casks of wine and vinegar, and oak barrels were being unloaded by dozens of men clad in rags. Some were black, some olive skinned, and many were as white as Alex herself. She blinked. Her pulse rate increased dramatically. Not only were these men underweight and ragged,they were all barefoot—and each and every one had a thick iron shackle around one ankle.
It was one thing to read about slavery—it was another to witness it firsthand.
Her wide gaze lifted. Panting now, she saw that the fortress on the mole was flying a tricolored flag with a crescent symbolizing the Moslem faith. From her research she recognized the flag as belonging to the nineteenth-century state of Tripoli.
Not even aware of it, Alex sank down on the marble bench. She could still see the entire harbor. Cannons were mounted on the ramparts of the fort. Hadn’t she read somewhere that the old fort had boasted about a hundred cannons? How lethal the fort looked. When just yesterday it had been defenseless and in ruins.
Alex jerked. Just beyond the bottleneck entrance to the harbor, she had spotted another ship cruising. It was a nineteenth-century warship—and she was flying the thirteen stars and stripes of the United States of America.
Chills raced up and down Alex’s body. Her mouth was bone-dry. She felt dazed, shell-shocked. Punch-drunk, crazy. Somehow, she had traveled back in time, to the early nineteenth century!
But that was absurd. That was crazy.
She stared, hard, but the harbor remained unchanged.
She was not insane. Somehow, she had traveled back in time. She was in nineteenth-century Tripoli. And the comprehension struck her with stunning force.
Ohmygod.
Xavier Blackwell was here.
Alex gripped the marble bench with both hands. Her heart was pounding so hard, it seemed ready to explode out of her chest. She was still in a state of disbelief, yet she knew what she was seeing. She must calm herself, she must think. Her wildest dreams had come true. Hadn’t they?
And now Alex instantly understood why, ever since she had awoken, she had been unable to summon Blackwell’s ghost. Because he was no longer dead.
Now she merely had to find him.
Alex wiped her eyes, clearing her vision, breathing deeply. Her fear had abated. Of course, she would find him. Why else would she have made such a fantastic journey if he were nother destiny? If their union were not predestined—meant to be—inevitable?
But Alex’s thoughts quickly screeched to a hah. She was forgetting something of major importance—Blackwell was going to be executed by the bashaw. In the middle of July, in 1804.
She stared blindly at the harbor. What date was it, exactly?
She knew that it had to be before Blackwell’s execution date. It had to be. Otherwise her traveling through time made no sense.
Her breathing still shallow and rapid, Alex glanced back toward the two black guards in the room she had Just left. She understood now that they were slaves. The Frenchman was clearly a slave trader. And he was about to trade her.
Alex wet her lips. She hadn’t quite realized the extent of her
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