“Sit.”
She sat in one of the two armchairs that graced the room. The soldier placed the tray directly on top of the pictures on the coffee table. Mwana made no move to remove them, forcing her to glance at the unnerving images of herself that stared back at her.
“Eat,” he commanded, pushing one plate toward her.
She started to reach for the heavily scratched utensils and paused. A gleam of amusement lit his eyes as he stared back at her. “You think I would go to all this trouble to bring you here only to poison you?”
She berated herself, since the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. “No. I was only going to ask if the others are being fed, too. But since you’ve brought it up…?”
He laughed, the sound deep, husky, and…manly. The latter thought unnerved her further, and it was all she could do not to clutch her head in despair at the sensation that threatened to seize her.
She knew about Stockholm Syndrome, and she felt more than one-hundred-percent sure it wasn’t what was happening here. And yet, she couldn’t deny that Charles Mwana held a fascination for her, like meeting a celebrity—albeit an unhinged one.
“The answer is yes and no, in that order. Here, I’ll prove it.” He picked up his own fork and took a mouthful of food from her plate.
She waited until he swallowed before she picked up her own fork. After a few, hearty mouthfuls, she put her fork down.
“The food is unsatisfactory?” he asked with a raised brow.
“No, it’s not that. I’ve eaten nothing but a few bites of bread for almost a week. If I eat too much too soon, it’ll do more harm than good to my digestive system.”
His head tilted to one side as he regarded her. “A delicate statement for such a strong woman.”
Her fists tightened in her lap. “You know nothing about me and cannot accurately judge whether I’m strong or not.”
“On the contrary, you’ve proven yourself a natural leader in the few weeks you’ve been here. Within a short time, you made certain key changes at the mission. And my men tell me you stopped the others, especially your priest, from misbehaving on the journey here.”
She glanced down at the pictures, desperately fighting back the feelings of vulnerability. “So you didn’t just watch my movements, you’ve been actively spying on me.”
He reached out, almost as if to touch a strand of hair that fell over her arm. At the last moment, he pulled back.
“I prefer the term ‘due diligence.’ Do you know what I discovered about you?” he asked.
Unable to speak, she just shook her head.
“You have an inner core of strength that’s admirable. The other three listen to you, look to you for guidance. They should thank you—it’s probably what has kept them alive.” The note of steel in his voice was back, and his jaw was set in a rigid line that struck fear inside her.
“What are you going to do with us?” she asked.
He fell silent for so long, she thought he wouldn’t answer her. Letting his fork clatter onto his plate, he rose. “Your priest is of no worth to me. He was only taken because your fondness of him meant you would be…cooperative on your journey. Provided he doesn’t cause any trouble, his stay with us will be brief.”
“And…the other two?” she ventured, wanting to believe him but knowing she couldn’t trust anyone with Mwana’s deadly reputation.
He shrugged. “There will be a simple monetary transaction which, should they cooperate, will see them free in a few days.”
She refused to feel any relief, because she knew anything could happen in hostage situations. “What…what about me? Will you set me free, too?”
The gleam in his eyes intensified, until a light burned so bright there, she held her breath. “I’m hoping we can come to an arrangement.”
Ice snaked down her spine. “An arrangement?” she all but whispered.
He nodded, and a swath of hair fell into his eyes. With a casual hand, he brushed it back and walked through the door. “We will discuss it in due course. In the meantime, if you wish, there’s water, a towel, and a change of clothes through there. Feel free to use them.”
And just like that, she was alone. Or alone as she could be, considering she was surrounded by dozens of men armed with assault rifles.
She took a proper look around, and for the first time, she noticed that although there was a living area and an alcove where a large basin filled with water stood, there wasn’t a sleeping area.
Unless, of course, Charles Mwana chose to sleep on the bare, mud-caked floor. She frowned. Somehow, the man who kept a well-stocked library and boasted an above-average intellect didn’t strike her as the kind to do so.