She shook her head to dispel the image of gray eyes and chiseled features that rose in her mind. “No, Father. There’s no one special.”
Not since one man had cut her hopes away. Not since the future she’d foolishly dreamed of and mapp
ed out for herself had turned out to be a mirage.
She felt compassion for the children of Nawaka whose lives had been torn apart by war and famine. She certainly felt fear, for herself and the other three captives whose plight was very grave indeed. She pitied the soldiers, who thought the only way to resolve their conflict was by wielding guns and tormenting innocents.
But feelings of excitement, longing, and, above all, love? No, those had been trampled beneath feet encased in Italian hand-made shoes with all the carelessness of someone stubbing out a cigarette.
Forcing the unwanted thoughts from her mind, she focused on the old man. “So, can I count on you to behave?” she asked.
He held up three gnarled fingers. “Old scout’s honor.”
Somewhat reassured, if not all together convinced, by the old man’s words, she straightened and swatted the ever-present flies from her face.
By the time the second group of rebels returned, they’d finished their meager meal. Ignoring the pain in her feet, Belle helped the old man up and fell into her designated place in line, the second of the hostages walking between two groups of gun-toting captors.
Their journey ended abruptly an hour later.
The scorching sun still rode in the cloudless sky when they passed a large circle of moabi trees and entered a clearing dotted with thatched huts.
The largest of the huts, slap in the middle of the semi-circular group of similar dwellings, was the most carefully constructed. Although made to look like its dilapidated neighbors with its thatched roof, oven-strengthened mud exterior, and wooden-slatted windows, the structure held a few differences to the practiced eye. The walls were slightly thicker, the door made of mahogany rather than the weaker plywood of the other huts.
Belle gaped at the unexpected sight this far inside the jungle, the pleasing hint of civilization momentarily overriding the reason for her presence here. To one side of the clearing, a large well rose from the ground, complete with a powerful-looking hand pump and a simple water hose had been connected from the well to a showerhead hooked to a tree branch.
The simple, but oh-so-very-missed, comfort gripped her attention.
She was so focused on thoughts of taking a shower that it took a few precious seconds to sense his presence.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” the voice said. It was deep and lyrical, a mixture of accents that curiously intrigued her. Just as it had the first time she’d heard it three weeks ago.
Turning sharply to her left, she came face to face with the man on whose orders they had been taken—her ultimate, ruthless captor.
Charles Mwana.
Belle reluctantly admitted, just as she had the first time she’d seen him, that the propaganda pictures strewn around the Nawakan capital and on signposts in every village did not do him justice.
He towered over his men, a commanding figure whose camouflage uniform was the only thing he had in common with his subordinates.
Shoulder-length brown hair bleached light by the harsh African sun, blue-eyed and swarthy, the rebel leader wouldn’t have been out of place on the cover of People Magazine, except for the ugly, jagged scar that disfigured the right side of his face.
But even with the scar, she had to admit there was a riveting presence about him, a charismatic pull that could lull one into believing he was marginally less dangerous than he truly was. Especially when he chose that moment to bare white, even teeth in a seemingly harmless smile.
She tensed as he came closer, the sheer breadth of his shoulders blocking out the sun as he paused two feet from her.
“I trust my men treated you well?” he asked.
She barely stopped a snort from escaping. Father Tom started to answer, but she stopped him with a slight shake of her head.
“Yes, but I…we would like to know why we’ve been cap—taken.”
“All in good time. First things first. Let’s get you out of this interminable heat.” His English was perfect, a fact which, since Nawaka was mostly a French-speaking country, made her wonder about his origins. He signaled to one of his men, who came forward and snapped to attention in front of him.
“Please…just tell us why we’re here.” She forced firmness she was far from feeling into her voice.
His blue eyes lost a touch of warmth, but his smile remained in place as he stepped closer.
She swallowed, her heart lurching before hammering against her ribcage.