‘Who are you?’ He switched to French, then English, and heard an answering hiss of breath.
English, then.
The silence grew, ratcheting his tension higher.
‘You don’t know?’ It was a whisper, as if the speaker feared being overheard.
Ashraf frowned. Had the blow to his head damaged his hearing? It couldn’t be, yet it sounded like—
‘You’re awoman?’
‘You’re not one of them, then.’ Her voice was flat, yet taut, as if produced by vocal cords under stress.
Stress he could understand.
‘By “one of them” you mean...?’
‘The men who brought me here. The men who...’ Ashraf heard a shudder in her voice ‘...kidnapped me.’
‘Definitely not one of them. They kidnapped me too.’
For which they’d pay. Ashraf had no intention of dying in what he guessed was a shepherd’s hut, from the smell of livestock. Though the sturdy chain and handcuff indicated that the place was used for other, sinister purposes. He’d heard whispers that Qadri was involved in people-smuggling. That women in particular sometimes vanished without a trace, sold to unscrupulous buyers across the border.
The pale glow came closer. Ashraf saw her now. Silvery hair, pale skin and eyes that looked hollow in the shadows. She swallowed and he made out the convulsive movement of her throat. Calm overlying panic. At least she wasn’t hysterical.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.
A tiny huff of amusement greeted his question. ‘That’s my line. You’re the one who’s bleeding.’
Ashraf looked down. Parting his torn shirt, he discovered a long cut, no longer bleeding. A knife wound, he guessed, but not deep.
‘I’ll live.’
Despite the playboy reputation Ashraf had once acquired, he’d done his time in the army. A stint which his father had ensured was tougher and more dangerous than usual. Ashraf knew enough about wounds to be sure he’d be alive when his executioner arrived tomorrow.
‘How about you?’
* * *
Tori stared at him, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time.
Except tears wouldn’t help. And she feared if she laughed it would turn into hysteria.
‘Just scrapes and bruises.’ She was lucky and she knew it. Her jaw ached where she’d been backhanded across the face but that was the worst. Despite the hungry gleam she’d seen in her captors’ eyes as they’d inspected her, they hadn’t touched her except to subdue her and throw her in here.
Looking at this injured man, she trembled, thinking she’d got off lightly. So far.
He’d been unconscious when they’d dumped him on the dirt floor. Either he’d put up a mighty fight or they had a grudge against him to beat him up like that.
She hadn’t had time to investigate how badly he was injured. His shirt was torn and stained and his head was bloody on one side. Even so, he stood tall. His ragged shirt hung from wide, straight shoulders and his dusty trousers clung to a horseman’s thighs. He looked fit and powerful despite his injuries. Under the grime he had strong-boned features that she guessed might be handsome, or at least arresting.
Would she see him in daylight or would they come for her before that? Terror shuddered down her spine and turned her knees to jelly. Panic bit her insides as she imagined what was in store for her.
‘Where are we?’ Like her, the stranger kept his voice low, yet something about the smooth, deep note eased a fraction of the tension pinching her.
‘Somewhere in the foothills. I couldn’t see from the back of the van.’ She wrapped her arms around her middle, remembering that trip, facing a grim stranger with a knife in his hand.
‘There’s a road?’ The man before her pounced on that.