Page 3 of The Forgotten Wife

Seemingly satisfied that he wouldn’t be any more trouble, the rebel leader turned his attention back to her. “All in good time, my dear.” His tone had once again returned to that of charming host.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Edda and Henrik sag with relief as the tension eased tangibly. But the stone-heavy dread in Belle’s stomach didn’t dissipate.

With a jerk of his head, the rebel leader indicated one of the smaller huts. The soldier nearest the Dutch couple barked an order. Edda jumped and clung closer to her husband as they were led away.

Beside her, Father Tom tried to stare down their captor, but Mwana’s eyes were once again riveted on her face, his sharp, speculative regard boring almost invasively under her skin.

“Come with me,” he instructed, stepping back to indicate the large hut.

“Where are you taking her?” Father Tom demanded.

“It’s okay, Father.” She pressed a reassuring hand on his arm and nudged him toward Edda and Henrik.

He seemed set to protest, but her murmuredno,meant for his ears alone, convinced him to refrain. In any case, Mwana had decided not to bother with an answer.

He stood at the door to his hut and beckoned her with a gracious gesture that seemed at odds with her circumstances.

On unsteady feet, she approached, fighting the wave of apprehension that threatened to sweep her away with its unrelenting tide.

Stepping into the hut, she was engulfed by coolness that brought immediate relief from the scorching sun. Extensive bookshelves took up one solid wall. There were books on philosophy, politics, economics, and classic literature. Although their first meeting had been brief—Charles Mwana had stopped their missionary truck on the way to the city and exchanged words with the driver before welcoming Belle to the mission—she’d allowed herself to believe that the man who held a stranglehold on Nawaka to the point where the current government all but bowed to his every wish was nothing buta ruthless thug who chose to hide in the jungle, despite the charisma he seemed to exude.

Looking around, her fear escalated. Whatever else Charles Mwana was, he was not a simpleton. Clearly, her capture was no spur-of-the-moment opportunistic grab.

She took a few more steps into the living area of the hut, and her heart sank.

Pictures of her covered the surface of a coffee table made entirely out of the clean slice of a mahogany tree trunk: images of her playing in the dirt outside the mission with the young children, of her unloading supplies from the mission truck, and even ones of her sitting alone under a large moabi tree, reading in the dusk.

Icy numbness encased her chest. “You’ve had me under surveillance since I arrived at the mission.”

“Surveillance is such an unpleasant word. More like keeping a friendly eye on you,” he murmured in that deep, disconcertingly mesmerizing voice.

She turned to face him. “Friendly? Is that what you call being dragged through the jungle for five days straight with nothing but bread crusts to eat?”

He spread large, golden-brown hands upward in a cajoling gesture. “I regret that. If there had been an easier way, I would’ve employed it.”

“An easier way to do what? What exactly is the end game here? It can’t be because you craved the pleasure of my…our company.”

His steady blue gaze raked lazily over her, pausing in uncomfortable places before rising to recapture hers. “Don’t underestimate the power of your charms, Belle, or the time and effort it’s taken to bring you here.”

The sound of her name on his lips made her skin crawl, but it was nothing compared to the sheer terror his words createdinside her. Before she could summon the courage to ask what he meant, there was a knock on his door.

He answered in fluent Nawakan. A soldier entered, bearing a tray loaded with food. The heady smell of cassava and the spinach and fish sauce she’d grown to love since arriving in Nawaka hit her nostrils. Her stomach growled with the pain of denied nourishment, and she swayed where she stood.

The urge to resist the food provided by her captor crossed her mind for a single second before she dismissed its folly. To stand any chance of surviving this…whateverthiswas, she’d need all her strength. She’d never been one to cut her nose off to spite her face. No, her many flaws lay elsewhere, far, far from this nightmare. “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 afascination 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.

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