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Breathe.
And he forced another breath into her, and another silent command. You will breathe. You will live.
You will.
She sputtered. Coughed. Her lashes fluttered, lifted, eyes opening.
Grimly Tair stared down into her face, the pallor giving way to the slightest hint of pink.
Alhumdulillah,he silently muttered. Thanks be to God. He might not be a good man, or a nice man, but he didn’t enjoy killing women.
Her eyes were the palest brown-green, not one color or the other and although her expression was cloudy, unfocused, the color itself was remarkable, the color of a forest glen at dawn, the forest he once knew as a boy when visiting his mother’s people in England.
Her brows suddenly pulled, her entire face tightening, constricting. She wheezed. And wheezed again, lips pursing, eyes fixed on him, widening, eyes filled with alarm.
Her hand lifted, touched her mouth, fingers curving as if to make a shape. Again she put her hand to her mouth, fingers squeezing. “Haler.”
He shook his head, impatient, not understanding, seeing the pink in her skin fade, the pallor return. She wasn’t getting air. She wasn’t breathing again.
Her eyes, wide, frightened, held his and her fear cut him. She was hurt and in pain and he was doing this to her.
“What do you need?” he demanded, switching to English even as he lightly slapped her cheek, trying to get her to focus, communicate. What was wrong? Why couldn’t she breathe?
Her fingers merely curled, reminding him of the letter C from the Western alphabet as she gasped, and he blocked out her frantic gasps of air studying her fingers instead. And then suddenly he knew. Asthma.
“You have asthma,” he said. He was gratified to see her nod. “Where is your inhaler?”
“Cam-ra.”
He lifted a hand, gestured, signaling he wanted it. The bag was handed over immediately.
Tair unzipped the top, rifled through, found the inhaler in a small interior side pocket and shook it before putting it to her mouth. Her hand reached up, released the aerosol, letting it flood her lungs.
Still holding her in the crook of his arm he watched her take another hit, saw her chest rise and fall more slowly, naturally, saw that she was breathing more deeply and he felt a measure of relief. She lived. He hadn’t killed her. Good.
Hard to explain a dead Western woman to the authorities.
Minutes later she stirred again.
Tally didn’t know at exactly what moment she realized she was lying in the barbarian’s arms, her legs over his, her body in his lap, but once she knew where she was, and how he held her, she jerked upright.
She wrenched free, attempted to jump from the horse but instead fell to the ground, tumbling in a heap at everyone’s feet.
She groaned inwardly, thinking she was getting too old for dramatic leaps and falls. Tally rose, straightening her white cotton shirt and brushing her khaki trousers smooth. “Who are you?” she demanded.
The man on the horse adjusted his headcovering, shifting the dark fabric to conceal all of his face but his eyes and bridge of nose. Face covered, he just looked at her, as did the others, and there were about a half dozen of them altogether.
“What do you want with me?” she persisted.
“We will talk later.”
“I want to talk now.”
He shrugged. “You can talk but I will not answer.”
Tally inhaled, felt the hot still air slide into her lungs. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It made no sense. Nothing about this made sense. She’d been kidnapped from the medina, taken right from the market by a group of masked men. But why?
Who were they?
Her gaze settled on the soft suede boot in front of her, the color light, cream, just slightly darker than the white robe. Her gaze rose, lifting from the pale suede boot which covered from foot to calf, up over his knee, to the horse’s ornate saddle and bridle. Both were made from pounded silver, heavily decorated with bits of onyx and blue stone, finished with colorful woolen tassels. The bridle’s decorative leather curved protectively around the neck, nearly covered the ears, shielding the eyes. More silver and leatherwork ran across the front of the horse to match the saddle.
Tally’s gaze lifted higher, moving from horse to man. He, in comparison, was dressed simply. White pants and robe, and a dark headcloth that wrapped around the neck, covered the head, and cloaked his face from nose to throat.
His eyes she could see. And they were dark, fixed, penetrating, nearly as strong as the bridge of his nose.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“We will talk later,” he said, and turning slightly in his silver and gold embroidered blanket that served as a saddle, gestured to his men. “We go.”
