Firmly but gently, he pressed Samara back while his night-dark eyes bored into hers, eyes that searched and demanded and made her heart flutter like a tiny nestling’s. Bristles shadowed a carved jawline and framed a wide mouth. Had he brought her here from the desert? He looked as though he could easily carry her. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular. Strength was in his touch.
“Be still. You are too weak to move or go anywhere.”
She relented and relaxed back into the bed.
“Do you have a family? What is your name?”
She stopped breathing. They did not know.
“Darouk, hush! Let her be. I didn’t tell you to interrogate her.” The woman threw an arm in front of the man, pushing him back. “She’s still weak and dehydrated. Give her time.”
The woman touched her hand again to Samara’s forehead. She noted the gift of the woman’s gentle touch against her heated skin as she dragged her gaze from the man’s. She turned her eyes again to her surroundings. Pictures woven in fine threads showed birds and flowers in bright colors and hung on whitewashed walls. Sunlight, softened by sheer fabric at the windows, glazed a polished stone floor. The room and the bed linens smelled of something flowery. If not the Land of Rivers, it was as wonderful…