Intense blue eyes bored hard into hers, but Margaret Thatcher was not going to give in and divulge what she knew.
"Bitch," growled her captor, fetching her another nasty smack with something cold and hard, probably an iron bar. Meg could only hope that she would have the strength of will to stay silent until help arrived.
Her cover was broken, through no misstep of hers. Blue eyes, she reminded herself sternly. The ones in front of her now burned with hatred; the ones she saw were as determined, as implacable, but gentle and caring, or shrouded in confused pain.