Resistance: Hathe Book One (20 page)

It was
recognition of Radcliff’s deliberate attempts to manipulate her
emotions that saved her. So obviously designed to either crack open
her silence or seduce her into lowering her defenses, they instead
fortified her protective shell. This was business, nothing more.
Radcliff’s cynical use of his ability to manipulate and pleasure a
woman freed her to seek her own refuge, to hide in the waves of
physical desire set off by the expert caresses of this man who wore
the body of her Hamon. She could hide her face in his cheek and
refuse to see the ghosts calling her: Bendin, staring
reproachfully, as she had last seen him on his death slab—white as
powdered chalk and old, oh so old.

No,
don’t look. Explore instead this delightfully sexy man, feel the
tingles as his expert hand releases your body from its useless
coverings. Close your eyes and sink into his kiss as he carries you
up the stair, pass a flippant remark to hear the sound of his voice
drowning out Maman as she tells you not to race into her drawing
room.

Up the
next flight. Within the hazbubble, her near naked body flushed as
it pressed against his welcoming chest; but even the resulting
cascade of sensation could not protect her as they entered her old
room, her graduation sash still hanging in pride of place over her
couch and a hologram of Bendin, Maman and Father on a nearby
table.

Momentarily, she fumbled, reaching out with barely shaking
hand to crash the hologram to the floor.

“
This couch is far too small,” she murmured, desperate to be
out of this room. “The guest suite down the hall is so much
better.”

“
We
won’t need much room,” he countered, seeing the minuscule signs
that told of the near shattering of her defenses. “Come here,” and
he pulled her down beside him. He checked the bubble, enlarging the
protective field, and then, in slow enjoyment, removed her last
layers. As she did for him, in far too expert a fashion for the
woman he knew her to be, or thought her to be. But no, that way lay
insanity. He had to believe the Marthe he held in his arms was an
act only—even if she seemed as expert as he at this, he thought,
cursing silently but never letting slip his sultry mask.

“
And
now, my love, shall we see if we cannot make the stars
sing?”

The
words were hackneyed but Hamon felt anything but. He rolled on top
of her, and stroked a hand down her exquisite length. She was so
beautiful. His palm shaped each breast and reached up to cradle her
head as his lips sought hers. The Terran Major was fading and Hamon
emerged, fighting for ascendancy. He had waited so long for this.
He flexed his hips, and strove not to notice her shy flinching.
Slowly, slowly, he entered her.

Then
he looked down and saw her face. Suddenly, the wrongness
overwhelmed him. This was not who he was, not who they were. He
pulled back hard.

“
No,
don’t do this. Stop acting, Marthe, not here, not between us.” She
stared back at him, her eyes hooded. “Please, if in nothing else,
give me your trust in this. Let me love you, the real you,” he
pleaded.

But
she knew too well the danger of that gentle path. She teetered
already on the brink of telling him all her secrets, of giving way
to the temptation of his body, and of the man she was discovering
him to be. No, she mustn’t. Planting a brittle, come hither smile
on her face, she looked straight up at him and forced a sultry
smile onto her lips. “Hamon Radcliff! After such a masterly
seduction, am I now to be left in need?”

It was
a mistake. A red haze of fury and pain roared through Hamon and he
trapped her in a vicious clench, bringing into play all the
seasoned muscles of his street brawling days. “Just remember you
chose this.” Then he thrust into her with all the force of his pent
up need.

It was
short, brutal, and he supposed there was some kind of satisfaction
in it. At the end, he collapsed in a disgusted, angry heap upon
her.

After
that first, smothered shriek, that first panic at his assault, she
fell silent, but he could feel her shock. After a time he looked up
and saw her face. It was blank, the owner long flown. Guilt seized
him and the only refuge he could find was anger.

“
Stop that!” he shouted, shaking her with unfriendly hands.
“You come back from wherever it is you go. Don’t you dare play the
victim when you know damn well you’ve won here today.” He caught
her face, forcing her to look at him. “What else did you expect to
happen when you decided to play gutter politics?”

God
help those bastards who forced you into this if I ever get my hands
on them.
Deep in some previously unknown place of his heart, a
veil of tears fell.

Marthe
could not answer him, hidden so far within herself that she didn’t
know if she could return. Why, oh why could he not have continued
with the game, spared her the vicious honesty of that final,
degrading assault? He had taken everything from her, right down to
that inner vestige of pride that had kept her going so long, and
now he had the gall to tell her she had won. Hah! Won
what?

Gingerly, she eased herself from under him and off to the far
end of the couch, aware only that her one remaining hope of
salvation lay in her duty. This man truly owned her. All she could
do now was to exact some kind of price in exchange.

No.
That was too easy a label for what had happened here.
Be honest
with yourself at least.
What really smeared her soul, left her
empty and lost, was the truth his words laid bare. She had chosen
to use him, used the sheer physical pleasure he brought her to hide
from the dangers of this place, all the while knowing what he felt
for her and what they could have been to each other. All Hamon had
done was give form to the ugliness of the game they must play. Now,
she had to find a way to survive it.

Slowly, cautiously, she pulled her clothes on, ignoring the
grating tenderness between her thighs.

“
Where to next?”

She
meant her voice to sound cool and controlled, but it came out high
and shaky. “The peasants’ quarters, was it not? They’re down below,
well away from our own rooms.”

Hamon
jerked up onto an elbow, ignoring his nakedness and her refusal to
look directly at him. “So you still refuse to give in. What do you
owe these people, these peasants you claim to despise? By all the
stars, they barely speak the same language as you!”

“
I
owe them no loyalty, as well you know; but I owe your people even
less. The peasants merely turned on us after we had succored them
for years. But you and your kind? You killed, conquered and drove
my people away, and now you’ve finally turned me into a peasant
too. Four years of loneliness, falsely smiling at scum and what
for? Nothing. In a few minutes, you destroyed everything I had
left. Any particle of self worth I had left is gone.”

Her
words were bringing her back to life, the awakening of her anger
echoing in her rising voice. Disgusted, she turned away, only to be
hauled back by his rough hands on her shoulders.

“
Don’t feed me those razzing lies. Your own people forced you
into this situation. It was they who raped you as surely as I, and
yet still you protect them.”

“
My
people left four years ago. I would have gone too, but for my
damnable temper.”

“
Temper, yes, you little hellcat, but I don’t believe the rest
of it. Your people are close by, this peasant society of yours is a
complete fabrication, and you are in league with some underground
group. That’s the truth of it. Isn’t it? … Isn’t it?” he slammed at
her again.

The
devastation of shock fled under the storm of rage that swamped her.
She flung his hands off and lifted up her head, staring down her
nose at him.

“
Don’t you dare touch me like that again.”

“
I’ll touch you however I like, and don’t you forget it.” He
grabbed her, one hand possessively surrounding her as the other
pushed her chin farther up for his kiss. Tenderness had no part in
it. She managed to rake his face with one long fingernail. He
gasped, throwing her off to dab at the red beads springing to life
on his cheek.

“
If
you have sated your appetite, shall we go?” she demanded
angrily.

“
There seems little point staying longer. Hysterical outbursts
after sex hold little appeal for me. Especially when the woman knew
exactly what she was doing beforehand,” was his mocking reply as
that cold mask of his again slipped into place, that rigidly
non-expressive face he could assume at will. He rose to dress,
pulling on his clothes in short, jerky moves, as if desperate to
leave this place, then grasped her arm and bowed her out of her
once dear room.

The
hateful mask remained in place all day, further feeding her rage.
She gave herself to it, acting the Haut Liege to the hilt with
flashing eyes and proudly held head—more than enough to convince an
observer less astute than Hamon. Through the kitchens she led him,
barely deigning to notice such mundane objects as cookers, food
preservers and storeroom. Holding her nose carefully, she picked
her way through the cellars and through a doorway to a small, dark
room, pointing to rows of crude benches, a few, poor wooden shelves
and a store cupboard.

“
The
peasants’ quarters, kitchen staff only. Household and outdoor staff
lived farther down the garden.”

Thank
God they had anticipated such a search, she thought, and had taken
time to turn the decanting rooms of the wine cellars into these
horrid barracks amidst the turmoil of those desperate weeks before
the Terrans landed. “You cannot wish to see more. It’s too
reminiscent of your Citadel, a place even you must wish to
escape.”

Hamon
was silent beside her. Her words were so callous, yet he knew her
to be sensitive and compassionate. Or did he? Everything she said
rang so false, yet today she’d given him proof enough.

He
said little on the trip back, brooding on the day. All except a
few, violent moments which he refused to revisit. That night, he
undressed in wordless challenge before her then lay on the sleeper.
The cover on the other side was folded back and he looked at her,
waiting her reply.

Marthe
accepted. Standing tall and straight, she slowly peeled off her
robe under his unchanging stare then climbed in beside him. Despite
all her will, she was unable to stop a shuddering flinch as his
hands first found her. He let her go abruptly, then lifted her chin
with one gentle finger and turned to show her a face of solemn
grief.

“
I
won’t apologize or ask your forgiveness. I don’t know if I ever
can, but this I promise. Never again will I bring what divides us
into our bed. Here, in this one place, there is only you and me. On
this, I give you my word.” Then he gathered her close and with no
more than a short “Good night” curled into her to sleep.

It was
some time before Marthe could relax enough to join him in slumber,
and she woke in the morning to find him already gone. The only
lingering trace of his presence, a faint scent on the
headrest.

Hamon
had left her early and driven to visit the prison wing, hoping
against hope to find the clue to his dilemma in his other Haute
Liege detainee, the inimitable Jacquel des Trurain. The man had
been—no, still was—a close friend to Marthe and must be able to
help him. If only Hamon could set aside the anger that always
overcame him at the sight of that insolent, jeering
face.

But
today was to be no different from all the days before.

“
Ah,
Major. Good morning. To what do I owe this … pleasure? A spot of
the old physical hijinks again. What joy!”

Hamon
could already feel his resolve faltering and his face stiffening.
“I merely came to find out what you could tell me about a certain,
mutual acquaintance of ours.”

“
Oh,
and who might that be? My estimable jailer? I can certainly claim a
close acquaintance with him.” Des Trurain winced, shifting uneasily
on the crude bench. “You will forgive me for not rising, but my
head will not seem to withstand such exertion. Obviously due to the
lack of mineral water—always most efficacious for the maintenance
of mental clarity.”

Hamon
could not suppress a taunting grin at his enemy’s plight. Des
Trurain so rarely showed any sign of the effects of his
imprisonment.

“
I
was referring to my current mistress, Marthe asn Castre. You were
once very close, I understand.”

It was
with even more satisfaction that he observed the icy stillness of
his prisoner.

“
The
Lady asn Castre’s twin brother was an old and dear friend, until
slaughtered in a battle you no doubt remember,” des Trurain said
bitterly. Then his face changed, and he gazed brightly back at
Hamon. “Now I have it. Always thought I’d seen your face somewhere.
You’re that Terran Bendin threw out one night, and damn me if that
wasn’t over a girl too. Remember it well now. The boys thought it a
great laugh—the backward Terran mooning over a Hathian
lady.”

“
The
very one,” agreed Hamon amicably.

“
So
now you have the boot on the other foot and can take your petty
revenge,” snarled des Trurain “but, God help me, did you have to
take it out on her too?” He launched himself viciously at
Hamon.