Resistance: Hathe Book One by Mary Brock Jones Page A

guessed it wasn’t the sole reason
for his vigil. He did not trust her and would not leave her
unguarded. So she chose to deny his presence, turning up her face
to the water and luxuriating in the unbraiding of the hated coils,
to let her hair be flooded and drenched, the dulling powder scoured
completely away. Afterwards, the strands sprang to life, restored
to their native vibrancy as the warm gusts of drying air enveloped
her.
    It was
bliss, and for an instant she let him see the woman she was, a
barely acknowledged dream out of her past, but with the shutdown of
the hot air currents she retreated back behind her mask. She caught
a look in his face then, a fleeting shadow of disappointment, then
bitter recognition of her knowledge of it. There was almost a touch
of defensiveness in his harsh tugging open of the unit door, but he
soon hid it from her as he handed her a sleeveless shift. Simple in
design, she quickly realized it was made to enhance rather than
cover.
    “ This will suffice in these quarters,” he said, as if daring
her to deny it.
    She
took the garment and drew it on. The material was soft, of a
comfort she had often longed for over the difficult years. Right
now, though, she would have preferred the roughness of her own
concealing robes.
    “ You
have this stored here for your peasant drabs?”
    “ And
any other woman I may come across in my line of work.”
    “ Spying!”
    “ If
that is what you wish to call it. You are entitled, I suppose,
since you are similarly occupied yourself. Are you not?”
    “ No,” she exclaimed. “I’m merely a Haut Liege trying to remain
inconspicuous.”
    “ Don’t take me for a fool. I assure you I am not, and much as
you try to hide what you think from me, you are not a totally blank
screen.” She began to protest, but was stopped by an exasperated
glare. “I don’t know yet what you’re up to, but I will find out.
Who knows, you may even tell me yourself after a night of suitable
persuasion.”
    The
words brought a quixotic mood change and a wicked grin. He stepped
closer, taking her by both elbows and forcing her to look up at his
face. She gave in to her urge to retreat but his grip was stronger
than the caressing of his thumbs would suggest. He desired her and
was making no attempt to conceal it, the challenge clear in the
seductive mellowing of his eyes to a warm hazel brown. She was
suddenly very afraid. The cold officer, him she could resist. She
was not so sure about this man.
    “ Major Radcliff, I am your prisoner, nothing else. I would
thank you to let me go.”
    “ I
don’t want to.”
    “ You
forget, you are responsible for me to your colonel. A valuable
hostage, I think he said. If you ever find my people, they’re not
going to be as willing to negotiate if they find I have been
abused.”
    He
gave a short crack of laughter and pulled her even closer. “I
wouldn’t call what you and I could do for each other
abuse.”
    She
feared he was right. “Your colonel entrusted my safety to
you.”
    “ I
was ordered to keep you secure, not safe, and the Colonel is well
aware of what I intend for you. If you think Earth sent its
philosophers and chivalrous officers on this mercenary little
jaunt, you are mistaken. I am afraid we are all quite, quite rotten
to the core.”
    She
believed him and pulled hastily back, as afraid of her own needs as
she was of him. Logic seemed to desert her, and she made a mad dash
for safety. He didn’t expect it and the surprise gave her release.
She raced through the lounge and to the outer door, so grateful to
be free that she forgot all about the field guarding the exit.
Slamming the opener with her hand, she made to burst through. She
hit the powerful force bars there, throwing her roughly back and
leaving small, painful burns on her arms, knees, stomach and
breasts.
    Gasping, she stumbled back onto the floor. She was dazed but a
moment, then came to herself and half turned to her oppressor,
standing watching her