Resistance: Hathe Book One by Mary Brock Jones Page B

nonchalantly from the doorway. A maddening
smile had spread across his face.
    “ Satisfied with the security measures we employ? Though I’ve
seen less violent ways of testing them.” He strode across and,
surprisingly gently, picked her up and carried her to the bedroom.
Reaching into a cupboard concealed in the wall, he brought out a
bottle of thick, white cream. “Here, this will stop those burns
marking that so beautiful skin of yours, though it will still be
painful for a few days. I wouldn’t advise such heroics too
often.”
    Still
dazed, she lay quiet, suddenly uncertain as she watched this
unpredictable man spread the cream across her knees and arms. She
put her hands out in protest as he pulled her shift higher to
anoint the angry burns spreading over her abdomen and up to her
breasts.
    “ Easy there,” he gentled. “At present, my intentions are not
dishonorable. Or at least, I hope they’re not,” and he carefully
spread the cream over the stinging brands, pausing slightly to
caress as well as soothe as he reached her breasts, then found a
new shift for her and pulled it gently over her head and down,
lifting it over the burnt patches.
    She
shivered at his touch, but whether from fear or delight, she could
not have said. She looked up, a strained question in the look she
bent on him. He didn’t answer it, but turned away, returning a
moment later with a mug of warmly steaming liquid.
    “ Here, take this.”
    She
hesitated, but then saw something in his quiet waiting that
unaccountably made her trust him. She drank, recognizing the taste
of the sedative he’d included. She needed sleep after these hours
of tension and she doubted he had included anything other than the
sedative. All he offered was sleep, said the look in his face. She
shouldn’t believe him. There was no reason to. But she remembered
that fleeting glimpse of vulnerability she had seen in him earlier.
She accepted and gave in. Her eyes drooped closed.
    Hamon
stood watching her, curled up so carelessly on his sleeper, and was
aware of a rarely felt moment of contentment. To give her such a
respite was strictly against any sensible strategy, but to hell
with it. She would have little chance to sleep in the coming days.
Then, disgusted with himself, he argued instead that the sleep
would leave her unsuspecting and vulnerable to his
questioning.
    Stars,
he was growing soft. Who was this man who stood here wavering? He
had a job to do and a world depending on him. He stalked angrily
away to set in motion the search for the male who had interrupted
him so suspiciously the previous day.
    As he
stormed down the corridor leading to the native hall, the soldiers
warily sprang to attention. “Something’s eating the Major today.
Better watch out,” he heard more than one mutter. Did they think he
was deaf?
    He
rattled off a staccato string of orders as he swept through the
Citadel, and within a very short time was pleased to see the
resulting chaos and consternation spread throughout the fortress.
He had the Hathians rounded up and brought to the hall, where the
men were drafted off to one side. The women could only stand by and
watch as, one by one, the men were forced to step forward and speak
to him. For once Hamon could sense real fear, not contrived,
pulsing in the air and driving him on.
    An
hour or more passed and the twilight evening was fast approaching.
Hamon grilled native after native, never quite hearing the voice he
remembered. He had nearly conceded that his quarry had escaped,
when he was alerted by a sound at the back. A burly guard was
dragging forward a struggling pair, a woman and a man. He pushed
the woman towards the rest and pulled the man to a halt in front of
Radcliff.
    “ Found him skulking in the women’s quarters, sir,” the guard
said, contemptuously throwing the bundle down at the Hamon’s
feet.
    “ Well? What have you to say for yourself? What business had
you there and why did you evade the guard? Didn’t