“No, no.” She stumbled over the words. “Somewhere far away, waiting for the day you decide to leave, I presume. When the urgonium runs out.”
“Oh, we don’t plan to leave. Earth is so overcrowded that the empty spaces of this planet are as valuable as your mineral wealth.”
He saw her shock despite her swift attempt to hide it. “You can’t mean to stay forever?”
“Why not? The peasants wouldn’t know the difference. Serfs to Terrans or Hathians, what does it matter?”
He watched her closely. The slight signs of her face betrayed to him the struggle within. Then the conflict was over, and she turned, her entrancing smile on her face.
“You are so right, they wouldn’t. Although it’s a shame that my people should have to live out their lives in exile, there’s no doubt they are quite comfortable wherever they have fled. They certainly took enough with them to have no need to return.” She laughed in brittle denial. “Now, what would you like me to show you first? For this is still my city, however angry I may have been at my father.”
She snuggled in against his broad shoulder and Hamon knew a huge sense of loss. The holiday was truly over. The beautifully charming Marthe he would have but that was all, she had just declared. The real woman he had glimpsed again these past days belonged to those unknown others who held her loyalty and, of a sudden a fierce, personal hate for his foes seized him, never fully to leave him again. I, too, have my duties, he reminded himself grimly, retreating into the refuge of cold professionalism.
“Your city for now, my little enchantress.” He lowered his voice, using a tone he’d never thought to use with her, smooth and heavy with a slick seductiveness. It was the cynical voice of countless seedy bars in space station layovers. “What would I like to see first? Let me see. I have seen already your government buildings, your libraries, museums and the public rooms of your home. What could compare with those?” He planted a slight kiss on her brow, lingering to nibble at her ear. True to her role, she moved slightly in her seat to ease his attentions … but not too much, he noted.
So the reserved Marthe had not been totally buried.
“You’re right, you have seen our best, but the remainder is still very impressive.”
“No. Give me no poor imitations. Let’s go instead for a contrast. The peasants’ quarters, that’s what I shall see,” and his treacherous hand moved quietly around her shoulder to caress, oh so casually, one round breast.
He had surprised her. She gasped and made to pull away, but he had trapped her too well, and kept her firmly in place with his elbow as his hand wandered where it willed.
She glanced briefly at his face and, for an instant, he dared to hope his own Marthe had returned. But no. Her resolve held and he watched as she abandoned herself to the purely physical pleasure roused by his attentions, turning slightly to accommodate his exploring fingers as they folded back her veiling wrap and lifting her head to display the long, sensual line of her neck. Stars, she’s becoming more Terran than me, he thought in despair, before returning to his role in this inhuman game of theirs.
Switching the controls to automatic, he devoted himself fully to her, the piled-up experiences of years of dalliance coming to his rescue. Nuzzling one, delicate ear, he whispered softly, “After the peasant’s quarters, where next? The kitchens, the garbage disposal plant?” His voice dropped a fraction lower. “Your bedroom?” His mouth engulfed hers and, to his disgust, a tantalizing softening answered his probing tongue.
Beneath her melting exterior, Marthe’s mind was cold steel. Mathe be praised for the obviousness of his practiced technique, she thought, as she deliberately lost herself in the physical sensations he alone could rouse in her. It was so much easier to sink into pleasure than face the haunted streets of her home. He pulled up outside a house, one familiar to them both. It was the house of the picture in his apartment, the home of the an Castre family, her home. It was a huge effort, but still she held her cover, merely lifting an eyebrow at his choice of destination as he activated a hazbubble around them and helped her out of the cab. That look was all she could manage. She was beyond speaking. So many memories, tearing and clawing at her. Too many, bringing her too near the point where the final strands of her control would be torn away and she must be lost. She, and all the hopes of the people of Hathe.
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.
Taken by surprise, Hamon was knocked to the ground. For an instant, shock gave the Hathian the advantage. Then Hamon shook his head, ignored a pummeling of blows and brought into play a few of the more devious tricks needed by any Terran school boy—a childhood education for which his attacker had no parallel. In a satisfyingly short time, the younger man was locked back onto the bench by a strong force field, glaring in sullen rage at his captor.
“So your dishonorable tricks win again,” he sneered.
“Dishonorable, maybe. It’s a word that became too expensive on Earth many decades ago. Effective: now that is a word we can afford. If you’ve finished with these petty distractions, can we get back to the matter in hand? My current mistress. Even you must see what a delicate matter it is to introduce a native into Terran society, especially a Lieger. She told me once that you two might have married if things hadn’t changed, so what better person to consult regarding her loyalty to her … benefactor, shall we say?”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
For once the insolence was gone, Radcliff noted with satisfaction. Never had he disliked anyone so much. “But of course. Though I must admit that her lack of … experience … came as a surprise. What happened, des Trurain? Your famous expertise with the ladies desert you?”
Resistance: Hathe Book One Page 14