Staring at her through the small window, Damien cursed his chain of command to hell.
The success of his mission rested on a woman he was forced to use. If she hated him enough, she might betray him in turn. He shook his head in vehement denial of the very notion. Judging by her reaction, there was not a traitorous bone in her body. Though he had expected a drastic change in her feelings, a deeply buried part of him hoped she cared enough, believed in him enough, to realize he would never deliberately hurt her.
He uttered a vicious, self-directed curse. Why should she believe it? He had intentionally hurt her. What he had not expected was the soul deep depth of his own guilt at using her. He had not expected to fall for her, to care for her, to love her. He swallowed hard but the guilt remained.
“I should never have touched her,” he muttered under his breath. His body burned with the memories of that one night of love. His mouth twisted in self-disgust and he turned from the window. Fighting the urge to punch something, or someone, he paced the confines of the small room that served as his quarters. Guard duty enabled him to protect her, from others if not from himself. He owed it to her to get her out alive.
* * * *
Laurie struggled awake in the early morning darkness. A small glow flickered in the door window, drawing her reluctant attention. Wincing slightly at the lingering aches and pains, she forced her body slowly off the cot. A wave of dizziness staggered her. She caught herself on the small table then limped across the room to look through the window.
A kerosene lamp burned low on another small table in the next room. It threw flickering shadows into the corners and along the walls. A cot like hers took up one corner, a footlocker at the foot. Damien slumped in a chair, his arms folded across his chest, and stared miserably into the lamp’s tiny flame. Reluctant to go to him but unable to resist the urge, she turned the knob slowly. The door wasn’t locked so she pushed it open.
Snapping his head in her direction, Damien pulled the gun from his holster in a rapid fluid move that froze her in her tracks. His eyes widened in surprised recognition and he lowered the gun.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded urgently as he leapt to his feet.
“That is an incredibly stupid question,” she retorted coldly, but she could not drag her gaze from him.
ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
66
He looked tortured. Misery etched his face. Guilt lurked in his eyes, giving her a sense of cold triumph. He deserved his misery.
He shoved the gun impatiently back into the holster on his thigh. But his hand trembled as he raked his fingers through his hair. She lifted an eyebrow at that unexpected sign of uncertainty.
“What are you doing awake?”
She shrugged and winced at the accompanying ache. “I’m not tired.”
His eyes wary, he backed away as she moved into the room. She frowned at him and dropped weakly into a chair. A faint sheen of sweat dampened her skin. She blinked and looked at Damien across the room.
“Tell me the rest,” she ordered, leaning on the table.
“The rest of what?”
Though her head swam, she glared at him. “Everything you haven’t told me yet.”
He shook his head, his face grim. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” She propped her chin on her hand and waited.
He gave a negligent shrug. “What’s the difference? I’m not telling you anything else.”
She fidgeted under his relentless stare as he approached her. He muttered something she didn’t hear. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.
“I never liked this operation,” he admitted. “But they insisted.”
Regret tinged his voice and put a quick flutter in her heart. She could not stop the yearning so she struggled to ignore it.
“They—who?” she asked sharply.
“It doesn’t matter,” he shot back curtly. “I liked it even less after I met you, after we .…”
His voice trailed off before he spoke again. “I didn’t have a choice.”
She shook her head on a wave of profound sadness. “We all have choices, Damien. We just have to live with the results.” A weary pained yawn escaped her. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”
Shock widened his eyes and she realized it had never occurred to him to simply ask for her help.
“Would you have agreed?”
“You’ll never know will you?” she said softly. It hurt and amazed her that he had not even considered the option of simply asking for help.
“You could at least have told me,” she continued, unable to keep the accusation from her tone.