She supposed it did seem as though she were ungrateful and uncaring of the sacrifices they made. They were probably wondering why the hell they were out here in the middle of the desert risking their asses for a woman who didn’t appreciate their efforts or why they didn’t just dump her out and leave her to fend for herself.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said in a low voice. “But I can’t turn my back on these people. They have no one to fight for them. No one to aid them. And if I let terrorists sway me from my objective, then they win, regardless of whether I escape or not, whether I live or die.”
She plunged ahead before any could respond, not that a response appeared imminent. They weren’t exactly talkative. They made Hancock seem like a regular conversationalist, and he was a bare-minimum kind of guy at best. But his men? Had even less to say. But perhaps as their leader, they let Hancock do the talking while they did the acting.
“I don’t want to appear ungrateful for what you’ve done—what you’re doing. Nor am I being cavalier about the fact that you risked your lives to rescue me and pull me out. It may appear to you that way, but I can’t possibly explain how much it matters to me that I not be manipulated and coerced through fear or threats.”
Conrad muttered an indecipherable curse beside her, turning so he faced the window and she couldn’t see his eyes or expression. She could swear that her statement had made them all . . . uncomfortable . . . and not for the reasons she’d cited. Copeland, or Cope as his team called him, looked guilty.
She swung her puzzled stare in Hancock’s direction and for once found comfort in the fact that his face was an impenetrable mask, no emotion, opinion or judgment. No agreement or condemnation echoed in his eyes. He just regarded her with that steady gaze, his expression inscrutable as always.
Obviously her imagination was getting away from her and she was seeing things that weren’t there. And now that she’d put it out there like an apology . . . Who was she kidding? It had been an apology, a plea for understanding and maybe even approval. Now it just pissed her off because she didn’t need their permission to do what she felt called to do. They certainly didn’t need or require her approval, nor did they give two shits what she thought of them, so why should she feel beholden to them as if because they saved her life, she gave up her power over her life to them? Her choices. Her decisions.
They didn’t own her or her mind. Definitely not her choices. She owed them gratitude, absolutely. She owed them respect and her full cooperation for as long as she was under their protection. But she didn’t owe them anything more, and she damn sure didn’t need their permission to do with her life what she wanted—needed. Just as they didn’t need—or want—hers.
Hancock merely shrugged. “If you get home, what you do afterward is solely up to you. You’re a grown woman and you don’t owe anyone an explanation for the choices you make.”
For some reason it bothered her that he’d said if she got home. Not when. It bothered her a lot. Because Hancock was nothing if not completely calm and confident. He exuded absolute faith and self-assurance in his ability and that of his team. It was the first time he’d even hinted that she wouldn’t absolutely get out of this mess. As if it were even a remote possibility she wouldn’t. It caused her pulse to ratchet up and pound at her temples, resurrecting the ache in her head that had subsided and hadn’t returned. Until now.
She wanted to crawl back into his arms and huddle there as she’d done the night before, albeit unknowingly at the time. But even now memories of feeling utterly safe and comforted floated back to her, bringing the events of the last night even closer to the forefront of her mind. She wanted that feeling back. Even if for only a few moments. Just long enough to dispel the sudden and unsettling unease rioting through her veins.
She could only imagine his reaction were she to do such a thing. It was obvious he had no desire for her to know he’d held and comforted her last night. His actions certainly hadn’t betrayed him in any way, nor had he referenced the event. He acted as though it had never happened, and she strongly suspected were she to bring it up that he’d deny it and tell her it was only a dream. Even though she knew damn well it was—had been—real. She’d never forget the sensation of being in his arms and the comfort and strength she’d drawn from those few hours, even if it had taken her a bit to get it all back.
He’d shown her kindness when she’d assumed the very worst about him. But then she was fast learning he was multifaceted with so many layers that she could probably dig and pull back forever and never learn everything there was to know about him. The least she could do was respect his obvious wish not to ever acknowledge his actions.
Perhaps he considered it a weakness, but to Honor it had been something she desperately needed. He’d anchored her at her weakest, when she was at the mercy of her nightmares and despair had welled from the deepest recesses of her soul.
What to him was weakness was to her a badly needed infusion of strength. His strength.
She didn’t respond to his dubious statement, refusing to show how his one lapse in confidence had shaken her to the core. It could have merely been a slip of the tongue, an inadvertent figure of speech, but then he didn’t strike her as someone who ever allowed anything to carelessly fall from his lips.
Silence once more reigned and Honor focused on the barren landscape that sped by. She was well on her way into a self-induced hypnotic state when Hancock jarred her from her trance.