Falkon stood in the center of the floor, his gaze roaming around the room.
It was sparsely furnished, containing only a narrow bed covered with a light brown spread, a small square table and a single chair. The walls, painted a muted shade of sea green, were bare of any decoration. There was a small window covered with a dark green shade. Still, his new quarters seemed like an abode fit for a king compared to the cell he had left only a short while ago.
And yet it was still a prison.
He lifted a hand to the thick collar around his neck. And he was still a prisoner.
Muttering an oath, he began to pace the floor, his footsteps muffled by a deep brown carpet. He had been taken from the mine, bathed with a strong- smelling disinfectant, dressed in a pair of black breeches and a loose-fitting white shirt. His hair had been thoroughly washed, deloused, and trimmed.
He'd even been fed a decent meal. It was the first time in months he'd had enough to eat. He had forgotten how good bread fresh from the oven tasted, forgotten the taste of coffee.
He swore again, remembering how the slaves had been lined up in front of their cells that morning so that the owner of the mine could examine them. The man had walked up and down the line, inspecting each prisoner, checking their teeth as he might have examined those of a horse he was thinking of buying.
It had been degrading, humiliating, and yet, with the bands at his wrists fused together and the overseer standing at the ready, lightly tapping the pommel of his whip against his hand, there had been little choice but to submit.
And now he was here, in a small square room located in the back wing of the main house. No longer would he toil deep in the bowels of the mine, deprived of sunlight and fresh air. His lot in life had improved, Parah had informed him. In the future, he would work in the mine owner's jinan, where he would be expected to do whatever he was told, without question or complaint. Any attempt to escape would see him back in his cell, locked inside without food or water, until he died.
Falkon had nodded that he understood.
And now he paced the floor. The room was not large by any means, yet it was more than twice the size of his cell at the mine. It seemed odd to be able to take more than a few steps in any direction, to look out the window and see the sun shining, to have a real bed to sleep in, clothes that weren't torn and stained, that didn't reek of his own sweat.
He heard footsteps in the hall, and then the door swung open and the owner of the mine stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the controller at his belt.
"I trust Parah has told you of the consequences should you try to escape?"
Falkon nodded.
"Your escaping is not my primary concern," Marcus said tersely. "The security walls are more than adequate to keep you in. Should you somehow manage to slip past them, the collar you wear will lead us to you." He paused, his expression hard. "My concern is for my family. I have a wife and an impressionable young daughter. Should you show either of them the slightest disrespect, should you dare to lay a hand on them, you will loose that hand, and then your life. Is that clear?"
"Quite clear."
"The last storm has played havoc with the foliage. Your first task will be to trim the shrubs and clean up the debris left by the storm."
Falkon nodded. He saw no reason to tell the man he had been here before, or that he had seen the man's daughter only a few nights ago, peeking into his cell in the middle of the night. He didn't know what the devil she had been doing in the compound, but he was reasonably certain she wasn't supposed to be prowling around the mine after midnight, or at any other time.
Marcus regarded the prisoner for a few moments. He wasn't sure why he had chosen this particular slave to work within the compound. The fact that the man appeared to be the youngest and the most physically fit of the prisoners had certainly been a factor. He had almost changed his mind when Dain had informed him of the prisoner's attack. When confronted, the man had not denied it. When asked why he had tried to escape, the prisoner had glanced at his surroundings, then looked Marcus in the eye and said, "Wouldn't you?"
At the time, Marcus had been impressed with the man's candor. He shook his head, hoping he hadn't made an error in judgement. "Come. I'll show you the way to the yard. You will stay there until someone comes for you. Is that understood, Number Four?"
Falkon choked back an angry retort. He wasn't an idiot. Hands clenched at his sides, he nodded curtly.
Without another word, Marcus turned and walked down the hall, confident the slave would follow.
Falkon rested his back against a tree and closed his eyes. It was good to be outside. He had removed his shirt, hungry for the touch of the sun on his skin, on his face. He took a deep breath, drawing the scent of sun-warmed earth and grass into his lungs. He had been working for several hours, trimming trees and bushes, raking leaves, cleaning debris from a small blue pond. Never in all his life had he seen a place such as this. Even the royal residence on Riga Twelve paled in comparison. The house was of white stone that seemed to glow in the sun. There was a large pool surrounded by graceful ferns and flowers and small groups of tables and chairs. Birds with bright plumage chirped in the treetops; colorful fish swam in a small manmade lake on the far side of the grounds. There were flowers everywhere - large brightly colored blooms, delicate buds, lacy ferns. His home planet was a dreary place, plagued by wars and drought. And yet it was home, and he longed to be there, fighting for freedom with his kinsmen.
Freedom... He stared at the shackles on his wrists and wondered if he
would ever be free again.
Muttering an oath, he followed the narrow path that led toward the main house, intending to weed the gardens that grew along the south side of the building.
Rounding a bend in the path, he came to an abrupt halt. The girl was sitting beside the pond, one hand dangling in the water. Dread welled up inside him when he saw the controller lying beside her.
Ashlynne looked up, suddenly aware that she was no longer alone. Seeing Number Four reminded her of the last time she had seen him. Instinctively, her hand closed over the controller.
Her gaze clashed with his, and time seemed to stop as they stared at each other.
Ashlynne frowned. Cleaned up, with his hair washed and trimmed, and clad in a decent pair of breeches, he didn't look so wild and ferocious, yet he was a slave, a prisoner, and she couldn't help being afraid of him. In all honesty, she knew she would have been afraid of this man no matter what he was. In her sheltered life, she'd had little contact with men, had never associated with a man like this one. The men who came to visit her parents were businessmen, diplomats, couriers; they weren't warriors. They weren't fighters, like Number Four had been. The number four branded on his upper arm was clearly visible, another reminder of the kind of man he was. Her fingers tightened around the controller.
Falkon watched the girl, unable to draw his gaze away. Dressed in a bright yellow frock, with her silver blond hair falling around her shoulders, she looked like the sun come to earth in human form. Her eyes, those beautiful green eyes, stared back at him, filled with undisguised fear and distrust. She held the controller so tightly, her knuckles were white.
Damn, he thought, what the devil was she doing here? His hand brushed the collar at his throat, every muscle in his body tightening as he waited for her to activate the pain reflex.
Ashlynne felt her breath catch in her throat as her gaze slid down over his bare chest. His shoulders were incredibly broad; his dark bronze skin glistened with perspiration. She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. He was a big man, taller than her father, more muscular than Parah. His tight black breeches left little to the imagination.
Falkon cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh.
"Are you going to use that thing?"
Mesmerized by his darkening stare, Ashlynne glanced at the controller in her hand as if seeing it for the first time. "If I have to."
"Go into the house."
She blinked at him, momentarily taken aback by his audacity. Imagine, a slave telling her what to do! She shifted her hold on the controller, saw his expression grow suddenly wary. Reassured that she was the one in power, she shook her head. This was her favorite place and she would not be driven away by an insolent slave. "I want to sit here and read."
"And I have work to do."
"So, do it."
Muttering an oath, Falkon knelt in the dirt and began to weed the patch of spiky blue and lavender flowers that grew along both sides of the path.
Anger churned deep inside him. He was a warrior, not a gardener. He had been born and raised to give orders, not take them. He was accustomed to fighting, not digging in the dirt like some Nardian farmer.
Fighting, he mused bleakly. If he hadn't been off fighting another man's battles, his wife and child might still be alive. He wondered if Maiya had gone to her grave hating him. Guilt and regret warred within him, flaying his soul.
He had never been a true husband to Maiya. Waging war had been his life and what did he have to show for it? His wife and daughter were dead because of it, and he was a slave on a distant planet.
He thrust the bitter memories aside, only to become aware that he was being watched. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the girl staring down at him, her eyes wide, as if she were studying some new species of Venusian earthworm.
He had a sudden urge to grab her, to draw her up against him and plunder those pouting pink lips, to prove to her that he was every inch the savage she thought he was, to prove to himself that he was still a man.
Disgust welled up within him and he turned away, ripping the weeds from the garden with a vengeance, wishing it was as easy to rip away the guilt that consumed him day and night. Not for the first time, he wondered if he wouldn't be better off to make them kill him outright and be done with it.
Perhaps, in death, he would find the peace that had eluded him all his life.
After thirty minutes, he stood up to stretch the kinks out of his back and shoulders. Slowly, he turned around, hoping the girl would be gone, but knowing somehow that she was still there, still watching him.
Ashlynne felt her cheeks grow warm as her gaze met his again. She looked down at her book, but it was impossible to concentrate on the words.
Always her gaze strayed toward the prisoner, to his broad scarred back, to the play of corded muscles rippling beneath his sundrenched skin. He moved with such fluid ease, such strength. Just watching him did funny things to the pit of her stomach.
Their gazes locked, and for a moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only stare into his eyes, those beguiling blue-gray eyes that seemed able to penetrate her very soul. A flush rose in her cheeks. No one had ever dared look at her with such insolence.
"What were you doing at the mine the other night?" he asked.
"Nothing. We were just..." She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "Just having an adventure."
"Pretty stupid, wandering around in the middle of the night like that."
"I don't think it's any of your business what I do in the middle of the night, or at any other time," she retorted, and turned her attention to her book again.
He stared at her a moment. If he was smart, he would get the hell away from her. Spoiled, pampered lady of the manor, she was nothing but trouble, and he had trouble enough. "What are you reading?"
She looked up, her gaze meeting his once again. "Excuse me?"
"I asked what you're reading?"
"A book."
Before she could stop him, he plucked it from her hand.
"Give me that!" She made a grab for it, but he held it out of her reach.
With a disdainful sniff, she sat down again. "You probably can't read anyway."
He glared at her, then glanced at the title of the book. "Poetry?"
She felt a flush rise in her cheeks. Meardon was an old-world poet, and one of her favorites. Her mother had forbidden her to read his works, declaring that most of his poetry was too suggestive for a girl her age, but Magny had bought her a copy the last time she went to Partha.
"What's wrong with poetry?" she asked defensively.
He shrugged. "Nothing. I like it."
"You?"
His gaze settled on her, a challenge in their blue-gray depths. "Why not me?"
"No reason, I just didn't think -"
"Didn't think what? That a barbarian like me could appreciate it?"
"Well, yes, something like that," she muttered, then felt her cheeks grow even hotter as he opened the book and began to read aloud.
There are ways to feel love to touch and taste love I feel her with my soul I have tasted her kiss with a simple breath filling me moving across my heart she touches... so lightly sending waves of pleasure that pulse through my core she lifts my pain... with her gentle laugh a simple 'hello' and my eyes fill with her sparkle there are ways to feel love ... sharing a fear holding a thought ... flowing in the softest silence where only the soul hears always with me is she... thank you... my angel for loving me... He looked at her over the edge of the book, one dark brow raised, and then he turned the page and began to read again.
His voice was low and husky, mesmerizing, making her wonder what it would be like to have him read those same words to her, and mean them.
...my whisper slips past hiding desire holding it fast this need to have this want to feel listen as you move... taste as you moan
I want you please just once let me know your passion take me into your sweetest hold... our whispers mix with the night let's dance with pleasure see if the love covers as words push inside I love you you know this is true... so be with me let me have you Falkon swore under his breath as he closed the book and tossed it back to her. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was to waste his time reading romantic poetry to remind him of what he was missing, what he had lost.
Ashlynne caught the book, almost dropping the controller as she did so. It occurred to her that remaining in Number Four's presence was the most dangerous thing she had ever done, far more dangerous than going swimming at midnight with Magny, or sneaking into the mine compound.
There had been a door between them at the mine; nothing stood between them here but a few feet of space.
It filled her with a sense of daring, being this close to Number Four, even as she assured herself there was nothing to be afraid of as long as she had the controller. Remembering how quickly Number Four had turned on Dain, she hadn't put it down for a moment. It gave her a sense of power, rather like the feeling she had when she rode Artemis in a headlong gallop down the beach. The mare was bigger, stronger, faster, yet she controlled it.
Number Four's bold stare made her suddenly uncomfortable and she took a drink of water from the glass sitting on the rock beside her. Watching him over the rim of the glass, she saw him lick his lips and it occurred to her that he was probably thirsty. It was unseasonably warm, and he been working out in the hot sun since early that morning.
Slipping off the rock, she stood up and held the glass out toward him.
"Would you like a drink?"
"No."
"You must be thirsty."
"I don't want anything from you or your people," he said brusquely.
"Nothing except my freedom."
"You'll never be free again."
"And you'll never be anything but a spoiled, arrogant brat with too much time on her hands." He watched her cheeks grow red, felt himself tense in dreadful anticipation as her hand tightened on the controller. "Go ahead, do it," he challenged, and wondered what perverse devil had goaded him into saying such a thing.
Ashlynne's thumb hovered over the top of the controller, but the memory of the pain that Dain had inflicted on Number Four stayed her hand, though why she should care if this odious creature suffered was far beyond her comprehension. He was a slave, after all, an enemy to her people, to everything fine and decent. Surely he deserved whatever he got.
Nevertheless, that one moment of hesitation took the fire from her anger.
With a wordless cry of annoyance at her own weakness, she flung the contents of the glass in his face.
He glared at her, water dripping from his nose and chin. Damn, in his own country, no one would dare treat him like this. He took a step forward, rage boiling up within him, only to halt in mid-stride as the sound of her laughter filled the air.
She was laughing at him! Had he been a free man, he might have laughed, too. But not now. There was no room in his life for laughter. There was no room for anything but soul-shattering hatred and bitter regret.
Turning on his heel, he stormed down the path.
He vowed not to speak to her again, not to look at her again. He would treat her as if she didn't exist.
And yet, somehow, she seemed to be everywhere.
If he was cleaning the stables, she was there, currying her pretty little chestnut mare.
If he was pulling weeds, she was at the other end of the garden, her nose stuck in a book.
If he was chopping wood, she was sitting at her easel, painting.
If he was exercising one of the horses in the corral, she was there, watching him through those wide green eyes.
And always, he was aware of the controller in her hand, of the absolute power of life and death it gave her over him, just as he was aware of the attraction that hummed between them whenever their eyes met. He wondered if she felt it, too, if she even knew what it was. So be with me... The words of that blasted poem seemed to echo in his head whenever he looked at her. Let me have you. Damn! Today, he was mucking out the stalls. And she was currying her horse.
The groom, Otry, was sleeping in one of the empty stalls. He was an old man who looked on Falkon's arrival as a godsend. Under other circumstances, Falkon would have liked the man.
In spite of all his good intentions, Falkon couldn't keep from watching the girl, couldn't help but notice the way her riding pants outlined her long slender legs and shapely thighs, couldn't ignore the swell of her firm young breasts, or the way her thick silver-blond braid swung back and forth as she brushed the mare's sleek chestnut coat.
He swore under his breath as he dumped a shovelful of manure into a barrel. It was just that she was a woman, he told himself, and he had been too long without a woman. It had nothing to do with the soft, slightly husky sound of her voice as she spoke to the mare, nothing to do with the faint flowery perfume that was noticeable even over the strong scent of manure and horseflesh that filled the air. He told himself that after months of enforced captivity and celibacy, he would have responded the same way to any woman, any humanoid female. Right now, even one of the green-
skinned street walkers of Hodore would have looked good to him.
Seemingly unaware of his heated gaze, the girl tossed the currycomb aside and ran her hands over the mare's neck.
He watched each movement, each stroke of her pale slender hands, his imagination running wild as he imagined those slim fingers playing over his body, massaging his back, sliding seductively along his thigh....
With a violent oath, he turned away, hating her, hating himself.
"You can put Artemis away now."
Her voice, feminine yet slightly husky, carried an inbred note of authority.
Born to luxury, she was a young woman who was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Unfortunately, he was also accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. Months of slavery had taught him the futility of disobeying, but it had not made captivity any easier to bear. It was bad enough to take orders from the overseers and guards at the mine. He would not take them from her, as well.
Hands clenched, he turned around to face her.
She met his gaze squarely, then lifted one hand, offering him the mare's lead rope.
She frowned when he made no move to take it. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"I'm through here, for now. You may put Artemis in her stall."
"May I?"
Ashlynne frowned. "Are you going to put my horse away, or not?"
Fighting the urge to grab the rope and wrap it around her pretty little neck, Falkon took a deep breath, then reached for the lead.
Ashlynne stared at Number Four's hand. His palm was callused and smudged with dirt, his fingers were long and brown and strong, the nails broken and uneven. His fingertips brushed hers when he took the rope.
He saw her eyes widen in shock at his touch, and then she jerked her hand away. As if she had touched something incredibly vile.
Unreasoning anger roared through him. Without thinking, he took a menacing step toward her. The controller was in her hand in an instant, her thumb poised over the activation panel. One touch, and every muscle and nerve in his body would be screaming in agony.
Ashlynne tightened her hold on the controller, her heart pounding as he halted in mid-stride. His blue-gray eyes had darkened to the color of cold stone.
She drew herself up to her full height, irritated that she still had to look up to meet his gaze. "If you know what's good for you, Number Four, you will put my horse away."
"And if I don't?" He forced the words through clenched teeth.
She looked at him, obviously perplexed by his disobedience. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Being so difficult."
"It's your horse. Why don't you put it away?"
"Because it's your job."
"Why? Because I'm a slave?"
She lifted her chin imperiously. "Yes."
"Go to hell."
"How dare speak to me like that! I demand that you do as I say."
"Say please, and I'll consider it."
Anger turned her eyes from sea green to deep emerald. "I will not!"
"Say it."
Her hand tightened on the controller. "Do as I say."
Falkon shook his head, his whole body tensing as he watched her. She was soft and spoiled but not easily intimidated. He had to know how far he could push her; needed to know if she had the guts to use that damnable weapon. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out. Last time, she had let Dain unleash the controller's power. But Dain wasn't here now. It was just the two of them.
She took a deep breath. "I'm asking you for the last time."
"And I'm saying no, for the last time."
She hesitated, her expression uncertain, and Falkon took a step forward.
If he could wrest the controller from her grasp, there was a chance, however slim, that he might be able to escape over the back wall. He was willing to risk whatever dangers the jungle might hold if it meant a chance at freedom.
His hands clenched. He'd never get a better opportunity, he thought, and made a grab for the controller.
Wild, unreasoning panic rose up within Ashlynne. Warnings went off inside her mind. He was the enemy. A mercenary. A man who had killed women and children without remorse.
Fear for her own life overrode every other thought as she jerked her hand back, and activated the control panel.
The controllers effect was immediate and irrevocable.
With a strangled cry, Number Four crumpled to the floor, his body turning and twisting, curling in on itself in an effort to escape the excruciating pain splintering through every nerve and cell of his being.
Transfixed, Ashlynne stared down at him. Horrified by what she had done, by the pain she had willingly inflicted, she lifted her finger from the control panel. But there was no stopping it once it had begun. Unable to watch any longer, she turned and ran out of the barn.
Gradually, his muscles relaxed. Badly shaken, his body still trembling, Falkon rose to his hands and knees. Head hanging, he gathered his strength, then lurched to his feet. He had underestimated her.
It was a mistake he wouldn't make a second time.
The following afternoon he was at work once again, trimming the branches from a tree near the side of the house. He could have used a ladder; instead, he had climbed the tree simply for the fun of it, something he hadn't done since he'd been a boy.
He climbed higher, and now he was on a level with the second story.
Overcome with curiosity, he leaned forward and looked in the window, and knew immediately that it was Ashlynne's room. The walls were painted a soft pearlescent pink, the carpet, which seemed to be over an inch thick, was a deep mauve. There was a large round bed with a pink flowered spread and a matching canopy, a desk and chair, a shelf that held books and trinkets. The room was as pretty and feminine as the girl who lived there.
He drew back a little when the door opened and Ashlynne stepped inside.
Closing the door, she sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her shoes, peeled off her stockings. She fell back on the bed, lifted her arms, and stretched. Rising, she pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it on the bed.
Falkon felt his mouth go dry, thought he might fall out of the tree when she started to remove her skirt.
She turned abruptly, her eyes widening when she saw him staring at her.
With a little shriek, she grabbed her sweater and yanked it over her head, then crossed the floor and opened the window.
"What are you doing? How dare you spy on me! When I tell my father, he'll-"
"I wouldn't tell your father if I were you."
"Well, you're not me! And I will tell him. And he'll have you flogged."
"No, you won't."
She lifted her chin defiantly. "I will."
He shook his head. "I wonder what Daddy would say if I was to tell him that his daughter and her friend were sneaking around the mine compound late one night."
She stared at him in horror. "You wouldn't!" she exclaimed, and then shrugged. "He wouldn't believe you anyway."
"No?"
"No," she replied firmly. But what if he did? She'd never be allowed to see Magny again if her father found out what they had done.
"I'll keep your secret," Falkon said, grinning impudently, "if you'll keep mine."
"Oh! You are the most... the most, oh, I don't have a word bad enough for what you are!"
"I could teach you one."
She glared at him. "I'll just bet you could!"
"In several languages," he said, laughing.
"Oh, you are the most incorrigible man I've ever met."
"But handsome," he said. "Don't forget handsome."
Embarrassment washed over Ashlynne as she realized he had heard them whispering about him outside the hut that night.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Why don't you go away!" And so saying, she reached out the window and gave him a shove.
She didn't push very hard, but it was hard enough to make him lose his balance. Muttering one of the words he had offered to teach her, he fell out of the tree. She felt her heart fall with him, blew out a sigh of relief when he landed on his feet.
Falkon looked up to find her leaning out over the windowsill. For a moment, he thought she looked concerned, but then she began to laugh.
Someday, he thought, glaring up at her. Someday...