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 goin
g 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 midstride. 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.