The Captive

by Amanda Ashley

  “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 wasting 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 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 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 ignore 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.

  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 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-blonde braid swung back and forth as she brushed the mare’s sleek chestnut coat.

  He swore under his breath as he dumped a shovel full 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 curry comb 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. 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. There 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 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 controller’s 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.

  * * * * *

  Early the following morning 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 looked to be over an inch thick, was white. 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 was you.”

  “Well, you’re not me! And I will tell him. And he’ll have you whipped.”

  “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 any way.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she replied firmly. But what if he did? She’d never be able to see Magny again if her father found out what they had done.

  “I’ll keep your secret,” he 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.”

  “Oh, you are the most impossible 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 window sill. For a moment, he thought she looked concerned, but then she began to laugh.

  Someday, he thought, glaring up at her. Someday…

  Chapter Seven

  Falkon prowled the confines of his room, as restless as any caged beast. He had come to hate this place as much as he had hated his cell in the mine, as he hated any place that walled him in. He yearned for his freedom, for news of the war on Riga Twelve. Had the Romarians overtaken the planet? And what of Daccar? Was his home still free, or had it fallen prey to the Romarian hordes?

>   He muttered a vicious oath. It seemed the leaders of Romariz wouldn’t be content until they had enslaved the whole galaxy.

  He stared at the wall in front of him; then, with a savage cry, he slammed his fist against it. His people were fighting for their lives and he was trapped here, forced to do menial work for the Tierdian Royal family and their spoiled daughter. Their spoiled beautiful daughter.

  Ashlynne, with hair the color of silver moonlight and eyes the color of a turbulent sea. Ashlynne, who had not hesitated to use that hellish controller.

  In spite of his threat to reveal her midnight stroll, he had fully expected her to report his disobedience to her father. At best, he had expected to be whipped for his insolent behavior. At the worst, he had expected to be returned to the mine. Last night, he had paced his room, waiting for her father to appear to mete out his punishment. But none had been forthcoming, and he realized she hadn’t said anything about what had occurred between them. He should have been grateful. Perversely, it only made him hate her the more. He had no desire to be in her debt.

  He slammed his fist into the wall again, relishing the pain that exploded through his hand. How he hated her! How he would love to get his hands around her throat. How he would love to get his hands on her… Thoughts of touching her drove the anger from his mind. What would it be like, hold her in his arms, to taste those pouting pink lips just once?

  He swore under his breath as visions of Ashlynne swam through his mind. He hadn’t seen her for several days, but every night her image invaded his dreams, beckoning him, teasing him, smiling at him until he woke in state of a painful arousal, his heart pounding, his body bathed with perspiration.

  He refused to acknowledge that he wanted her. It was merely that he needed a woman. Any woman. He didn’t care if she had silver-blonde hair, orange hair, or no hair at all. He didn’t care if her lips were the pale pink of a wild rose or as black as the bowels of the mine, didn’t care if her eyes were as green and clear as the depths of the ocean, or muddy brown and crossed. All he wanted was a female to ease his desire, a woman to sate his lust. Someone, anyone, who would drive the spoiled, pampered, damnably beautiful Lady Ashlynne from his mind and dreams.