The Captive

by Amanda Ashley

  “I wanted to thank you,” Ashlynne said, keeping her tone carefully polite. “For what you did last night.” She tried not to stare at him, and failed. His skin was damp with perspiration, a lock of thick black hair fell over his forehead. She had dreamed of him last night, dreamed of those muscular arms holding her tight. The memory brought a flush to her cheeks.

  Falkon shrugged. It annoyed him that he had gone to her rescue, but what was even more annoying was the surge of jealousy that had engulfed him when he saw her in another man’s arms.”Vache is a nice young man,” she said. “He’d just had a little too much spring wine…” He’d frightened her, with his hot, eager hands and hurtful kisses, but she wouldn’t, couldn’t, admit that.

  Falkon grunted. “You don’t owe me any thanks, or any explanations,” he muttered.

  “Maybe not, but I’m grateful just the same. And I’m also grateful that you never told my father about…about the night Magny and I were at the mine.”

  “Princess, I’ve got a lot more on my mind than how you spend your nights.” Which was the truth, and a lie. He spent far too much time thinking about her, picturing her curled up on a nice soft mattress, with her hair falling around her face like a silver halo. “You never told your old man about what happened in the barn, either, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  He nodded curtly. “So, now that we’re all squared away, why don’t you just run along and leave me to my work?”

  “Why must you be so rude?”

  “Why must you be such a pest? Go on, get out of here.”

  “You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going away next week.”

  “Good. Maybe I’ll be able to work in peace.”

  “Maybe you will,” she replied sulkily. With a sniff, she turned and flounced away, wondering why he was always so mean and hateful.

  Falkon stared after her, felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of loss at the thought of not seeing her every day. In spite of his words to the contrary, he enjoyed her company. He looked forward to seeing her every day. Hell, he even enjoyed their verbal sparring matches. She was the only bright spot in his dismal life and now it seemed he was going to lose that, too.

  Chapter Eight

  “So,” Magny said. “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who? Number Four.”

  “I think he’s down at the stable.”

  “Well,” Magny said, bounding out of her chair. “What are we sitting in here for?”

  Ashlynne rolled her eyes. “Really, Mag, who did you come here to see, me or him?”

  “Well…” Magny scrunched up her face as if she was giving it some serious thought, and then laughed. “You, of course. After all, you’re leaving next week.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “You may as well make the best of it,” Magny said.

  “I don’t want to make the best of it!”

  “I know, Lynnie. I’m sorry.” She blew out an exaggerated sigh, her hands clasped over her heart. “It’s so difficult, being a woman.”

  Ashlynne burst out laughing, amused, as always, by Magny’s theatrics. “What would I do without you?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Good. Now, can we go look for Number Four?”

  They found him in the corral, exercising a new stallion Ashlynne’s father had purchased from a breeder on Earth. It was her father’s intention to breed Artemis and the stallion. It was a beautiful horse, seventeen hands high, with a sleek coat the color of burnished copper and the long clean lines of a Thoroughbred. But Ashlynne had eyes only for Number Four. As usual, he wasn’t wearing his shirt, just a pair of indecently snug breeches, and a pair of scuffed boots. The sun seemed to caress his flesh, leaving a fine sheen of perspiration behind.

  “Oh,” Magny murmured. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “You mean the horse, of course,” Ashlynne said dryly.

  Magny elbowed her in the ribs. “Of course. But you must admit, the man is beautiful, too.”

  He was, but Ashlynne wouldn’t have admitted it for anything in the world. The horse was still a little wild, and when Number Four urged the stallion into a lope, the horse began to buck.

  They made quite a pair, she thought, the wild horse and the wilder man. Number Four stuck to the horse’s back like a bur from a sticker bush, apparently anticipating every move the animal was going to make.

  After several minutes of intense bucking, the stallion gave up the fight. With a toss of its head, it settled down and loped around the corral. It was a beautiful sight, she mused, the stallion moving with liquid grace, its stride long and smooth, its mane and tail flowing the in the breeze. But it was the man who took her breath away. It was easy to see that he loved riding, that it gave him the same sense of freedom and exhilaration it gave her. He rode easily, his body moving in perfect rhythm with the stallion’s. She hadn’t felt like painting in weeks, but she would paint Number Four, she thought with growing excitement, paint him as he looked now, with his body sheened with perspiration and his long black hair flying wild. She tilted her head to one side, remembering a book of paintings in her father’s library. One of them was a photograph of an Indian warrior from Old Earth. That was what Number Four reminded her of, a wild savage. And that was how she would paint him, she thought, bare-chested, with feathers in his hair and his face streaked with paint.

  Falkon reined the stallion to a walk, conscious of the two girls standing on the corral fence, their arms folded over the top rail. He spared hardly a glance for the dark-haired girl. Parah’s daughter. She was a pretty thing, a constant reminder to the slaves in the mine of all they had lost. He had heard the other men whispering about her down in the mine from time to time, spinning wild fantasies of what they would do to her if they ever caught her alone. He hoped, for her sake, they never did.

  But it was the silver-haired girl who drew his gaze. They were like day and night, he mused, and he preferred the heat of the sun to the cool of the night. It was the fair Lady Ashlynne who filled his every waking thought, the memory of her hands on his skin that kept him tossing and turning in his bed at night.

  He reined the stallion to a halt in front of her, a challenge in his eyes. “Care to try him?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Lynnie, do you think you should?” Magny shared Jadeleine’s fear and mistrust of horses.

  “Oh, Mag, don’t be silly.” Ashlynne handed the controller to Magny and slipped through the rails.

  Falkon dismounted, holding the stallion’s reins while Ashlynne stepped into the saddle and settled her skirts around her.

  She looked down at him, her insides all aflutter at his nearness. She clenched her hands to keep from reaching for him, tempted to run her fingers over his chest, to brush a lock of hair from his brow.

  “Adjust the stirrups, Number Four,” she ordered. “They’re too long.”

  He regarded her insolently for a moment, then did as she asked.

  When he was finished, she held out her hand and he passed her the reins. His fingers brushed hers, sending frissons of heat dancing over her skin.

  “He’s a little skittish,” Falkon remarked, “and a little hard-mouthed.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me that,” she retorted, her voice frosty.

  Falkon gave the horse a gentle slap on the rump. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He rested one shoulder against the corral as she clucked to the stallion. With a shake of its head, the horse broke into a trot.

  Falkon watched her, wondering if he should have let her ride. She looked incredibly tiny on the back of the stallion, yet he had to admit she looked very much at ease in the saddle as she put the big stud through its paces. She was, he thought, a natural born horsewoman.

  Ashlynne reined the horse to a halt in front of Magny. “Are you sure you don’t want to try him?”
<
br />   Magny shook her head. “Not me.”

  “Mag, it would be such fun if we could go riding together. You could ride the old nag my father bought for my mother. He’s too old and lazy to do anything but walk.”

  Magny shook her head again. “No. I like having my feet on the ground, thank you very much.”

  With a sigh of exasperation, Ashlynne wheeled the stallion around and touched her heels to its flanks. Just then, old Otry came out of the barn, shaking the dust out of one of the horse blankets.

  The sudden flapping noise, combined with the waving blanket, spooked the stallion and it raced toward the opposite side of the corral, bucking wildly all the way.

  Falkon swore under his breath as the stallion made a quick turn, felt his heart plummet as Ashlynne toppled over the horse’s rump. The stallion fled to the far side of the corral, head high, eyes wild.

  “Lynnie!” Magny ducked through the rails, only to be pulled up short by Falkon.

  “Stay here,” he said brusquely. “Otry! Get that damn blanket out of here!” He was running toward Ashlynne as he spoke, his heart pounding with fear as he knelt beside her. Damn!

  She was lying face down, unmoving, her eyes closed. His hands were trembling as he ran them over her arms, down her legs. Nothing seemed to be broken. He tunneled his fingers through the heavy mass of her hair, marveling at its softness as he checked her head for swelling.

  He was wondering if he should try to turn her over when her eyelids fluttered open.

  Ashlynne blinked and blinked again, felt her cheeks grow hot as she realized what had happened. She had been thrown. And he had seen it.

  She started to get up, but Number Four placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her down. “Are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “Of course I’m all right.” She pushed his hand away and sat up, her heart pounding at his nearness.

  “Here now! What the hell is going on?”

  Falkon glanced over his shoulder, swore under his breath when he saw Ashlynne’s father striding toward them, his face contorted with rage.

  “She was thrown, Mr. Marcus,” Magny explained quickly.

  The anger on Marcus’ face turned to concern as he entered the corral and ran toward his daughter. “Ashlynne!”

  “I’m fine, Father.” She held out her hands and her father lifted her to her feet.

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked anxiously.

  “It was all my fault, Lord Marcus.” Otry shuffled into the corral, his rheumy old eyes filled with fear as he faced his employer.

  “It’s all right, Otry,” Ashlynne said, brushing the dirt from her clothes.

  “What happened, Otry?” Marcus asked.

  “Father, it wasn’t his fault at all. I should have been paying more attention.” And she would have been, if she hadn’t been showing off for Number Four. “I’m fine, really.” She looked up at her father and smiled. “Nothing badly bruised but my ego.”

  Marcus frowned at her, and then laughed. “Come along, let’s go up to the house.” He brushed a bit of dirt from her cheek. “You’ll want to clean up before dinner. And for goodness sakes, don’t say anything about this to your mother.”

  With a nod, Ashlynne slipped her arm around her father’s waist and they left the corral.

  Magny fell into step beside them. “See, Lynnie?” she said. “See why I don’t ride? You could have been killed.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mag. That’s not the first time I’ve fallen off a horse, and it probably won’t be the last.”

  Marcus looked at Magny and grinned. “We’ll get you on a horse one of these days,” he predicted. “Just wait and see.”

  Ashlynne fought the urge to glance over her shoulder. She could feel Number Four watching her. Warmth flooded her cheeks as she recalled the touch of his hands skimming over her arms and legs, the touch of his fingers moving ever so gently in her hair. Maybe it was a good thing that she was going to Trellis next week, she mused, before she did something really stupid, like throw herself into his arms. She had a feeling Number Four was far more dangerous to her health, and her peace of mind, than a stallion that was still half-wild.

  Chapter Nine

  “You want me to do what?” Falkon stared at Ashlynne, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “I want you to pick me a bouquet of flowers and ferns.”

  “I don’t have time for that. Pick them yourself.”

  “Do as I say, Number Four, or I shall report your insolence to my father, and you’ll find yourself back in the mine.” It was an empty threat, and they both knew it.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than torment me?”

  “No.” She looked up at him through wide green eyes. “Life was really quite dull here until you came along.”

  Falkon glared at her. He had the feeling she was laughing at him, that she was, indeed, telling the truth, and that he had become her greatest source of amusement.

  “A large bouquet.” She picked up a blade of grass and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. “‘Twill look lovely on the table at dinner.”

  Muttering an oath, Falkon tossed his shovel aside and stalked toward the vast flower beds that grew along the south wall. Flowers!

  He made his way along the narrow brick-lined paths that wound through the flowerbeds, randomly plucking the blooms that caught his eye. He had to admit that whoever had arranged and planted the gardens had an eye for color and design. He’d never seen anything quite so pretty. He had never had much time to notice such things, and didn’t know what most of the flowers were called, but they were beautiful, bright reds and blues and pinks and yellows. Butterflies large and small and in bright rainbow colors flitted from bush to bush. Sparrows sang in the tree tops, and he felt his anger dissipate as he continued on. The sky was blue and clear, the sun was warm, the air was filled with the sweet fragrance of the flowers, of earth and grass.

  “You’re not supposed to pick them all.”

  He turned around, surprised to find the girl trailing after him, a smirk on her face.

  “You said you wanted a large bouquet.”He thrust the flowers he had gathered into her hands. “Damn, girl, you’re harder to get rid of than a case of the plague,” he muttered irritably.

  “Admit it,” she said. “You were having a good time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I saw the look on your face. I’ll bet it’s the first time you ever picked a flower in your whole life.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “Why are you so stubborn?”

  “Why are you following me?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing else to do.”

  He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “How long did you say you were you going to be gone?”

  “I didn’t say, but if you must know, I’ll probably be gone the whole summer. I guess that makes you happy, doesn’t it?”

  Falkon nodded, but it was a lie. He was going to miss her when she was gone, he thought. Her every move seemed to tempt him. Her mere presence was a constant reminder that it had been far too long since he’d had a woman. Woman, he thought. She was hardly that. She was young, far too young and far too innocent for the likes of him, yet even now he felt his body hardening, reacting to her nearness.

  He clenched his hands in an effort to keep from reaching for her. She’d kept quiet about his spying on her in her room, but he doubted even his threat to tell her father about her sneaking down to the mine would be enough to guarantee her silence if he kissed her. But he wanted to, by the stars, he wanted to, even though he knew it would be the biggest mistake he had ever made.

  She looked up at him and licked her lips. In any other female, it would have been a blatant invitation, but Ashlynne wasn’t experienced enough to play games. He could teach her, he thought, teach her how good it could be.

  “Damn!” All thoughts of her delectable body fled his mind as he heard a low rumble.

  “What�
�s that?”

  Falkon lifted his head, listening. The noise came again, louder and closer this time.

  He frowned. It sounded like sky cannon.

  He glanced over his shoulder, swore under his breath when he saw a cloud of thick black smoke rising from the direction of the mine. A moment later, he felt the ground beneath his feet shudder. There was an explosion, and a hole big enough to ride a horse through appeared in the far wall.

  “What’s happening?” Ashlynne asked.

  “We’re under attack.”

  She shook her head. “No, that can’t be.”

  He heard the low whine of incoming sky cannon. Grabbing Ashlynne by the arm, he began running toward the opposite end of the yard, dragging the girl behind him. The flowers tumbled from her hands, leaving a colorful trail in their wake.

  They were nearing the edge of the gardens when there was a violent explosion. Ashlynne screamed as the house exploded in flames.

  “Let me go!” she shrieked. She tried to wrest her arm from Number Four’s grasp, but he held her tightly.

  “You fool! What do you think you’re gonna do?”

  “My parents are in there!”

  “Then they’re dead.” His words were harsh, deliberately cruel. “Come on,” he said, tugging on her arm. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving them!” she shrieked. “You can’t make me! Let me go!”

  “Like hell.”

  She glared at him, her eyes glittering like chips of cold green glass as she pointed the controller at his chest. “Let me go.”

  He hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, wondering if he could snatch it from her hand before she could activate it.

  “Let me go!”

  Her thumb moved to the top of the controller, and he dropped her arm.

  As soon as he released her, she ran toward the blazing inferno that had once been her home.

  Muttering an oath, Falkon turned away. If she wanted to commit suicide, that was her business but he was getting the hell out of there while the getting was good. If looking after their own skins to come looking for one prisoner. With any luck, they would think he had died when the house exploded.