The Captive (7 page)

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…

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.

He turned around as the door to his room slid open.
Ashlynne’s father stood there attired in a white silkspun shirt, a pair of gray
woolen slacks, and a pair of calf-high leather boots polished to such a high
shine Falkon could see his reflection in them.

“We are hosting a small dinner party tomorrow night,” Marcus
said. “I want the grounds to be in perfect order by then.”

Falkon nodded.

“My wife has purchased several new flowering shrubs and
trees to replace those lost in the last storm. They will need to be planted.”

Again, Falkon nodded.

Marcus frowned, annoyed by the slave’s mute insolence. “You
will start first thing in the morning.” Without waiting for an answer, he pivoted
with military precision and left the room.

Falkon stared at the closed door; then, with a wordless cry
of rage, he slammed his fists against the portal.

* * * * *

He was at work early the following day. Keeping his mind
carefully blank, he planted the trees and shrubs the lady of the house had
purchased, then pruned the hedges and trimmed the foliage.

To his dismay, Ashlynne was in residence in the garden, her
nose buried in a book, the controller close at hand. He took one look at her
and went to work in another part of the yard.

He spent all that day toiling in the vast yard and gardens,
his mind carefully blank as he raked the leaves.

Late in the afternoon, his back weary, his body covered with
perspiration, he paused to rest near the small man-made lake near the west
wall. He was given water for washing each night; once a week he was permitted
to take a bath in a small round tub barely large enough to hold him.

He stared into the deep blue pool for several moments and
then, unable to resist its lure, he shucked his clothes and dived into the
lake.

The water was cool, but not cold and he swam from one end of
the lake to the other, reveling in the illusion of freedom it gave him. He swam
for several minutes, then floated on his back, basking in the touch of the sun
on his face and chest. He had hated being forced to labor down in the mine,
hated never seeing the sun, never feeling its warmth on his skin. His people
were a wild, untamed race who lived most of their lives outdoors.

Eyes closed, buoyed up in the arms of the water, he lost
track of time and place, until a gasp of startled surprise brought him tumbling
back to the present.

Treading water, he turned toward the sound, grimacing when
he saw Ashlynne standing near the edge of the lake.

“What do you want?” he asked curtly.

“My privacy, if you don’t mind.”

He lifted one brow. “I’d like a little privacy myself if
you
don’t mind.”

“Who gave you permission to swim here?”

Falkon hesitated, wondering if a lie would serve him better
than the truth, and then he shrugged. “No one. Have I broken another rule?”

She looked momentarily taken aback. “I don’t know,” she
admitted, and then lifted her chin. “Probably. Yes, I’m sure my father would
object if he knew a creature as vile as you were polluting our lake.”

He scowled at her, annoyed.

“Well?” She tapped one sandal-shod foot impatiently. “I’m
waiting.”

“I’m not ready to get out yet.”

“I don’t care!” she exclaimed. “This is my lake and I wish
to swim.”

“Go swim in the pool.” His gaze met hers, and he smiled a
wicked smile. “Or you could join me in here.”

Why did he bait her, he wondered. What perverse demon made
him taunt her? She had only to report his insolence, and he would be severely
punished. Just because she hadn’t said anything the last time didn’t mean she
would be so forgiving this time.

Ashlynne glanced at his clothing, piled in a heap on the
ground. For one maddening moment, she wondered what would happen if she shed
her robe and bathing suit and joined him. Magny wouldn’t hesitate…

She thrust the thought aside before it was fully formed. For
all that he was quite a handsome man, he was a murderer, an enemy to her people
and to decent people everywhere.

“Get out of my lake,” she demanded.

“Go back to the house.”

“I will not! I have every right to be here.”

“Whatever you say,” he replied impudently.

Her eyes widened as he began to swim toward the shore. Her
first thought was to flee for the safety of the house. Oh, wouldn’t he love to
see that, she mused angrily. How he would laugh! Determined that he not think
her afraid of him, she stood her ground, her heart beating wildly as he drew
ever closer.

When his feet touched bottom, he stood up and began walking
toward her. Drops of water trickled down his shoulders, his chest. Sunlight
glistened on his blue-black hair, caressed his skin as he emerged from the
water, rising from the quiet blue lake like some mythical water god. She
couldn’t help staring at his broad shoulders and chest.

She looked up at him, panic in her eyes, as the lake covered
less and less of him. When it barely reached his waist, he stopped.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the house?”

Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain it could be
heard in the bowels of the mine. She slid one hand into the pocket of her robe.
The feel of the controller beneath her hand bolstered her courage. “Quite
sure.”

He took another step. And then another. And she knew she
couldn’t stay, knew she didn’t have the nerve to stand there while he emerged
from the water’s concealing depths, naked as the day he had emerged from his
mother’s womb.

Angered by her own cowardice, hating him for refusing to
treat her with the respect that was her due, she grabbed his clothing, then
turned and ran for the safety of the house.

Falkon stared after her in disbelief, unable to believe she
had done such a childish, spiteful thing.

Stepping out of the water, he stared through the foliage. He
was sorely tempted to give chase. He had no doubt he could catch her. And it
was that knowledge that kept him from going after her. Catching her would be
like grabbing the proverbial tiger by the tail, with much the same results.

He gave her plenty of time to reach the safety of the house
before he made his way to his room.

He found his clothes at the edge of the path that wound
around to the back of the house. Slipping into his trousers, he picked up his
shirt and boots, then continued on, grateful that he hadn’t met anyone on the
way.

As he did every evening, he turned and glanced at the wall
that surrounded the grounds before he entered his room, a silent battle raging
within him. He could scale the wall easily enough, perhaps lose himself in the
thick jungle beyond before he was missed. He lifted a hand to the collar at his
throat. There was no hope of escape, not as long as he wore the collar. Sooner
or later, they would track him down. He had seen what happened to the two men
who had tried to escape. Their remains had been carried back to the mine, hung
from a pole for all to see.

With a sigh, he opened the rear door of the house and made
his way down the narrow corridor that led to his room, his prison.

As soon as he stepped inside, the door slid closed,
automatically locking behind him, effectively sealing him inside for the night.
A pitcher of hot water and a bowl awaited him. Stripping off his pants, he
washed his hands and feet and face, then donned the clean shirt and breeches
that had been provided. A short time later, a panel in the wall slid back. He
took the tray which held his evening meal, then placed his soiled clothes and
the pitcher and bowl on the retractable shelf. A moment later, the panel
closed.

Muttering an oath, Falkon placed the tray on the small table
beside his bed. The night stretched ahead of him, long hours with nothing to
occupy his hands or his thoughts.

He ate to ease his hunger, hardly tasting the food, which
was far better than he was accustomed to, and certainly better than the hard
bread, black bitter tea, and lumpy gruel made from triticale and Horth grubs
that passed for food in the mine. The grubs, found in the roots of the trees
and plants on Tierde, were a cheap source of proteins and carbohydrates. The
taste was similar to the mushrooms found on Daccar, a constant reminder of
home.

Tonight, instead of bringing him pleasure, the bounty spread
before him only fueled his anger.

Setting the plate aside, he stretched out on the narrow bed
and closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come. Rising, he began to pace the
floor.

He jerked upright, startled when the door to his room slid
open. In all the weeks he had been here, no one had come to his room once he
had been locked in for the night.

“Number Four,” Marcus said without preamble, “one of the
servers has taken ill. You are to take his place. Report to the kitchen
immediately. Meggie will tell you what do to.”

Marcus regarded him a moment. “We have guests. I will brook
no insolence, is that understood?”

Falkon nodded curtly.

“You will not speak, nor draw attention to yourself. If you
cause me any embarrassment, I shall have the skin flayed from your back, and
then you will be sent back to the mine. Do you understand?”

Again, Falkon nodded.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Falkon answered tightly. “I understand
perfectly.”

“Very well. Follow me.”

Meggie, the cook, was as round as she was tall, with a knot
of gray hair, bright blue eyes, and a voice that brooked no nonsense. She
looked Falkon up and down, scowled as she muttered something derogatory about
his obvious lack of experience. She quickly explained his duties, then thrust a
pile of clothing into his hands and sent him into the pantry to change.

Falkon emerged five minutes later attired in a form-fitting
pair of dark blue pants, a collarless dark blue shirt, with a large silver tray
Meggie handed to him and carried it into the dining room.

He couldn’t help staring as he entered the room. It was
unlike anything he had ever seen. An enormous cut crystal chandelier hung from
the vaulted ceiling. A profusion of artfully arranged tree-plants and ferns
decorated one corner of the room, effectively screening the three musicians who
began to play as the food was served. Heavily flocked gold and green paper
covered the walls. The table, made of black teak, was the longest he had ever
seen. Gauze-like curtains were drawn back from the window, affording a view of
the lamp-lit gardens beyond. Sixty men and women attired in costly raiment sat
at two long tables. None of them paid him, or the other two servers, the
slightest bit of attention, except to snap their fingers when they wanted
something.

None of them except Ashlynne. She was seated to the right of
her father. Clad in a diaphanous gown of shimmering silver trimmed with star
pearls, her hair artfully arranged in a mass of soft waves that fell to her
waist, she took one look at him, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she hid a
laugh behind her napkin.

Humiliation burned through him. It was bad enough to labor
in the gardens. Acting as servant to dozens of wealthy Tierdians was much
worse. She summoned him to her side again and again. She bid him bring her a
clean fork when she carelessly dropped hers on the floor, indicated he should
refill her water glass, bring her more bread. And always he knew she was
laughing at him. He fought the urge to refuse, knowing that to do so would
accomplish nothing but a return to the mine, but, in that moment, he hated her.
He had seen her kind from one end of the galaxy to the other—spoiled, selfish
women who ate food they had not grown, wore expensive gowns they had not worked
to buy, who lived in luxury, not caring that the ease of their lifestyle was
purchased with the blood and sweat and humiliation of others.