Ashlynne nodded again. Few girls of her class were permitted to choose their own husbands. Women were pawns, traded for land, offered in marriage to secure peace between feuding families or forge alliances between worlds; or, in her case, to fulfill her father’s pledge to his best friend.
“I want you to keep silent while I examine the slaves. Most of them haven’t seen a woman in quite some time.”
“Yes, Father.”
Parah had been advised of their imminent arrival and he hurried forward to greet them. Marcus dismounted near the bridge and handed the reins of his horse to Ashlynne. From her vantage point on her horse’s back, she watched her father and Parah cross the narrow wooden bridge to the compound that housed the prisoners. The small stone cells looked like blocks set in a row.
It was Sunday, and the prisoners were all locked inside their cells. On any other Sunday, they would have been toiling in the bowels of the mine, but not today. Today her father was going to look them over.
Parah started at the far end. Unlocking each door, he ordered the occupant to step outside. As soon as the prisoners emerged from their cells, the shackles on their hands and feet were activated, rendering them immobile. They were a motley crew, she thought sadly. Eyes empty of life, of hope, they stood like so many sheep, waiting for the slaughter. Dressed in coarse leathern breeches and sleeveless vests, their hair long and unkempt, they all looked alike.
Except for Number Four.
Ashlynne leaned forward in the saddle as the tall, dusky-skinned slave emerged from the darkness of his cell to blink against the early morning sunlight. She saw the way his jaw clenched as the bands encircling his hands and feet snapped together. They had not yet broken his spirit, she mused. Even after months of captivity and four weeks in solitary confinement, his eyes still blazed with anger and defiance.
She wished she could hear what was being said, what questions her father asked as he walked up and down the row of prisoners, what answers they gave. None of the prisoners dared to meet her father’s eyes. Even Number Four looked properly subdued when her father stopped in front of him. She saw him nod curtly, once, twice. Saw her father speak to Parah a moment, and then her father was walking back toward her, his military upbringing obvious in the square set of his shoulders, the length of his stride, the self-confidence that was so much a part of him. She had always been proud of her father, proud of his many accomplishments, of the fact that he had been decorated for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.
She handed him the stallion’s reins, and he swung into the saddle, effortlessly, gracefully.
“Ready for that gallop on the beach?” he asked.
“Yes, sir!” She glanced back at the compound. The prisoners had been returned to their cells. “Did you make a choice, Father?”
“We’ll talk of it later,” he said, and touching his heels to the stallion’s flanks, he raced over the bridge and headed for the beach.
With a wild cry, Ashlynne sent her mare after the horse, delighting in the heady sense of freedom that engulfed her as they raced across the hot golden sand, reveling in the wind in her face and the scent of the sea, the thundering power of the chestnut mare.
Leaning low over the mare’s neck, she drummed her heels against the mare’s flanks. “Let’s go, girl!” she cried, and let out a shout as the horse jumped a large piece of driftwood.
Oh, to be free! To be able to ride forever. To be able to live her life as she pleased. To marry whom she pleased, when she pleased! To pick a man of her own choosing, a man with long black hair and eyes as turbulent as a storm-tossed sea…
Why couldn’t she get that man out of her mind?
* * * * *
“Did you find a slave that suited you, Father?”
Her father had won the race, and now they were sitting on a patch of dark blue grass near the shore while the horses rested. It was a pretty spot. She loved the sound of the ocean, could sit for hours watching the waves lap at the shore. Tiny little birds with gold and black wings scurried along the sand, chirp merrily.
Marcus nodded. “I believe so. Parah tells me the man has caused some trouble in the past, but he seems fit and appears to have been brought to heel.” He shook his head ruefully. “Not much of a choice, really. So many of them lose the will to live after a few months in the mine.”
“Does the man you’ve chosen know horses?”
“He claims to.”
Ashlynne plucked a long blade of grass and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. There was no way to ask if it was Number Four, not without fear of revealing that she knew more about the man than she should.
“Well, shall we go?” Marcus asked. He stood and offered Ashlynne his hand. “Midday meal should be ready by now, and you know how your mother hates us to be late.”
With a smile, Ashlynne took her father’s hand and let him pull her to her feet. She would find out soon enough who her father had chosen. Until she knew, she could hope.
And then she frowned. What if her father did pick Number Four? And what if Number Four told her father about her little adventure with Magny the other night? Her father rarely got angry with her, but she had never forgotten the few times that he had.
She told herself she was worrying needlessly. There was no reason for Number Four to mention it, no reason at all, but try as she might, she couldn’t put the thought out of her mind. Her father had warned her that she wouldn’t be allowed to see Magny if they got into any more mischief. And she had a feeling that her father would consider sneaking down to the mine in the middle of the night much worse than any of their other pranks.
Suddenly, she hoped he hadn’t chosen Number Four at all.
Chapter Six
Falkon stood in the center of the floor, his gaze roaming around the room. 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. It was sparsely furnished, containing only a narrow bed covered with a light brown spread, a small square table and a single chair. 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 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 th
at 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 their person, you will lose 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 had certainly been a factor. He had almost changed his mind when Dain had informed him of the prisoner’s attack. When confronted, the prisoner 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 honesty. He shook his head, hoping he hadn’t made an error in judgment. “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 pool. 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 man-made 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 near the pool.
Rounding a bend in the path, he came to an abrupt halt. The girl was sitting beside the pool, 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, 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 blonde 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 gonna 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 for it. 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 was 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 conc
entrate on the words. Always her gaze strayed toward the prisoner, to his broad scarred back, to the play of corded muscles rippling beneath his sun-drenched skin. He moved with such fluid ease, such strength, just watching him did funny things in 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 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 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?”
The Captive Page 5
