The Captive

  "Because… because I can't. It's dirty."

  Falkon snorted. "Suit yourself."

  Slowly, she pulled her hand from her pocket, revealing the controller.

  "What are you going to do with that?" he asked suspiciously.

  "Secure your hands and feet, of course."

  He glared at her as she activated the controls. The manacles on his wrists and ankles made a dull clanking sound as they locked together. He swore as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his arm.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured.

  "Are you?"

  "Sorry, but not stupid," she retorted. "You're a prisoner, after all."

  "I just saved your life."

  She had the decency to look ashamed, but she didn't unlock the manacles.

  With a weary sigh, he stretched out on the ground, though with his hands and feet shackled, it was next to impossible to get comfortable.

  Ashlynne watched him carefully, unable to believe he was actually going to sleep. But there would be no rest for her, she thought. Even with his hands and feet shackled, she didn't trust him. The minute she closed her eyes, she knew he would be on her, and once he had the controller, she would be at his mercy.

  She stared at him for a moment, then gazed at the sky again. It was full dark now, and she was hungry and tired. And alone with a slave. Her fingers tightened on the controller. She would use it if she had to. Just because he had saved her from the Hodorians didn't mean he could be trusted. He was a slave, a man sentenced to live out the remainder of his life in the mine.

  Suddenly the strength went out of her limbs and she sank down to the ground. Tears stung her eyes. Her throat felt tight and thick. Burying her face in her hands, she wept bitter tears, crying for her parents, for Magny, for the loss of everything she had ever known, everything she had loved. All her life, she had been loved and cared for. She had never wanted for anything. She'd had the best education available, the finest clothes money could buy, the security of a good family. And now, none of it meant a thing. Better she should have learned how to survive in the wilderness than how to paint a landscape or sculpt or entertain foreign diplomats.

  Falkon's jaw clenched as he listened to the girl's sobs. He had a ridiculous urge to go to her, to gather her into the circle of his arms and assure her that everything would be all right. She was such an innocent, she would probably believe him. At least until tomorrow.

  He knew about the jungles of Tierde, about the slime-pits and the blue fire-sand. While imprisoned in the mine, he had heard numerous tales of men, slave and free alike, who had been lost in that jungle, never to be seen again, heard a dozen grisly stories of the cannibals and renegades who hid in the depths of its green heart, heard of the wild animals and wilder men who preyed upon the weak, the foolish, the unwary.

  With a sigh, he closed his mind to the sound of the girl's tears. He had no comfort to give her or anyone else. All he wanted was his freedom and five minutes alone with Drade.

  He fell asleep, a smile on his lips, as he contemplated squeezing the last breath of life from the man who had destroyed his home and murdered his family.

  Chapter Ten

  Niklaus Hassrick scowled at the tele-screen. "Dammit, Drade, what the hell happened?"

  The image on the screen shrugged. "We made a mistake."

  "A mistake! A mistake! Is that what you call it? You damn fool, you were supposed to wait until she was here."

  Drade shrugged again. "What's done is done."

  "That's all you have to say? Is that what you want me to tell Lord Brezor? I'm sorry, but what's done is done?"

  "You'll think of something."

  "You'd damn well better hope I do, because if I go down, I'm taking you with me. What's happening there now?"

  "Everything's under control. The mine itself is undamaged. As far as everyone knows, it was an unprovoked attack by the Hodorians." Drade frowned. "Two of my men were found dead a short distance from the house."

  "What happened to them?"

  "I'm not sure. I think one of the servants must have killed them and escaped through the back wall. I wouldn't worry about it, though. The jungle will take care of whoever it was."

  Niklaus ran a hand through his hair. This whole thing had gone from bad to worse. It had all seemed so simple at the beginning. He swore under his breath. There had to be a way to make it work. A forged letter from Marcus, perhaps, bequeathing him ownership of the mine? Or papers alleging that he had bought half the mine? One way or another, he had to gain control of the mine; it was the only way to fulfill his bargain with the Cenian ambassador, the only way to save himself from ruin.

  "Hassrick?"

  "You're sure she's dead?"

  "The house was leveled. No one could have gotten out."

  "Someone killed your men."

  "Yeah, but I'm willing to bet it wasn't the girl."

  Niklaus grunted softly. At the sound of his father's voice, he muttered a quick goodbye and broke the connection.

  He would find a way out of this mess somehow.

  His future, his reputation, depended on it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Falkon sat up, his body tense, his ears ringing with the sound of a woman's scream. Maiya…

  It took him a moment to realize the scream had come from Ashlynne. "What the hell's wrong with you?" he asked gruffly.

  "A… a spider."

  "What?"

  "There was a spider on my arm. It… it scared me. I hate spiders."

  Falkon grunted softly, then turned away. A spider. "How about releasing me?"

  She hesitated a moment, then activated the release mechanism.

  Falkon stood up. After stretching his arms and legs, he walked to the tunnel's opening and peered through the bushes. Dawn was breaking over the distant mountains. The rising sun splashed the sky with brilliant streaks of ocher and fiery shades of crimson. He heard the trilling of birds, the rustle of the leaves on the trees outside the tunnel, the shriek of some wild animal.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the girl. Her hair fell in a tangled mass of silver-blond curls down her back; her face was smudged with dirt. Her dress was ripped along the neckline, revealing one softly rounded shoulder and a tantalizing glimpse of smooth creamy flesh. She didn't look so high and mighty now, he mused. "Let's go, princess."

  "Is it safe?"

  Falkon shrugged. If there were men prowling the jungle, the birds wouldn't be singing. Indeed, the moment he stepped out of the tunnel, the jungle grew silent, almost as if it were holding its breath.

  Ashlynne stepped warily to the mouth of the tunnel, the hand in her pocket fisted around the controller. She saw Number Four standing a few feet away, his head cocked, as though he were listening to something only he could hear, and then he began walking east.

  She felt a peculiar lurch in her stomach as she looked at him. He wore only a pair of tight-fitting breeches and a pair of black boots. The early morning sunlight cast blue highlights in his long black hair. She stared at his back, pity rising within her when she saw the ugly marks left by the lash. His arms and legs were long and well-muscled.

  The thought of those arms, the strength of them, made her tighten her hold on the controller. She would have to be on her guard every minute, she thought, lest he overpower her and wrest the controller from her grasp. She would be helpless then, completely at his mercy.

  Falkon looked over his shoulder, frowning when he saw the girl staring at him. "I'm leaving," he said, "with or without you."

  "I don't think so."

  "I know so."

  Slowly, Ashlynne drew her hand out of her pocket, the controller pointed at his back. "You will wait for me."

  Falkon glanced at the controller, then back at the girl. He had no doubt she would use the thing. She had done so before. "Right."

  Arms crossed over his chest, he watched her step out of the tunnel. The hand holding the controller was trembling. A muscle twitched in his jaw. One slip of her thum
b and he would be writhing on the ground at her feet.

  He choked back the anger that rose in his throat like bile. It was maddening, humiliating, degrading, to be at the mercy of another and even more so to be at the mercy of a mere girl. There was a good chance he could jump her and wrest the controller from her grasp, but not now. He would bide his time for just the right moment.

  "You've been injured!" She gestured at his arm with the controller, felt the nausea rise in her throat as she stared at the ugly black burn across his right biceps.

  "Yeah." He glanced at the wound. The skin of his upper arm was raw and red, black around the edges.

  "Does it— does it hurt very much?"

  "Damn right." He took a deep, calming breath. "Are you ready to go now?" He forced the words through clenched teeth.

  "Shouldn't we— your arm. Shouldn't we tend it first?"

  "I don't know how, unless you've got a medikit hidden in your pocket."

  Ashlynne shook her head.

  "Let's go, then."

  "I'll follow you. Mind you, go slowly. I won't hesitate to use this if I have to."

  "I have no doubt of that," he muttered. Pivoting on his heel, he started walking, slowly.

  Gradually, his anger melted. It was the first time in months that he had been outside the mine compound or the jinan. The sun felt warm, soothing, on his back. A deep breath filled his nostrils with myriad scents— earth and trees, the perfume of wildflowers, the stink of a rotting carcass, the heavy smell of damp tree moss.

  Falkon walked steadily toward the rising sun. If he remembered correctly, there was a star base located on the eastern strip of Tierde. He could leave the girl there. With any luck, he would be able to steal a cruiser and get the hell off this rock. Free, he thought. Soon, he'd be free again. He lifted a hand to his throat. With any luck, he'd soon be free of the heavy collar and the shackles, too.

  The laser burn on his arm seemed to throb in time with his footsteps, increasing as the day went on until it was a constant pulsing pain.

  At noon, they stumbled onto a deep green pool surrounded by gigantic blue ferns and a profusion of flowering vines.

  Falkon paused at the edge of the pool, his mouth watering as his gaze swept over the surrounding area.

  Ashlynne licked her lips. "Do you think it's safe to drink?"

  Falkon nodded. "Probably." Judging from the variety of animal tracks, the pool appeared to be a watering hole.

  She started to take a step forward, but he held her back. "Hold on."

  Years of training as a sky pilot had taught him never to rush into unknown territory, but to wait, to study the lay of the land.

  Ashlynne looked at him, annoyed. A flash of movement caught her eye and she glanced at the pool to see a small reddish-brown springcat approach the edge. The animal scented the air, then lowered its head and began to drink.

  Falkon let out a sigh of relief when the cat disappeared into the forest. He'd been pretty certain the water was safe; the cat confirmed it. Hurrying forward, he dropped down on his belly and buried his face in the pool, then drank deeply. The water was cool and sweet. He was aware of the girl kneeling beside him, taking delicate sips of water from her cupped hands.

  When he had quenched his thirst, he lowered his wounded arm into the pool, closing his eyes as the cool water eased the burning ache.

  When she finished drinking, Ashlynne scooted away from Number Four. His nearness made her nervous. He looked dark and dangerous sitting there beside the pool. Water glistened on his bare arms and chest, his jaw was shadowed with the beginnings of a beard, his trousers hugged his long, muscular legs like a second skin. She wondered what it would be like to explore the hard muscles of his arms, to run her fingertips over his flat muscular stomach… She shook her head, horrified by the direction of her thoughts. He was a mercenary, a killer. She would do well to remember that.

  Glancing up, she saw him watching her, a bemused expression on his face. Mortified, she realized she had been staring at his chest. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks. Her first instinct was to look away. Instead, she lifted her chin and met his gaze.

  "You want to see the rest?" he drawled. "I could strip down for you."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean!" The lie tasted sour in her mouth. Impossible as it seemed, she felt her cheeks grow even hotter.

  "You own me," he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Are you sure you don't want to see it all?"

  She had never been so humiliated in her life. She wanted to die, to disappear, to never see him again.

  "Ready to go, princess?"

  "Yes," she replied curtly, "as soon as I wash this stuff from my hands."

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know." Frowning, she scrubbed at the flaky greenish substance under her fingernails. It looked like paint, but it couldn't be. "And stop calling me princess."

  He rose fluidly to his feet and held out his hand, his dark eyes dancing with amusement.

  He was laughing at her! Ashlynne glared up at him. Refusing his offer, she stood up and wiped her hands dry on her skirt.

  "Afraid of me?" he asked.

  "Of course not."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I'm hungry," she said imperiously.

  "Well, I'm sure that's a first. Come on, let's go."

  It was true— she had never been hungry before. The gnawing ache in her belly helped keep her mind off the humiliation she had endured at the pool. It was bad enough to realize she had been staring at him, wondering what his bare skin would feel like beneath her fingertips. It was positively mortifying to know that he had been aware of her thoughts.

  It seemed as though they had been walking for days when he finally found a place to rest. Ashlynne's legs felt like rubber as she sank to the ground. Her hand ached from holding the controller, yet she dared not put it down. It was the only protection she had.

  She felt her cheeks grow warm as her stomach growled loudly. She was hungry and thirsty and tired. She wanted something to eat, a glass of sweet wine, a warm bath, a soft bed to sleep in. She wanted her parents…. Hot tears burned her eyes. They were dead, and she would never see them, or her home, again.

  Sunk in the depths of her own misery, she began to cry. Unconsciously, her hand tightened on the controller.

  A sharp cry of pain penetrated her grief. Looking up, she saw Number Four writhing on the ground, his body straining, every muscle taut.

  Instantly, she released her grip on the controller. "I'm sorry," she cried. "I didn't mean it. It was an accident!"

  She watched helplessly as he continued to writhe in agony, her own anguish forgotten. His body twitched uncontrollably as hundreds of tiny electrical shocks pulsed through him.

  Gradually, the spasms stopped. Eyes closed, he lay on the ground, his body bathed in sweat, his breathing harsh and uneven.

  "I'm so sorry," she murmured contritely. "So sorry."

  "Why?" Just a single word, filled with condemnation.

  "It was an accident. I didn't mean to."

  He opened his eyes to stare up at her. She flinched at the pain and contempt she read in his expression.

  "I'm sorry," she said again.

  "No need to be. I'm just a slave. You could kill me and no one would care." With an effort, he sat up. He wiped his sweaty brow on his forearm, then sat there, staring at her, until his body stopped trembling and his breathing returned to normal. "I don't suppose you'd consider giving me that thing? Or throwing it away?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think so." He stood up slowly and took a deep breath. When he looked at her, his eyes were cold. "If you ever use that damn thing on me again, I'll break your neck."

  Ashlynne scrambled to her feet and backed away from him. "I said it was an accident."

  "Yeah. Let's go."

  "But I'm hungry. And tired."

  "So am I, princess." Without another word, he turned his back to her and started walking.

  There was nothing for her to do but follow
him.

  At dusk, he found a shallow stream. The bank was crisscrossed with animal tracks. Ashlynne sat on a stump, the controller in her lap, watching Number Four fashion a snare from a sturdy brown vine. "Do you think that will work?"

  "You'd better hope so."

  He put the finishing touches on the snare, covering it with a thin layer of leaves. "Come on." Without waiting to see if she followed him or not, he moved away from the stream, taking cover behind a stand of timber.