His hands clenched. He'd never get a better opportunity, he thought, and made a grab for the controller.
Wild, unreasoning panic rose up 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.
The following afternoon 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 seemed to be over an inch thick, was a deep mauve. 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 were you."
"Well, you're not me! And I will tell him. And he'll have you flogged."
"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 anyway."
"No?"
"No," she replied firmly. But what if he did? She'd never be allowed to see Magny again if her father found out what they had done.
"I'll keep your secret," Falkon 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," he said, laughing.
"Oh, you are the most incorrigible 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 windowsill. 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 Taran Three. 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, to 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 a state of 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-blond 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 an
d 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 by the small man-made pond 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 pond.
The water was cool, but not cold and he swam from one end of the pond 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 was polluting our pond."
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 pond 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 pond," 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 would 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 water 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 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 that 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, bitter black 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 protein and carbohydrates. The taste was similar to the mushrooms found on Daccar and reminded him 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 tolerate 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." br />
"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 and a collarless dark blue shirt. He took the large silver tray Meggie handed to him and carried it into the dining room.