The Captive

  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. Gauzelike curtains were drawn back from the window, affording a view of the lamplit gardens beyond.

  Sixty men and women attired in costly raiment sat at two long black teak 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 and hid a laugh behind her napkin, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

  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.

  He couldn't believe the number of courses that came from the kitchen, one after the other. He had never seen such an abundance of food and drink. While the guests ate, he was expected to stand at attention just behind Marcus's right shoulder in case one of the guests should want something— more wine, another canapé, a clean napkin.

  Dinner lasted well over two hours. From the conversation he overheard, Falkon gathered that the guests were all high-ranking visitors from the Confederation planets of Swernolt and Andoria, as well as the neutral planets of Polixe and Cherlin Four. They had all gathered to celebrate the renewal of the peace treaty between Tierde and Romariz.

  There were no representatives from Daccar, but that was to be expected. Daccar was not neutral, but unlike Riga Twelve, Ohnmahr, Inner Ohnmahr, and Cenia, it was still free of Romarian rule.

  One of the guests rose and lifted his glass. "To peace!"

  The words "to peace" were repeated around the table.

  Ashlynne's father stood up, smiling. "I am pleased that we were able to come to terms with the Romarians so that we may continue to enjoy the peace we have enjoyed for the past twelve years. As some of you may know, there are those who believe we should allow Cenian ships access to our mine, now that they have agreed to withdraw their troops from Swernolt. My future son-in-law feels strongly that Cenia should be admitted to the Confederation, and has said so on numerous occasions. However, I am opposed to such a plan, and have said as much to the Romarian ambassador, as well as the Trellan ambassador. I do not believe the Cenians are interested in peace, or that they can be trusted."

  "We are with you, Lord Marcus. The Cenians are a barbaric race, worse than the Hodorians. Their treachery is well known."

  Murmurs of approval went around the table.

  "The Romarian ambassador was not pleased," Marcus said, "but he has agreed not to interfere with our decision, at least for the time being."

  The ambassador from Andoria stood up. "I was told the Cenians offered a rather substantial number of credits for the right to land here and fuel their ships."

  "Yes, Ambassador Timoran, that's true," Marcus said, "but…"

  Jadeleine tugged on her husband's sleeve. "Marcus, let us find a subject more pleasant, shall we?"

  "Gentlemen, we will speak of this at a later time," Marcus said, and with a wry grin, he resumed his seat.

  "My apologies, Lady Jadeleine." The Andorian ambassador bowed in her direction before he, too, resumed his seat.

  When the last course was served, the guests retired to the ballroom to dance. Falkon had expected to be ordered back to his room; instead, Marcus informed him that he was needed to help serve drinks.

  Though the dining room was opulent, the ballroom put it to shame. The ceiling was made of glass so that the guests had the illusion of dancing outside under Tierde's twin moons. The white marble floor, polished to a high sheen, reflected the glow of the stars. The walls were painted with scenic murals, interspersed with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. A small waterfall splashed playfully in one corner of the room. Long benches covered with plush red velvet cushions lined the walls; matching sofas and chairs were placed at regular intervals around the perimeter.

  Falkon stood at attention near the entry, his gaze following Ashlynne as she twirled around the floor in the arms of one dashing young man after another. Her silver gown caught the light of the candles, reflecting all the colors of the rainbow. Eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed with pleasure, she put every other woman present to shame.

  He watched, trying not to be jealous as a tall, blond young man claimed her for the next dance. It was an old-fashioned waltz. He tried not to imagine what it would be like take her in his arms, to gaze down into her eyes, to twirl her around the dance floor until she was laughing and breathless.

  Muttering an oath, he turned away. It was none of his business what she did, or whom she did it with.

  At Marcus's order, he went into the kitchen for more crushed ice. When he returned to the ballroom, there was no sign of Ashlynne or the young man.

  Surreptitiously, he moved toward the doorway that led out to the balcony. In the light of the twin moons, he could see two figures standing face-to-face at the far end of the balcony. He scowled as the distance between the two decreased. The man placed his hands on Ashlynne's shoulders, bent his head, and captured Ashlynne's lips.

  Falkon clenched his hands, fighting the urge to lay into the man who dared take such liberties with Ashlynne. He told himself he didn't care, that it wasn't his place to interfere. If she wanted to steal a kiss in the moonlight with some baby-faced boy, it was none of his business.

  Falkon was about to turn away when he heard the sound of a scuffle. Looking back, he saw Ashlynne trying to twist out of the young man's arms, heard her muffled cry when he refused to release her.

  Taking a deep breath, Falkon stepped out onto the balcony. "Lady Ashlynne, your father is looking for you."

  The young man immediately released Ashlynne and put some distance between them.

  "Thank you, Number Four," Ashlynne said.

  Falkon walked toward them, his gaze fixed on the young man, who took one look at his face and disappeared around the corner.

  When the man was out of sight, Falkon ran his gaze over Ashlynne. Her cheeks were flushed, his lips slightly swollen. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, of course."

  She was close, so close. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her perfume. His gaze moved to her lips. What would she do if he pulled her into his embrace and kissed her? Would she scream for help, or melt into his arms?

  As though reading his mind, she looked away. "I'd better go see what my father wants."

  "He doesn't want anything."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You looked like you needed some help."

  She glared at him, eyes flashing. "I'll thank you to stay out of my personal life."

  "Whatever you say, princess," he retorted.

  "Oh, you are the most vile man!" she exclaimed, and lifting her skirts, she hurried back into the ballroom.

  Falkon swore softly, then turned on his heel and returned to his post.

  She sought him out late the following morning.

  "Number Four?"

  He looked up from the leaves he had been raking. S
he looked lovely, as always. Today, she wore a dark blue dress with a very short skirt and white knee-high leather boots. Her hair was gathered at her nape and held with a bright red ribbon. She looked very young and very innocent, and far too tempting for his peace of mind.

  "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 father 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 hurtful.

  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, 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." Magny 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 burr 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 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 war paint.

  Falkon reined the stallion to a walk, conscious of the two girls standing at 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?
"

  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.