The Captive (19 page)

Falkon paced his cell, unable to sleep. Time and again he
went to the small barred window and peered into the darkness. He could see the
second story of the house, barely visible beyond the rise. Lights shown in
several of the windows. He wondered if Ashlynne was still awake, how she had
passed the evening, if she had been alone with Hassrick.

Jealousy burned bright within him at the thought of Hassrick
touching Ashlynne, holding her in his arms, kissing her…damn!

His hands curled around the bars. He had to get out of here!

He stood at the window, watching the lights in the house go
out one by one.

Turning away from the door, he stretched out on the narrow
cot, his arms folded behind his head, but sleep would not come. He had to get
out of here…

“Falkon?”

He was at the window in two long strides. “Ashlynne, what
are you doing down here?”

“I wanted to see you.”

He reached through the bars, his fingers stroking her cheek.
“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Come here.”

She moved closer to the window. Standing on tiptoe, she
leaned forward, her eyelids fluttering down as he kissed her.

She was sweet, so sweet. He cursed the door standing between
them, wishing he could take her in his arms. He had never thought to fall in
love again, had forgotten how overpowering it could be.

Ashlynne sighed as he took his lips from hers. Just one
kiss, and her whole body was trembling, quivering with desire. “I wish…”

“What do you wish, princess?”

“I wish you’d stop calling me that.

He grinned at her. “Tell me.”

“I wish we could make love.”

He couldn’t see her face clearly in the darkness, but he had
a feeling she was blushing. “I know.” He reached through the bars again, his
hand cupping her face.

“I love you,” she murmured. “I love you so much.”

“Ashlynne…”

“Tell me,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

She covered his hand with hers and rubbed her cheek against
his palm.

“You said Hassrick wants to get married right away. Have you
set a date?”

“In three months.”

Falkon grunted softly. Three months. If he couldn’t find a
way out of here by then, he never would.

“Niklaus said we’re going to Tierde after the wedding.”

“Oh?”

Ashlynne nodded. “He’s going to take over running the mine.”
She hesitated a moment. “He said it belongs to me now.”

“I thought the Romarians had confiscated it.”

“So did I, but the mine didn’t belong to the Confederation.
It belonged to my father. Falkon…”

“What?”

“Never mind.” There was no point in telling him that Drade
was on Tierde. Not now. There was nothing he could do about it, nothing to be
gained in the telling.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just that Niklaus has assigned you to work in the
stable. You start tomorrow.”

He grunted softly. Shoveling manure was a hell of a lot
better than digging crystals out of a dark mine deep in the bowels of Tierde.

She squeezed his hand. “I’d better go before I’m missed.”
She leaned forward for his kiss, whispered, “Goodnight, I love you,” then
turned and ran up the path to the house.

Falkon turned around, his back against the door as he
glanced at his surroundings. “Goodnight, indeed,” he muttered.

He was roused first thing in the morning. A servant brought
him breakfast. It was hot. It was good. It was filling. He reminded himself
again that things could be worse, that he could be back in the mine, but he had
a hard time convincing himself. A prison was a prison, whether it was a cold
dark cell or a furnished room. And he was damned tired of being locked up.

Twenty minutes later, the door to his hut opened. A man
stood just outside the door. He was close to seven feet tall, with short black
hair, narrow brown eyes, and the biggest hands Falkon had ever seen. A deep
scar scored his right cheek. He wore brown leather pants and a garish green
shirt. He carried a stun gun in a thick leather holster. But it was the controller
that caught and held Falkon’s attention.

“I am Moldaur, in charge of this section of the estate. You
are to report to the barn immediately. Bryson will give you your orders for the
day. Is that clear?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Insolence is not tolerated here,” Moldaur warned. “Do what
you are told, and you will be well-treated. Any trouble you cause will reflect
on me. I do not like slaves who cause me trouble.” He tapped the controller
with his knuckles. “Do so, and you will regret it.”

“I’ve heard the drill before,” Falkon muttered.

“You will return here for the mid-day meal, and again at the
end of the day. Do not be late.”

“Is that all?”

Moldaur let out a sigh. “Remember what I said.”

The Hassrick family had a good eye for horseflesh. Five
blooded mares and two stallions occupied the barn. Horses were rare, and a
luxury few could afford.

He spent the morning mucking the stalls. It was a chore most
found odious; Falkon enjoyed it. He liked the way the barn smelled, the air
filled with the scent of sweet hay and horseflesh and the not totally
unpleasant odor of manure.

At noon, he returned to his cell for the mid-day meal. A
tray awaited him. As soon as he stepped into the cell, the door closed and
locked behind him; thirty minutes later, the door opened.

He returned to the barn, felt a peculiar catch in his throat
when he saw Ashlynne standing inside the doorway. She was wearing a pair of
sleek red pants, soft knee-high black boots, and a long-sleeved white sweater.
He stared at her, trying to recall if he had seen her in pants before, trying
to ignore the heat pooling in his groin. She had her back to him, petting one
of the mares.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” he said quietly.

She turned to face him. “Hello, Number Four,” she said, her
voice carefully devoid of emotion. “Would you saddle this horse for me, please?
I should like to ride.”

“As you wish, my lady.” His gaze caressed her.

“And saddle one for yourself.”

Bryson appeared. “Excuse me, Lady Ashlynne, but he has work
to do.”

Ashlynne spoke without looking at him. “Excuse me, Mr.
Bryson, but Number Four belongs to me. He may work here when I have no need of
him, but he is mine to command, and he will do as I tell him. Is that
understood?”

Bryson cleared his throat. “Lord Hassrick…”

Drawing herself up to her full height, Ashlynne looked at
Bryson. “Lord Hassrick does not own Number Four. I do. And I wish to have him
accompany me.”

A faint flush crept up the man’s neck. “Yes, my lady.” He
inclined his head in a respectful gesture and left the barn.

“Well done, my lady,” Falkon said with a roguish grin.

“Thank you, Number Four,” she replied, happiness bubbling up
inside her at seeing him again, being close to him again.

She watched while he saddles the mare she had chosen, then
saddled another mount for himself.

Moments later, they rode out of the barn. Falkon rode behind
her, as was proper for a servant.

Ashlynne kept her mare to a sedate pace until they were out
of sight of the barn, and then she drummed her heels into the mare’s side.

The horse snorted, bucked, and then shot forward, running
like the wind.

Ashlynne glanced over her shoulder. Falkon was coming up
fast behind her.

“Can’t catch me!” she hollered. She leaned forward, one hand
lightly patting the mare’s neck. “Let’s go, girl!”

They let the horses run until they slowed of their own
accord. Ashlynne drew rein beneath a lacey blue willow tree and slid from the
saddle. Laughing, breathless, she turned to watch Falkon dismount. He was
grinning at her.

“We won!” she exclaimed.

“Hah. We let you win.”

“You did not.”

“Sure we did. Come on, we need to cool the horses out.”

Side by side, they walked across the verdant grass, leading
their mounts.

“I’ve seen whole countries smaller than this place,” Falkon
remarked.

Ashlynne nodded. She had known Niklaus was rich, but this
was far beyond anything she had imagined.

“Does he know where you are?”

“No. He went to a meeting with his father. His mother was
entertaining friends. I pleaded a headache and said I needed some fresh air.”

Reaching over, Falkon took the reins from her hand and
tethered both horses to a tree, and then he drew her into his arms and kissed
her.

With a sigh, she leaned into him, every other thought burned
away by the touch of his lips on hers, the sheer delight of being in his
embrace. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight, felt his
body’s response to her nearness. His lips were warm, his tongue a sweet
invasion that quickened her desire and sent heat curling through her belly.

She moaned softly as his hands slid up and down her back,
delved under her shirt to caress her skin.

“Ashlynne?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

He lowered her to the ground, stretched out beside her, and
drew her into his arms. For a long while, he did nothing but hold her, and then
he kissed her again, gently at first, as if she were a fragile flower that
might wither beneath his heat. But she didn’t want gentleness, not now, not
when it had been days and days since she had been in his arms.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me you love me. That you’ve
missed me as much as I’ve missed you.”

“You know I do,” he replied, his voice husky with desire.

“Tell me.”

“I love you, princess, more than my life.”

She smiled at him. “I used to hate it when you called me
that, you know.”

“I know. Why do you think I did it?”

She punched him on the arm, then rolled on top of him.

“Now what?” he asked, grinning.

“Now this.” She ran her tongue over his lips. “And this,”
she murmured, and kissed him, hungrily, deeply. Desire ran hot and swift
through her veins and she pressed herself against him, wanting him, wanting all
of him.

Sitting up, she tugged at his shirt, drawing it over his
head, tossing it aside.

He looked up at her, one brow raised. “Now you,” he said.

She felt a blush rise in her cheeks as she removed her
sweater, sighed with pleasure as his hands moved over her skin. Rough, callused
hands. Strong hands. Gentle hands.

The rest of their clothing disappeared as if by magic and
then, with a low sexy growl, he tucked her beneath him. His weight was a
welcome burden and she gave herself to him completely, heart and soul, mind and
body. She was his, would always be his.

She closed her eyes, caught up in the wonder of his touch,
the magic of his love. Magny had told her that love between a man and a woman
was the most wonderful thing in the world, but she had never believed it, until
now, had never known that love could be so beautiful, fill her with such a
sweet ache.

Fulfillment washed over her in waves and she cried his name.
Tears welled in her eyes as the love in her heart overflowed and spilled down
her cheeks.

Ashlynne traced lazy circles on his belly. His skin was
warm, his stomach hard and ridged with muscle. She ran her finger over a jagged
scar on his chest. There was another on his left arm, another on his thigh. She
knew the one on his right shoulder was from where the laser had struck him when
he fought the Hodorians. Remembering that brought her parents to mind.

“Hey,” he asked, frowning. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, even as her eyes filled with tears.

He raised on one elbow and gazed down at her. “What’s wrong,
princess?”

She laid her hand over the scar on his right arm, and he
knew what she was thinking, what she was remembering. Muttering an oath, he sat
up and drew her into his arms. She clung to him, her body racked with sobs.

Knowing there were no words he could say that would ease her
pain, he held her tight, one hand lightly stroking her hair, until her sobs
subsided.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “I didn’t mean to cry all
over you.”

“I don’t mind.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I needed a
bath anyway.”

She laughed through her tears, loving him all the more. What
a comfort he was! It was hard to imagine a time when he hadn’t been there for
her.

He brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek, wiped the tears from
her eyes with his fingertips. “We should probably be going back.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know, but sometimes even a princess has to do things she
doesn’t want to.”

He stood up and offered her his hand and when she took it,
he pulled her to her feet, then folded her into his arms and kissed her. And
then he gave her a swat on her bare behind.

“You’d best get dressed right quick,” he said, his voice
gruff, “or we’ll never leave.”

* * * * *

Niklaus was pacing back and forth in front of the barn when
they got back.

“Where the devil have you been?” he demanded as he lifted
Ashlynne from the back of her horse. “I was just about to come looking for
you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”
She smiled up at him. “It’s just so beautiful here, I forgot the time.”

He grunted softly, somewhat mollified by her praise. “Why
did you take him? Slaves aren’t permitted the use of the horses.”

Ashlynne glanced at Falkon, who was unsaddling her mare.
“He’s been a loyal servant,” she said. “At home, he always rode with me, in
case something happened.” It was a bald-faced lie, but it was the only excuse
she could think of.

“I see. And what did you think might happen to you here?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. My father always insisted I
ride with someone in case I was thrown, or my horse stepped in a hole.”