The Captive Page 7

  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 and 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 near the small man-made lake 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 lake.

  The water was cool, but not cold and he swam from one end of the lake 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 were polluting our lake.”

  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 lake 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 lake,” 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 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 lake 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 the 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 which 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, black bitter 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 Tier
de, were a cheap source of proteins and carbohydrates. The taste was similar to the mushrooms found on Daccar, a constant reminder 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 brook 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.”

  “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, a collarless dark blue shirt, with a large silver tray Meggie handed to him and carried it into the dining room.

  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. The table, made of black teak, was the longest he had ever seen. Gauze-like curtains were drawn back from the window, affording a view of the lamp-lit gardens beyond. Sixty men and women attired in costly raiment sat at two long 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, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she hid a laugh behind her napkin.

  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’ 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 overhead, 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 signing of a new peace treaty between Tierde and Romariz.

  There was no representative from Daccar, but that was to be expected. Daccar was not neutral but, unlike Riga Twelve, Ohnmahr and 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 in hopes that this new treaty will indeed allow us to keep the peace we have enjoyed in the past. 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 they should be admitted, 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 Jadeline.” 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 intervals.

  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 it in 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 who she did it with.

  At Marcus’ 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 holler 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 heels 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. She 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.