The Captive (8 page)

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.

“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 old man
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 hateful.

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.

“So,” Magny said. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“You know who? 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.” She 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 bur 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 the 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 paint.

Falkon reined the stallion to a walk, conscious of the two
girls standing on 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.

Falkon swore under his breath as the stallion made a quick
turn, felt his heart plummet as Ashlynne toppled over the horse’s rump. The
stallion fled to the far side of the corral, head high, eyes wild.

“Lynnie!” Magny ducked through the rails, only to be pulled
up short by Falkon.

“Stay here,” he said brusquely. “Otry! Get that damn blanket
out of here!” He was running toward Ashlynne as he spoke, his heart pounding
with fear as he knelt beside her. Damn!

She was lying face down, unmoving, her eyes closed. His
hands were trembling as he ran them over her arms, down her legs. Nothing
seemed to be broken. He tunneled his fingers through the heavy mass of her
hair, marveling at its softness as he checked her head for swelling.

He was wondering if he should try to turn her over when her
eyelids fluttered open.

Ashlynne blinked and blinked again, felt her cheeks grow hot
as she realized what had happened. She had been thrown. And he had seen it.

She started to get up, but Number Four placed a hand on her
shoulder, holding her down. “Are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Of course I’m all right.” She pushed his hand away and sat
up, her heart pounding at his nearness.

“Here now! What the hell is going on?”

Falkon glanced over his shoulder, swore under his breath
when he saw Ashlynne’s father striding toward them, his face contorted with
rage.

“She was thrown, Mr. Marcus,” Magny explained quickly.

The anger on Marcus’ face turned to concern as he entered
the corral and ran toward his daughter. “Ashlynne!”

“I’m fine, Father.” She held out her hands and her father
lifted her to her feet.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he asked anxiously.

“It was all my fault, Lord Marcus.” Otry shuffled into the
corral, his rheumy old eyes filled with fear as he faced his employer.

“It’s all right, Otry,” Ashlynne said, brushing the dirt
from her clothes.

“What happened, Otry?” Marcus asked.

“Father, it wasn’t his fault at all. I should have been
paying more attention.” And she would have been, if she hadn’t been showing off
for Number Four. “I’m fine, really.” She looked up at her father and smiled.
“Nothing badly bruised but my ego.”

Marcus frowned at her, and then laughed. “Come along, let’s
go up to the house.” He brushed a bit of dirt from her cheek. “You’ll want to
clean up before dinner. And for goodness sakes, don’t say anything about this
to your mother.”

With a nod, Ashlynne slipped her arm around her father’s
waist and they left the corral.

Magny fell into step beside them. “See, Lynnie?” she said.
“See why I don’t ride? You could have been killed.”

“Don’t be silly, Mag. That’s not the first time I’ve fallen
off a horse, and it probably won’t be the last.”

Marcus looked at Magny and grinned. “We’ll get you on a horse
one of these days,” he predicted. “Just wait and see.”

Ashlynne fought the urge to glance over her shoulder. She
could feel Number Four watching her. Warmth flooded her cheeks as she recalled
the touch of his hands skimming over her arms and legs, the touch of his
fingers moving ever so gently in her hair. Maybe it was a good thing that she
was going to Trellis next week, she mused, before she did something really
stupid, like throw herself into his arms. She had a feeling Number Four was far
more dangerous to her health, and her peace of mind, than a stallion that was
still half-wild.