She shifted her hold on the controller, saw his expression grow suddenly wary.
Reassured that she was the one in power, she shook her head. This was her favorite place and she would
not be driven away by an insolent slave. "I want to sit here and read." "And I have work to do." "So, do
it." Muttering an oath, Falkon knelt in the dirt and began to weed the patch of spiky blue and lavender
flowers that grew along both sides of the path. Anger churned deep inside him. He was a warrior, not a
gardener. He had been born and raised to give orders, not take them. He was accustomed to fighting,
not digging in the dirt like some Nardian farmer. Fighting, he mused bleakly. If he hadn't been off fighting
another man's battles, his wife and child might still be alive. He wondered if Maiya had gone to her grave
hating him. Guilt and regret warred within him, flaying his soul. He had never been a true husband to
Maiya. Waging war had been his life and what did he have to show for it? His wife and daughter were
dead because of it, and he was a slave on a distant planet. He thrust the bitter memories aside, only to
become aware that he was being watched. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the girl staring down at
him, her eyes wide, as if she were studying some new species of Venusian earthworm. He had a sudden
urge to grab her, to draw her up against him and plunder those pouting pink lips, to prove to her that he
was every inch the savage she thought he was, to prove to himself that he was still a man. Disgust welled
up within him and he turned away, ripping the weeds from the garden with a vengeance, wishing it was as
easy to rip away the guilt that consumed him day and night. Not for the first time, he wondered if he
wouldn't be better off to make them kill him outright and be done with it. Perhaps, in death, he would find
the peace that had eluded him all his life. After thirty minutes, he stood up to stretch the kinks out of his
back and shoulders. Slowly, he turned around, hoping the girl would be gone, but knowing somehow that
she was still there, still watching him. Ashlynne felt her cheeks grow warm as her gaze met his again. She
looked down at her book, but it was impossible to concentrate on the words. Always her gaze strayed
toward the prisoner, to his broad scarred back, to the play of corded muscles rippling beneath his
sundrenched skin. He moved with such fluid ease, such strength. Just watching him did funny things to the
pit of her stomach. Their gazes locked, and for a moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only
stare into his eyes, those beguiling blue-gray eyes that seemed able to penetrate her very soul. A flush
rose in her cheeks. No one had ever dared look at her with such insolence. "What were you doing at the
mine the other night?" he asked. "Nothing. We were just…" She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "Just
having an adventure." "Pretty stupid, wandering around in the middle of the night like that." "I don't think
it's any of your business what I do in the middle of the night, or at any other time," she retorted, and
turned her attention to her book again. He stared at her a moment. If he was smart, he would get the hell
away from her. Spoiled, pampered lady of the manor, she was nothing but trouble, and he had trouble
enough. "What are you reading?" She looked up, her gaze meeting his once again. "Excuse me?" "I asked
what you're reading?" "A book." Before she could stop him, he plucked it from her hand. "Give me that!"
She made a grab for it, but he held it out of her reach. With a disdainful sniff, she sat down again. "You
probably can't read anyway." He glared at her, then glanced at the title of the book. "Poetry?" She felt a
flush rise in her cheeks. Meardon was an old-world poet, and one of her favorites. Her mother had
forbidden her to read his works, declaring that most of his poetry was too suggestive for a girl her age,
but Magny had bought her a
Reassured that she was the one in power, she shook her head. This was her favorite place and she would
not be driven away by an insolent slave. "I want to sit here and read." "And I have work to do." "So, do
it." Muttering an oath, Falkon knelt in the dirt and began to weed the patch of spiky blue and lavender
flowers that grew along both sides of the path. Anger churned deep inside him. He was a warrior, not a
gardener. He had been born and raised to give orders, not take them. He was accustomed to fighting,
not digging in the dirt like some Nardian farmer. Fighting, he mused bleakly. If he hadn't been off fighting
another man's battles, his wife and child might still be alive. He wondered if Maiya had gone to her grave
hating him. Guilt and regret warred within him, flaying his soul. He had never been a true husband to
Maiya. Waging war had been his life and what did he have to show for it? His wife and daughter were
dead because of it, and he was a slave on a distant planet. He thrust the bitter memories aside, only to
become aware that he was being watched. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the girl staring down at
him, her eyes wide, as if she were studying some new species of Venusian earthworm. He had a sudden
urge to grab her, to draw her up against him and plunder those pouting pink lips, to prove to her that he
was every inch the savage she thought he was, to prove to himself that he was still a man. Disgust welled
up within him and he turned away, ripping the weeds from the garden with a vengeance, wishing it was as
easy to rip away the guilt that consumed him day and night. Not for the first time, he wondered if he
wouldn't be better off to make them kill him outright and be done with it. Perhaps, in death, he would find
the peace that had eluded him all his life. After thirty minutes, he stood up to stretch the kinks out of his
back and shoulders. Slowly, he turned around, hoping the girl would be gone, but knowing somehow that
she was still there, still watching him. Ashlynne felt her cheeks grow warm as her gaze met his again. She
looked down at her book, but it was impossible to concentrate on the words. Always her gaze strayed
toward the prisoner, to his broad scarred back, to the play of corded muscles rippling beneath his
sundrenched skin. He moved with such fluid ease, such strength. Just watching him did funny things to the
pit of her stomach. Their gazes locked, and for a moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only
stare into his eyes, those beguiling blue-gray eyes that seemed able to penetrate her very soul. A flush
rose in her cheeks. No one had ever dared look at her with such insolence. "What were you doing at the
mine the other night?" he asked. "Nothing. We were just…" She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "Just
having an adventure." "Pretty stupid, wandering around in the middle of the night like that." "I don't think
it's any of your business what I do in the middle of the night, or at any other time," she retorted, and
turned her attention to her book again. He stared at her a moment. If he was smart, he would get the hell
away from her. Spoiled, pampered lady of the manor, she was nothing but trouble, and he had trouble
enough. "What are you reading?" She looked up, her gaze meeting his once again. "Excuse me?" "I asked
what you're reading?" "A book." Before she could stop him, he plucked it from her hand. "Give me that!"
She made a grab for it, but he held it out of her reach. With a disdainful sniff, she sat down again. "You
probably can't read anyway." He glared at her, then glanced at the title of the book. "Poetry?" She felt a
flush rise in her cheeks. Meardon was an old-world poet, and one of her favorites. Her mother had
forbidden her to read his works, declaring that most of his poetry was too suggestive for a girl her age,
but Magny had bought her a
Similar Books
