fine
and decent. Surely he deserved whatever he got. Nevertheless, that one moment of hesitation took the
fire from her anger. With a wordless cry of annoyance at her own weakness, she flung the contents of the
glass in his face. He glared at her, water dripping from his nose and chin. Damn, in his own country, no
one would dare treat him like this. He took a step forward, rage boiling up within him, only to halt in
mid-stride as the sound of her laughter filled the air. She was laughing at him! Had he been a free man, he
might have laughed, too. But not now. There was no room in his life for laughter. There was no room for
anything but soul-shattering hatred and bitter regret. Turning on his heel, he stormed down the path. He
vowed not to speak to her again, not to look at her again. He would treat her as if she didn't exist. And
yet, somehow, she seemed to be everywhere. If he was cleaning the stables, she was there, currying her
pretty little chestnut mare. If he was pulling weeds, she was at the other end of the garden, her nose stuck
in a book. If he was chopping wood, she was sitting at her easel, painting. If he was exercising one of the
horses in the corral, she was there, watching him through those wide green eyes. And always, he was
aware of the controller in her hand, of the absolute power of life and death it gave her over him, just as he
was aware of the attraction that hummed between them whenever their eyes met. He wondered if she felt
it, too, if she even knew what it was. So be with me… The words of that blasted poem seemed to echo
in his head whenever he looked at her. Let me have you. Damn! Today, he was mucking out the stalls.
Page 19
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
And she was currying her horse. The groom, Otry, was sleeping in one of the empty stalls. He was an old
man who looked on Falkon's arrival as a godsend. Under other circumstances, Falkon would have liked
the man. In spite of all his good intentions, Falkon couldn't keep from watching the girl, couldn't help but
notice the way her riding pants outlined her long slender legs and shapely thighs, couldn't ignore the swell
of her firm young breasts, or the way her thick silver-blond braid swung back and forth as she brushed
the mare's sleek chestnut coat. He swore under his breath as he dumped a shovelful of manure into a
barrel. It was just that she was a woman, he told himself, and he had been too long without a woman. It
had nothing to do with the soft, slightly husky sound of her voice as she spoke to the mare, nothing to do
with the faint flowery perfume that was noticeable even over the strong scent of manure and horseflesh
that filled the air. He told himself that after months of enforced captivity and celibacy, he would have
responded the same way to any woman, any humanoid female. Right now, even one of the green-skinned
street walkers of Hodore would have looked good to him. Seemingly unaware of his heated gaze, the girl
tossed the currycomb aside and ran her hands over the mare's neck. He watched each movement, each
str oke of her pale slender hands, his imagination running wild as he imagined those slim fingers playing
over his body, massaging his back, sliding seductively along his thigh…. With a violent oath, he turned
away, hating her, hating himself. "You can put Artemis away now." Her voice, feminine yet slightly husky,
carried an inbred note of authority. Born to luxury, she was a young woman who was accustomed to
giving orders and having them obeyed. Unfortunately, he was also accustomed to giving orders, not
taking them. Months of slavery had taught him the futility of disobeying, but it had not made captivity any
easier to bear. It was bad enough to take orders from the overseers and guards at the mine. He would
not take them from her, as well. Hands clenched, he turned around to face her. She met his gaze
squarely, then lifted one hand,
and decent. Surely he deserved whatever he got. Nevertheless, that one moment of hesitation took the
fire from her anger. With a wordless cry of annoyance at her own weakness, she flung the contents of the
glass in his face. He glared at her, water dripping from his nose and chin. Damn, in his own country, no
one would dare treat him like this. He took a step forward, rage boiling up within him, only to halt in
mid-stride as the sound of her laughter filled the air. She was laughing at him! Had he been a free man, he
might have laughed, too. But not now. There was no room in his life for laughter. There was no room for
anything but soul-shattering hatred and bitter regret. Turning on his heel, he stormed down the path. He
vowed not to speak to her again, not to look at her again. He would treat her as if she didn't exist. And
yet, somehow, she seemed to be everywhere. If he was cleaning the stables, she was there, currying her
pretty little chestnut mare. If he was pulling weeds, she was at the other end of the garden, her nose stuck
in a book. If he was chopping wood, she was sitting at her easel, painting. If he was exercising one of the
horses in the corral, she was there, watching him through those wide green eyes. And always, he was
aware of the controller in her hand, of the absolute power of life and death it gave her over him, just as he
was aware of the attraction that hummed between them whenever their eyes met. He wondered if she felt
it, too, if she even knew what it was. So be with me… The words of that blasted poem seemed to echo
in his head whenever he looked at her. Let me have you. Damn! Today, he was mucking out the stalls.
Page 19
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
And she was currying her horse. The groom, Otry, was sleeping in one of the empty stalls. He was an old
man who looked on Falkon's arrival as a godsend. Under other circumstances, Falkon would have liked
the man. In spite of all his good intentions, Falkon couldn't keep from watching the girl, couldn't help but
notice the way her riding pants outlined her long slender legs and shapely thighs, couldn't ignore the swell
of her firm young breasts, or the way her thick silver-blond braid swung back and forth as she brushed
the mare's sleek chestnut coat. He swore under his breath as he dumped a shovelful of manure into a
barrel. It was just that she was a woman, he told himself, and he had been too long without a woman. It
had nothing to do with the soft, slightly husky sound of her voice as she spoke to the mare, nothing to do
with the faint flowery perfume that was noticeable even over the strong scent of manure and horseflesh
that filled the air. He told himself that after months of enforced captivity and celibacy, he would have
responded the same way to any woman, any humanoid female. Right now, even one of the green-skinned
street walkers of Hodore would have looked good to him. Seemingly unaware of his heated gaze, the girl
tossed the currycomb aside and ran her hands over the mare's neck. He watched each movement, each
str oke of her pale slender hands, his imagination running wild as he imagined those slim fingers playing
over his body, massaging his back, sliding seductively along his thigh…. With a violent oath, he turned
away, hating her, hating himself. "You can put Artemis away now." Her voice, feminine yet slightly husky,
carried an inbred note of authority. Born to luxury, she was a young woman who was accustomed to
giving orders and having them obeyed. Unfortunately, he was also accustomed to giving orders, not
taking them. Months of slavery had taught him the futility of disobeying, but it had not made captivity any
easier to bear. It was bad enough to take orders from the overseers and guards at the mine. He would
not take them from her, as well. Hands clenched, he turned around to face her. She met his gaze
squarely, then lifted one hand,
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