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 for it. 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 was 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 sun-drenched skin. He moved
with such fluid ease, such strength, just watching him did funny things in 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
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 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 copy the last time she went to Partha.
“What’s wrong with poetry?” she asked defensively.
He shrugged. “Nothing. I like it.”
“You?”
His gaze settled on her, a challenge in their blue-gray
depths. “Why not me?”
“No reason, I just didn’t think…”
“Didn’t think what? That a barbarian like me could
appreciate it?”
“Well, yes, something
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 for it. 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 was 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 sun-drenched skin. He moved
with such fluid ease, such strength, just watching him did funny things in 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
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 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 copy the last time she went to Partha.
“What’s wrong with poetry?” she asked defensively.
He shrugged. “Nothing. I like it.”
“You?”
His gaze settled on her, a challenge in their blue-gray
depths. “Why not me?”
“No reason, I just didn’t think…”
“Didn’t think what? That a barbarian like me could
appreciate it?”
“Well, yes, something
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