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 ignore 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.
Today, he was mucking out the stalls. 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 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-blonde braid swung back and
forth as she brushed the mare’s sleek chestnut coat.
He swore under his breath as he dumped a shovel full 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
curry comb aside and ran her hands over the mare’s neck.
He watched each movement, each stroke 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. 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, offering
him the mare’s lead rope.
She frowned when he made no move to take it.”Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I’m through here, for now. You may put Artemis in her
stall.”
“May I?”
Ashlynne frowned. “Are you going to put my horse away, or
not?”
Fighting the urge to grab the rope and wrap it around her
pretty little neck, Falkon took a deep breath, then reached for the lead.
Ashlynne stared at Number Four’s hand. His palm was callused
and smudged with dirt, his fingers were long and brown and
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 ignore 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.
Today, he was mucking out the stalls. 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 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-blonde braid swung back and
forth as she brushed the mare’s sleek chestnut coat.
He swore under his breath as he dumped a shovel full 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
curry comb aside and ran her hands over the mare’s neck.
He watched each movement, each stroke 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. 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, offering
him the mare’s lead rope.
She frowned when he made no move to take it.”Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I’m through here, for now. You may put Artemis in her
stall.”
“May I?”
Ashlynne frowned. “Are you going to put my horse away, or
not?”
Fighting the urge to grab the rope and wrap it around her
pretty little neck, Falkon took a deep breath, then reached for the lead.
Ashlynne stared at Number Four’s hand. His palm was callused
and smudged with dirt, his fingers were long and brown and
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