Free Quick, Amanda by The Captive Page B

to use that hellish
    controller. In spite of his threat to reveal her midnight stroll, he had fully expected her to report his
    disobedience to her father. At best, he had expected to be whipped for his insolent behavior. At the
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    worst, he had expected to be returned to the mine. Last night, he had paced his room, waiting for her
    father to appear to mete out his punishment. But none had been forthcoming, and he realized she hadn't
    said anything about what had occurred between them. He should have been grateful. Perversely, it only
    made him hate her the more. He had no desire to be in her debt. He slammed his fist into the wall again,
    relishing the pain that exploded through his hand. How he hated her! How he would love to get his hands
    around her throat. How he would love to get his hands on her… Thoughts of touching her drove the
    anger from his mind. What would it be like, to hold her in his arms, to taste those pouting pink lips just
    once? He swore under his breath as visions of Ashlynne swam through his mind. He hadn't seen her for
    several days, but every night her image invaded his dreams, beckoning him, teasing him, smiling at him
    until he woke in a state of painful arousal, his heart pounding, his body bathed with perspiration. He
    refused to acknowledge that he wanted her. It was merely that he needed a woman. Any woman. He
    didn't care if she had silver-blond hair, orange hair, or no hair at all. He didn't care if her lips were the
    pale pink of a wild rose or as black as the bowels of the mine, didn't care if her eyes were as green and
    clear as the depths of the ocean, or muddy brown and crossed. All he wanted was a female to ease his
    desire, a woman to sate his lust. Someone, anyone, who would drive the spoiled, pampered, damnably
    beautiful Lady Ashlynne from his mind and dreams. He turned around as the door to his room slid open.
    Ashlynne's father stood there attired in a white silkspun shirt, a pair of gray woolen slacks, and a pair of
    calf-high leather boots polished to such a high shine Falkon could see his reflection in them. "We are
    hosting a small dinner party tomorrow night," Marcus said. "I want the grounds to be in perfect order by
    then." Falkon nodded. "My wife has purchased several new flowering shrubs and trees to replace those
    lost in the last storm. They will need to be planted." Again, Falkon nodded. Marcus frowned, annoyed by
    the slave's mute insolence. "You will start first thing in the morning." Without waiting for an answer, he
    pivoted with military precision and left the room. Falkon stared at the closed door; then, with a wordless
    cry of rage, he slammed his fists against the portal. He was at work early the following day. Keeping his
    mind carefully blank, he planted the trees and shrubs the lady of the house had purchased, then pruned
    the hedges and trimmed the foliage. To his dismay, Ashlynne was in residence in the garden, her nose
    buried in a book, the controller close at hand. He took one look at her and went to work in another part
    of the yard. He spent all that day toiling in the vast yard and gardens, his mind carefully blank as he raked
    the leaves. Late in the afternoon, his back weary, his body covered with perspiration, he paused to rest
    by the small man-made pond near the west wall. He was given water for washing each night; once a
    week he was permitted to take a bath in a small round tub barely large enough to hold him. He stared
    into the deep blue pool for several moments and then, unable to resist its lure, he shucked his clothes and
    dived into the pond. The water was cool, but not cold and he swam from one end of the pond to the
    other, reveling in the illusion of freedom it gave him. He swam for several minutes, then floated on his
    back, basking in the touch of the sun on his face and chest. He had hated being forced to labor down in
    the mine, hated never