Free The Captive by Amanda Ashley Page B

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, 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 state of a 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-blonde
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 near the small man-made lake 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
lake.
    The water was cool, but not cold and he swam from one end of
the lake 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 seeing the sun, never feeling its warmth on his skin. His people
were a wild, untamed race who lived most of their lives outdoors.
    Eyes closed, buoyed up in the arms of the water, he lost
track of time and place, until a gasp of startled surprise brought him tumbling
back to the present.
    Treading water, he turned toward the sound, grimacing when
he saw Ashlynne standing near the edge of the lake.
    “What do you want?” he asked curtly.
    “My privacy, if