The Captive

"So," Magny said. "Where is he?"



"Who?"



"You know, Number Four."



"I think he's down at the stable."



"Well," Magny said, bounding out of her chair. "What are we sitting in here for?"



Ashlynne rolled her eyes. "Really, Mag, who did you come here to see, me or him?"



"Well..." Magny scrunched up her face as if she was giving it some serious thought, and then laughed. "You, of course. After all, you're leaving next week."



"Don't remind me."



"You may as well make the best of it," Magny said.



"I don't want to make the best of it!"



"I know, Lynnie. I'm sorry." Magny blew out an exaggerated sigh, her hands clasped over her heart. "It's so difficult being a woman."



Ashlynne burst out laughing, amused, as always, by Magnys theatrics.



"What would I do without you?"



"I can't imagine."



"Me, either."



"Good. Now, can we go look for Number Four?"



They found him in the corral, exercising a new stallion Ashlynne's father had purchased from a breeder on Earth. It was her father's intention to breed Artemis and the stallion. It was a beautiful horse, seventeen hands high, with a sleek coat the color of burnished copper and the long clean lines of a Thoroughbred. But Ashlynne had eyes only for Number Four. As usual, he wasn't wearing his shirt, just a pair of indecently snug breeches, and a pair of scuffed boots. The sun seemed to caress his flesh, leaving a fine sheen of perspiration behind.



"Oh," Magny murmured. "Isn't he beautiful?"



"You mean the horse, of course," Ashlynne said dryly.



Magny elbowed her in the ribs. "Of course. But you must admit, the man is beautiful, too."



He was, but Ashlynne wouldn't have admitted it for anything in the world.



The horse was still a little wild, and when Number Four urged the stallion into a lope, the horse began to buck.



They made quite a pair, she thought, the wild horse and the wilder man.



Number Four stuck to the horse's back like a burr from a sticker bush, apparently anticipating every move the animal was going to make.



After several minutes of intense bucking, the stallion gave up the fight.



With a toss of its head, it settled down and loped around the corral. It was a beautiful sight, she mused, the stallion moving with liquid grace, its stride long and smooth, its mane and tail flowing in the breeze. But it was the man



who took her breath away. It was easy to see that he loved riding, that it gave him the same sense of freedom and exhilaration it gave her. He rode easily, his body moving in perfect rhythm with the stallion's. She hadn't felt like painting in weeks, but she would paint Number Four, she thought with growing excitement, paint him as he looked now, with his body sheened with perspiration and his long black hair flying wild. She tilted her head to one side, remembering a book of paintings in her father's library. One of them was a photograph of an Indian warrior from Old Earth. That was what Number Four reminded her of, a wild savage. And that was how she would paint him, she thought - barechested, with feathers in his hair and his face streaked with war paint.



Falkon reined the stallion to a walk, conscious of the two girls standing at the corral fence, their arms folded over the top rail. He spared hardly a glance for the dark-haired girl. Parah's daughter. She was a pretty thing, a constant reminder to the slaves in the mine of all they had lost. He had heard the other men whispering about her down in the mine from time to time, spinning wild fantasies of what they would do to her if they ever caught her alone. He hoped, for her sake, they never did.



But it was the silver-haired girl who drew his gaze. They were like day and night, he mused, and he preferred the heat of the sun to the cool of the night. It was the fair Lady Ashlynne who filled his every waking thought, the memory of her hands on his skin that kept him tossing and turning in his bed at night.



He reined the stallion to a halt in front of her, a challenge in his eyes.



"Care to try him?"



"Of course," she replied.



"Lynnie, do you think you should?" Magny shared Jadeleine's fear and mistrust of horses.



"Oh, Mag, don't be silly." Ashlynne handed the controller to Magny and slipped through the rails.



Falkon dismounted, holding the stallion's reins while Ashlynne stepped into the saddle and settled her skirts around her.



She looked down at him, her insides all aflutter at his nearness. She clenched her hands to keep from reaching for him, tempted to run her fingers over his chest, to brush a lock of hair from his brow.



"Adjust the stirrups, Number Four," she ordered. "They're too long."



He regarded her insolently for a moment, then did as she asked.



When he was finished, she held out her hand and he passed her the reins.



His fingers brushed hers, sending frissons of heat dancing over her skin.



"He's a little skittish," Falkon remarked, "and a little hard-mouthed."



"I don't need you to tell me that," she retorted, her voice frosty.



Falkon gave the horse a gentle slap on the rump. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."



He rested one shoulder against the corral as she clucked to the stallion.



With a shake of its head, the horse broke into a trot.



Falkon watched her, wondering if he should have let her ride. She looked incredibly tiny on the back of the stallion, yet he had to admit she looked very much at ease in the saddle as she put the big stud through its paces.



She was, he thought, a natural-born horsewoman.



Ashlynne reined the horse to a halt in front of Magny. "Are you sure you don't want to try him?"



Magny shook her head. "Not me."



"Mag, it would be such fun if we could go riding together. You could ride the old nag my father bought for my mother. He's too old and lazy to do anything but walk."



Magny shook her head again. "No. I like having my feet on the ground, thank you very much."



With a sigh of exasperation, Ashlynne wheeled the stallion around and touched her heels to its flanks. Just then, old Otry came out of the barn, shaking the dust out of one of the horse blankets.



The sudden flapping noise, combined with the waving blanket, spooked the stallion and it raced toward the opposite side of the corral, bucking wildly all the way.



Falkon swore under his breath as the stallion made a quick turn; he felt his heart plummet as Ashlynne toppled over the horse's rump. The stallion fled to the far side of the corral, head high, eyes wild.



"Lynnie!" Magny ducked through the rails, only to be pulled up short by Falkon.



"Stay here," he said brusquely. "Otry! Get that damn blanket out of here!" He was running toward Ashlynne as he spoke, his heart pounding with fear as he knelt beside her. Damn! She was lying facedown, unmoving, her eyes closed. His hands were trembling as he ran them over her arms, down her legs. Nothing seemed to be broken. He tunneled his fingers through the heavy mass of her hair, marveling at its softness as he checked her head for swelling.



He was wondering if he should try to turn her over when her eyelids fluttered open.



Ashlynne blinked and blinked again, felt her cheeks grow hot as she realized what had happened. She had been thrown. And he had seen it.



She started to get up, but Number Four placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her down. "Are you all right? Do you hurt anywhere?"



"Of course I'm all right." She pushed his hand away and sat up, her heart pounding at his nearness.



"Here now! What the hell is going on?"



Falkon glanced over his shoulder, swore under his breath when he saw Ashlynne's father striding toward them, his face contorted with rage.



"She was thrown, Mr. Myrafloures," Magny explained quickly.



The anger on Marcus's face turned to concern as he entered the corral and ran toward his daughter. "Ashlynne!"



"I'm fine, Father." She held out her hands and her father lifted her to her feet.



"Are you sure you're not hurt?" he asked anxiously.



"It was all my fault, Lord Marcus." Otry shuffled into the corral, his rheumy old eyes filled with fear as he faced his employer.



"It's all right, Otry," Ashlynne said, brushing the dirt from her clothes.



"What happened, Otry?" Marcus asked.



"Father, it wasn't his fault at all. I should have been paying more attention." And she would have been, if she hadn't been showing off for



Number Four. "I'm fine, really." She looked up at her father and smiled.



"Nothing badly bruised but my ego."



Marcus frowned at her, and then laughed. "Come along, let's go up to the house." He brushed a bit of dirt from her cheek. "You'll want to clean up before dinner. And for goodness sake, don't say anything about this to your mother."



With a nod, Ashlynne slipped her arm around her father's waist and they left the corral.



Magny fell into step beside them. "See, Lynnie?" she said. "See why I don't ride? You could have been killed."



"Don't be silly, Mag. That's not the first time I've fallen off a horse, and it probably won't be the last."



Marcus looked at Magny and grinned. "We'll get you on a horse one of these days," he predicted. "Just wait and see."



Ashlynne fought the urge to glance over her shoulder. She could feel Number Four watching her. Warmth flooded her cheeks as she recalled the touch of his hands skimming over her arms and legs, the touch of his fingers moving ever so gently in her hair.



Maybe it was a good thing that she was going to Trellis next week, she mused, before she did something really stupid, like throw herself into his arms. She had a feeling Number Four was far more dangerous to her health, and her peace of mind, than a stallion that was still half-wild.