proud of his many accomplishments, of the fact that he had been decorated for bravery above and
beyond the call of duty. She handed him the stallion's reins, and he swung into the saddle effortlessly,
gracefully. "Ready for that gallop on the beach?" he asked. "Yes, sir!" She glanced back at the
compound. The prisoners had been returned to their cells. "Did you make a choice, Father?" "We'll talk
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of it later," he said, and touching his heels to the stallion's flanks, he raced over the bridge and headed for
the beach. With a wild cry, Ashlynne sent her mare after the horse, delighting in the heady sense of
freedom that engulfed her as they raced across the hot golden sand, reveling in the wind in her face and
the scent of the sea, the thundering power of the chestnut mare. Leaning low over the mare's neck, she
drummed her heels against the mare's flanks. "Let's go, girl!" she cried, and let out a shout as the horse
jumped a large piece of driftwood. Oh, to be free! To be able to ride forever. To be able to live her life
as she pleased. To pick a man of her own choosing, a man with long black hair and eyes as turbulent as a
storm-tossed sea… Why couldn't she get that man out of her mind? "Did you find a slave that suited you,
Father?" Her father had won the race, and now they were sitting on a patch of grass near the shore while
the horses rested. It was a pretty spot. She loved the sound of the ocean, could sit for hours watching the
waves lap at the shore. Tiny little birds with gold-and-black wings scurried along the sand, chirping
merrily. Marcus nodded. "I believe so. Parah tells me the man has caused some trouble in the past, but
he seems fit and appears to have been brought to heel." He shook his head ruefully. "Not much of a
choice, really. So many of them lose the will to live after a few months in the mine." "Does the man you've
chosen know horses?" "He claims to." Ashlynne plucked a long blade of grass and twirled it between her
thumb and forefinger. There was no way to ask if it was Number Four, not without fear of revealing that
she knew more about the man than she should. "Well, shall we go?" Marcus asked. He stood up and
offered Ashlynne his hand. "Midday meal should be ready by now, and you know how your mother
hates for us to be late." With a smile, Ashlynne took her father's hand and let him pull her to her feet. She
would find out soon enough who her father had chosen. Until she knew, she could hope. And then she
frowned. What if her father did pick Number Four? And what if Number Four told her father about her
little adventure with Magny the other night? Her father rarely got angry with her, but she had never
forgotten the few times that he had. She told herself she was worrying needlessly. There was no reason
for Number Four to mention it, no reason at all, but try as she might, she couldn't put the thought out of
her mind. Her father had warned her that she wouldn't be allowed to see Magny if they got into any more
mischief. And she had a feeling that her father would consider sneaking down to the mine in the middle of
the night much worse than any of their other pranks. Suddenly, she hoped he hadn't chosen Number
Four at all.
Chapter Six
Falkon stood in the center of the floor, his gaze roaming around the room. It was sparsely furnished,
containing only a narrow bed covered with a light brown spread, a small square table and a single chair.
The walls, painted a muted shade of sea green, were bare of any decoration. There was a small window
covered with a dark green shade. Still, his new quarters seemed like an abode fit for a king compared to
the cell he had left only a short while ago. And yet it was still a prison. He lifted a hand to the thick collar
around his neck. And he was still a prisoner. Muttering an oath, he began to pace the floor, his footsteps
muffled by a deep
beyond the call of duty. She handed him the stallion's reins, and he swung into the saddle effortlessly,
gracefully. "Ready for that gallop on the beach?" he asked. "Yes, sir!" She glanced back at the
compound. The prisoners had been returned to their cells. "Did you make a choice, Father?" "We'll talk
Page 15
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
of it later," he said, and touching his heels to the stallion's flanks, he raced over the bridge and headed for
the beach. With a wild cry, Ashlynne sent her mare after the horse, delighting in the heady sense of
freedom that engulfed her as they raced across the hot golden sand, reveling in the wind in her face and
the scent of the sea, the thundering power of the chestnut mare. Leaning low over the mare's neck, she
drummed her heels against the mare's flanks. "Let's go, girl!" she cried, and let out a shout as the horse
jumped a large piece of driftwood. Oh, to be free! To be able to ride forever. To be able to live her life
as she pleased. To pick a man of her own choosing, a man with long black hair and eyes as turbulent as a
storm-tossed sea… Why couldn't she get that man out of her mind? "Did you find a slave that suited you,
Father?" Her father had won the race, and now they were sitting on a patch of grass near the shore while
the horses rested. It was a pretty spot. She loved the sound of the ocean, could sit for hours watching the
waves lap at the shore. Tiny little birds with gold-and-black wings scurried along the sand, chirping
merrily. Marcus nodded. "I believe so. Parah tells me the man has caused some trouble in the past, but
he seems fit and appears to have been brought to heel." He shook his head ruefully. "Not much of a
choice, really. So many of them lose the will to live after a few months in the mine." "Does the man you've
chosen know horses?" "He claims to." Ashlynne plucked a long blade of grass and twirled it between her
thumb and forefinger. There was no way to ask if it was Number Four, not without fear of revealing that
she knew more about the man than she should. "Well, shall we go?" Marcus asked. He stood up and
offered Ashlynne his hand. "Midday meal should be ready by now, and you know how your mother
hates for us to be late." With a smile, Ashlynne took her father's hand and let him pull her to her feet. She
would find out soon enough who her father had chosen. Until she knew, she could hope. And then she
frowned. What if her father did pick Number Four? And what if Number Four told her father about her
little adventure with Magny the other night? Her father rarely got angry with her, but she had never
forgotten the few times that he had. She told herself she was worrying needlessly. There was no reason
for Number Four to mention it, no reason at all, but try as she might, she couldn't put the thought out of
her mind. Her father had warned her that she wouldn't be allowed to see Magny if they got into any more
mischief. And she had a feeling that her father would consider sneaking down to the mine in the middle of
the night much worse than any of their other pranks. Suddenly, she hoped he hadn't chosen Number
Four at all.
Chapter Six
Falkon stood in the center of the floor, his gaze roaming around the room. It was sparsely furnished,
containing only a narrow bed covered with a light brown spread, a small square table and a single chair.
The walls, painted a muted shade of sea green, were bare of any decoration. There was a small window
covered with a dark green shade. Still, his new quarters seemed like an abode fit for a king compared to
the cell he had left only a short while ago. And yet it was still a prison. He lifted a hand to the thick collar
around his neck. And he was still a prisoner. Muttering an oath, he began to pace the floor, his footsteps
muffled by a deep
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