VirtualHeaven by Ann Lawrence Page A

edge to her voice.
“You are the most vile cur. You have no manners despite your snotty-sounding
speech. You have no consideration for women. We have been marching along for
hours. Don’t you have to-to-to answer a call of nature?”
    Kered became aware of her fidgeting, her flushed face. He
moved closer, fascinated by the change of color on her cheeks. He almost
reached out and touched her, but restrained himself. Then understanding dawned.
    “I see. You are a slave.” He crossed his arms on his chest
and nodded sagely.
    “What does that have to do with this?” Maggie snarled.
    “Slaves never reach the seventh level of awareness. More
proof.”
    Maggie gritted her teeth. “What is the seventh level of
awareness?’’
    “It is a level of control over one’s mind and body. I can
control those needs until a more appropriate place and time. Slaves never care
to take the time to learn such control. Women slaves especially.”
    Maggie twisted her hands in her skirts as her need became
urgent. “Look. We could argue—”
    “I do not argue with slaves.”
    “But I need to go now!”
    “I will turn my back. ‘Tis the best I can offer.”
    At that moment, Maggie really didn’t care if he watched. She
motioned for him to turn around.
    A huge grin lit his face. At any other time, Maggie would
have been felled by the effect. The damn man had dimples—two—symmetrically
placed, of course!
    Kered shouldered his pack and strode off across the dusty
plain. Maggie somehow knew he would not look back. When she was finished, she
ran to catch up with him. Breathing hard, she passed him, turned, and jogged
backward for a moment. He arched a brow at her, but continued his relentless
pace.
    “What’s your hurry?” Maggie asked.
    “Get behind me, slave.”
    “Cur.”
    “My name is Kered. Diminution of a name is
disrespectful—punishable by flogging.”
    Maggie stopped moving, fisted her hands on her hips, and
began to laugh.
    Kered halted. His swift pace carried him past her and he
needed to turn back. She bent at the waist and laughed harder.
    “What amuses you so?” He strode back to her, his voice
rising again to a shout.
    “I wasn’t shortening your name! I was calling you a cur.
C-U-R.”
    “What is a cur, pray tell?” he asked, puzzled, dropping his
pack once more and raising a cloud of dust.
    “A mangy, mean-spirited, ill-bred mutt!” Maggie spat out.
    Kered slapped the sleeve that concealed his arm rings. “I am
far from ill-bred.”
    “Ah-hah! So you admit, at least, that you are mean-spirited
and mangy!”
    “I am not…any of those things,” he sputtered. “We have no
time for this, slave.” Kered swept a hand to the heavens. “The sun will set,
and you do not wish to be here on The Scorched Plain when darkness falls.”
    A prickle of fear crept down Maggie’s spine. The Scorched
Plain . She nodded and gestured him onward. He bent to pick up his pack, but
paused.
    “Your feet.” He knelt by her and lifted her right foot, his
fingers skimming over the delicate black shoe, a frown creasing his otherwise
perfect skin.
    Teetering and off-balance, Maggie grabbed his shoulders.
Rock slabs. Mesas of shoulders.
    “Sit,” he ordered.
    Maggie sat. She had little choice with one foot aloft and
him twisting it in the air. Flailing her arms, she fell on her rear. “Yikes.”
    Kered drew his knife from the leather scabbard strapped to
his thigh, and Maggie gulped back any other thought of chastising him for his
treatment. The blade had a small, dark splotch staining it on the hilt, an ugly
reminder of his knife fight. In one swift movement, Kered sliced a wide strip
from his cloak. He sheathed his knife and searched through his pack. The object
he withdrew resembled an awl.
    Maggie’s mouth gaped as Kered folded himself into a
cross-legged posture. He poked holes and slashed at the fur-lined strip,
cutting it into two pieces. Occasionally he held the strips of cloak up for
inspection, moving them close to