Slavemaster's Woman, The (17 page)

Tarken’s mouth twisted with disgust. “To use
a small and innocent child is repulsive.” He looked away from her,
staring at nothing in particular but then he shook his head and
sighed, his attention returning to her. “Think, Cushla. You must
remember something more about what your father did for the
king.”

“Why is this so important to you,
slavemaster?” Did she really want to conjure up old, painful
memories? “What does it matter now? It isn’t as if knowing the
truth will set me free.”

“Just think, Cushla. Whether you believe it
or not I am a man of integrity and your purchase reeks with
deception. The king is up to something and I sense it isn’t
good.”

Struggling with her memories, she allowed
pictures from her youth to flow free, and then she remembered
something. “The king, when he was ill…”

“Ill?” Tarken tipped his head
inquisitively.

“Medic.” Cushla looked over at him. “Yes, he
was a personal medic to the king and a…” Cushla’s gaze dropped and
her eyes darted back and forth and then she mouthed a word, a large
word. She repeated it silently several times before actually
speaking it aloud. “Bio—something. Biophys…biophysicist. Yes,
that’s the word. When I was small, I used to practice saying it, so
I could pronounce it correctly. It’s been so long since I’ve even
said the word.”

“Impressive,” Tarken commented.

Cushla shrugged slightly. “He’s a smart
man.”

“I was referring to you, Cushla, and the
persistence you had as a child. It’s a resolve that has obviously
carried through to your life as an adult. It also explains your
exceptional knowledge of terms back there.” He tipped his head in
the direction of the medical building.

“My father taught much to me.” Again, she
shrugged. “Much I learned from books, and I had one master who
allowed me access to his library. He was the closest I ever came to
actually liking a master.”

“I suspected you were well too educated for
a mere…”

Cushla angled her head to look at him. Her
brow wrinkled causing her eyes to narrow. “A mere what Tarken? A
slave?”

“I was in error to assume you lacked
education. It’s an admirable quality and desirable for the right
owner.”

“Are you complimenting me, slavemaster?”

Tarken smiled softly. “I find intelligence
and the ability to use that intelligence wisely an admirable thing,
yes.”

“Then you would be wise to remember my
intelligence. Or else you may underestimate your foe.”

“Is that what you are, Cushla?” Tarken
leaned into her, his form nearly curving over her, forcing her to
tip her head back at an excessive angle just to see his face. “My
foe?”

“No, master. I am a mere slave.” She
smirked, her grin wily.

Tarken chuckled. “Your arrogance is much too
elevated for me to believe you think of yourself as such. You are
not a
mere
anything.” His amused expression then faded,
becoming more pensive. “Tell, me Cushla, for what reason did this
favored owner return you to the slave trader?”

“He was old. He died.” Biting off another
piece of the bread, she chewed a few times and then swallowed. “His
son, his successor was…” Her voice trailed off, and she stopped
speaking.

Tarken probed her further. “His son owned
you next?”

Cushla blinked, and then swallowed. She
blinked again and then jerked her head, attempting to shake off the
memory. She inhaled sharply, and blew it out harshly. “His father
found no favor with him, and left him nothing. He was of no means,
so he returned me. That is all.”

At first, Tarken said nothing. He settled
back into his seat putting only a small space between them. He
continued to stare at her.

Cushla however, kept her eyes forward,
refusing to gaze at him, refusing to give him any clue to what she
was thinking about—feeling.

“You’re skirting some truth,” he finally
commented.

“Am I?” She turned to look at him. “What
causes you to believe as such?”

“You’re trembling, Cushla.”

It was true. She was trembling, although
Cushla was unaware of it until he mentioned it. Gazing down at her
hands, she clamped them together and steeled her nerves, willing
her body to stop. Even after many solars, some things were not
easily forgotten, but the slavemaster—Mecor’s ally was the last
person she wished to know what she’d failed to have forgotten.

“What about your mother? Did she hold a
position of importance on Buranis?”

Inwardly, Cushla groaned, silently begging
him to stop the interrogation. This time, she was unable to
disguise the emotions of anguish that tore through her insides. “I
don’t wish to speak about my mother.” She snapped at him, hoping
the pain hadn’t spread to her face.

Tarken studied her for what seemed like an
eternity.

She felt raw and exposed even though she
offered him nothing. She would tell him nothing, no matter how much
he pushed her to speak.

To her surprise however, he didn’t push
further, instead his hand came up and he brushed her cheek. “As you
wish, mistress,” Tarken said to her.

It was then Cushla realized a tear had
fallen from her eye and she knew he’d discovered yet another
vulnerability of hers. She’d be half daft if she thought he offered
compassion. Mentally, she braced herself to the fact he might use
it against her later.

The soothing sounds of an
echobass
and
melovibe
being played by nearby musicians floated
through the air, coaxing the tension inside of her to ease. She
focused on it and closed her eyes, her head bobbing to the beat.
She became absorbed with enjoying the melody.

“A favorite?” Tarken asked.

Cushla’s eyes popped open, and she turned to
look at him.

He was still studying her, though his
expression was gentle and friendly.

She opened her mouth to answer but
reconsidered. For as long as she could remember, she’d always
enjoyed the classic music made popular throughout the galaxies by
the rural dwellers from Planet Ingyx.
No,
she wouldn’t fall
for it. Tarken’s gentle approach was another ploy to find ways to
punish her. Losing the privilege to listen to music? She’d admit to
nothing. “I appreciate the quality of the sound. I appreciate many
forms of music.”

Running a single finger along the line of
her cheek, Tarken smiled. “You’re quite cultured for as you
say…just a mere slave.”

A shiver went up Cushla’s spine at his
affectionate touch, his voice, low as he spoke sending sensual
quivers through her body. The effect he had on her was pleasant,
and in that moment, she felt her defenses slip, but the feeling was
brief. The crack of a whip startled her, the sound drawing her
attention along with Tarken’s to a platform across the marketplace
quad.

Slaves were being fared, two young and
strong-looking males, and a female who appeared on the cusp of
adulthood. She looked frightened.

Cushla understood her fear but brushed all
empathetic emotions aside. Survival meant hardening her heart,
forgetting memories of confronting and coping with new and possibly
abusive masters. Instead, she focused on the last bit of bread she
had left to eat. “What of my punishment, Tarken? You’ve given me an
enjoyable staple, rather than feeding me with the slavery muck I
loathe.”

Squinting, Tarken focused on the gathering
where the slave bidding was taking place. Mecor’s royals were
there. “That particular punishment is a moot thing since you’re
bothered little by it.”

“As is the sex...” Cushla returned. “A moot
thing to punish me with.”

Tarken’s gaze shifted over to Cushla. “Are
you admitting the sexing with me is enjoyable?”

“Would that please you, slavemaster?” She
flashed a mischievous grin.

“It would please me immensely, Cushla if I
was made to believe you were being truthful.”

“Then, I suppose you will need to discover
how to decipher between my honesty and my lies.”

Grasping her beneath the chin, Tarken tipped
her face upward and toward his. His eyes locked on to hers, darting
slightly back and forth as if attempting to read her. “Do you
lie…Cushla?”

“If I told you
yes
I might be lying.
If I told you
no
…I might be lying still. How would you know
which was which, Tarken?”

He burst out laughing and released his grasp
on her chin. “I choose to believe you enjoy the copulating with
me.”

Cushla snorted and turned her head away from
him, her smile briskly fading when she saw Rube and Scoac speaking
to several patrons. They were intermittently turning to glare in
her direction.

“They’re publicizing your presence.” Tarken
commented, the tone of his voice laced with irritation. “From the
way they’ve been behaving this entire journey, I have little doubt
about this now. What do you have, mistress that they want everyone
to be aware of?”

“Perhaps they’re aware of my special
powers.” Cushla leaned closer to Tarken her voice becoming a
sarcastic whisper.

Returning his gaze to her, he stared at her
blankly for a moment and snickered. “I think you’re full of orshi
dung, mistress. Your only special power is...” Tarken fell
silent.

Cushla sensed he was about to admit to
something but thought better of it. She decided to push the issue a
bit. “Is what?” she asked when he failed to continue. “You were
saying?”

Instead of answering, his attention seemed
to drift elsewhere and she followed the line of his gaze.

Just across the quad, Ayia was sitting at a
table on an outdoor patio of a café. There was another female
seated next to her, perhaps a
Ferubian
or
Shalcar
either identifiable by their deep orange skin—a Shalcar. The
woman’s ears were higher set, revealing the subtle difference
between the races. Ferubians had much lower set ears.

Cushla watched the exchange occurring
between the women.

Their heads were tipped towards each other,
their bodies leaning forward, and they appeared to be engaged in a
heavy conversation.

“She’s probably soliciting a new customer,
although…” Cushla paused and tilted her head scrutinizing Ayia’s
acquaintance. “By that woman’s manner of dress, she seems less than
able to afford the services.”

“You cannot judge the contents of something
by its casing, mistress.”

“No,” Cushla returned. “No you can’t.”

* * * *

Tarken felt a pang in his chest, hoping the
comment alluded to her first impression of him. Or perhaps she was
referring to his assumptions about her. Why he even cared was
perplexing. He exhaled harshly, but the breath did little to
relieve the uncomfortable strain inside of him, the fact that he
wanted to kiss her passionately, run his hands all over her body,
feel her dampening around his hardness while he made lov—“Fuck,”
Tarken groused, banishing the absurd reference to making love from
his mind. It was nothing more than sexing—physical, uninvolved
sexing.

Still, he could never admit to her that he
too, enjoyed the copulating with her, even more so than any other
female he’d ever been with. Even worse, he’d almost confessed it to
her. When he stifled himself earlier, he’d been about to admit to
the powerful effect she was having on him. His vulnerability to her
was the last thing he wanted her to know. Standing, Tarken forced a
detached façade. “It’s time to return to the ship.”

He waited until Cushla stood, snatched her
upper arm firmly and dragged her from the busy market. Following
one of the paths, he led her to a more secluded area, ignoring her
quick breaths as she attempted to keep pace with him.

Abruptly, Tarken detoured into the trees,
pulling Cushla until he determined they were a good distance from
any passerby’s sight. Though some slavemasters were crude, he was a
discreet man. “On your knees,” he demanded, but instead of waiting
for her to comply, he grasped her arms, the sheer strength and size
of him overpowering her and forcing her down, the impact causing
the mushy, wet ground beneath her to splatter. “Suck my cock.”
Tarken unfastened his trousers and then withdrew his hands.

Cushla swallowed hard and pursed her lips.
She clenched her hands, refusing to do his bidding.

“Comply, mistress or—”

“Or what, you’ll force me?” She glared at
him, her expression almost daring Tarken to carry out his
threat.

Realizing he’d gotten himself into a
predicament, his irritation worsened. Dragging Cushla into the
marsh was an impulsive reaction, an attempt to counteract his
irrational emotional attraction to the slave woman. Her defiance
was punishable, yet she had him cornered. Of course he wouldn’t
force her.

Spirits fucking hell!
His cock was
hardening at the sight of her kneeling before him, pinning him with
angry crystal eyes. And for some strange star blasted reason,
Tarken couldn’t surmise, the wet muck that coated her dress,
clinging to her skin and outlining her thighs only caused his lust
to intensify.

Being the type of slavemaster he was,
restrained, rational and always,
always,
well—almost always
accurate in perceiving what training techniques would work the
best, Tarken reacted in the only way he deemed logical. He snatched
Cushla by the upper arms and tugged her upward and toward him,
squashing her body against his and then kissed her
passionately.

Only a small squeal escaped Cushla’s throat
before she gasped for air. His mouth was so tightly sealed over
hers, the only thing entering and leaving from there was Tarken’s
darting tongue. At first she struggled, pushed at his
shoulders.

Tarken having already slipped his arms
tightly around her, imprisoned Cushla firmly inhibiting most
movement.

They went down. Mud squishing all around
them, splattering onto their skin and clothing, Tarken still
holding her to him, his body partially over hers he continued to
stroke his tongue between her lips within her sweet mouth, swiping
along the length of her tongue.