Slavemaster's Woman, The (18 page)

She surrendered, her taut muscles softening
allowing her to meld within his embrace. With ardent reciprocation
Cushla kissed him back and without recourse began running her hands
all over Tarken’s body, his back, his ass. Her breathing
accelerated and she exhaled heavily.

Tarken pressed his swelling cock against
Cushla's thigh, and then withdrew from kissing her.

For a moment, they gazed at each other
acutely aware of the steaming desire building inside of them for
each other.

Then…without warning, Cushla laughed. Her
head dropped back and the hardy sound bellowed from her throat, the
vigorous enthusiasm within it causing her body to quake in his
arms.

Tarken merely watched her, realizing he’d
heard her sarcastic snorts prior, but never this kind of mirth,
that of a carefree kind. “I should take offense, mistress.”

Still chuckling, Cushla lifted her head, her
eyes meeting his. “If you’d told me so many dawnings ago that I
would be aroused while lying in muck, I’d accuse you of being a
brain injured simpleton.”

“Ah, but that is the effect I have on many
females.” He glanced down at their dirty clothing, snorted and then
rolled off of her. “Often becoming lost in the arousal I coax from
them.”

“Arrogant bastard,” Cushla retorted as
Tarken held out a hand…which she refused. Standing, she brushed at
her arms and clothing, further smearing the muck. “I don’t suppose
I’m very presentable at the moment.”

“Certainly not fit for a ki—” Abruptly,
Tarken stopped speaking. The whir of a discharging weapon was the
last thing he heard as pain crackled inside of his skull, and he
felt his body go limp.

Chapter Fourteen

“Who are you?”

“A friend,” the woman answered while
clutching Cushla’s wrist and dragging her at what seemed an
impossible rushing gait, toward the docking area of departing and
arriving space vessels.

“Do you intend to be my new master, ah
mistress?”

The woman dug in her heels and stopped.
Without hesitation, she whipped her body one hundred and eighty
degrees to face Cushla. “I intend to set you free.”

Staring past the woman’s shoulder, Cushla
scanned the space port launch area, examining the sizes and various
designs of the ships there. “Do you have transportation?”

“Does darkness shine up Creatar’s
asshole?”

Cushla blinked at the Shalcar woman who she
last saw speaking with Ayia, having no idea what the hell she was
talking about. “I do not know, does it?”

“Never mind, just keep moving!”

Shrugging, Cushla followed the woman through
a side path, circling the docking area. It appeared as if they were
heading toward a more remote area of the depot, a darker area that
looked eerie and unsafe. It didn’t deter her however. If it meant
her freedom was close at hand it was worth whatever risk she was
taking.

Thoughts of Tarken came to her mind, and an
unanticipated sadness filled her. Reluctantly, Cushla admitted that
she was going to miss him. More than she would’ve expected by the
way she was feeling at the moment. Did she like him that much? Her
breath caught when her heart thumped. “Hellfires! No way in damn
hellfires,” she mumbled.

“What did you say?” the woman asked her
without turning around. She’d drawn a stunner from somewhere
beneath the black cloak she was wearing, her head darting
everywhere for some unseen foe.

“Where are we going?” Cushla asked while she
silently continued to examine the emotions for Tarken that were
threading through her.
Spirits!
She more than liked the
slavemaster. She was close to loving him. Did she really love him?
At least she thought that’s what it might be. But she had nothing
to compare it to since she’d spent most of her existence living
with hate.

Yet the passion of the emotion ran almost as
deep, but in the contrary direction. The only love she’d known
before this was of her mother and father but this was not the same
thing, though the warmth of it was there. The feelings she had for
Tarken were becoming profound.

Cushla didn’t know what made her turn
around—a cosmic perception perhaps, but when she did, she saw
Tarken rushing toward them and was disturbingly elated he was
following them. Curiously, it wasn’t anger she saw on his face as
she might have expected. She thought she saw fear.

The sound of a thud in front of her came
belatedly, and before Cushla could turn to investigate, she was
tumbling over something solid—a body, the woman’s body. The Shalcar
had fallen. Reflexively, Cushla’s hands shot out to break her fall,
and a stinging sensation shot through her palms as they slapped the
stone walkway below. Her elbows collapsed and scraped the surface
and it hurt like hellfires, but she barely had time to register the
pain.

Scrambling rapidly off the woman, she
scuttled to the side of the path and caught sight of Rube and Scoac
hastening in her direction, their stunners withdrawn. Her head
shifted to her abductor.

The woman scooped herself from the ground,
coming up to all fours. She shook off the disorientation from the
jolt she’d just received from the royals’ weapons. “Sorry, Cushla,”
the woman rasped out as she quickly shuffled to her feet. Her head
snapped right and then left, regarding the advancing royals and
oncoming Tarken. “Looks like I’m outnumbered here and my orders are
to get myself out in lieu of capture.”

With that, the woman hastily left the
path.

“Piss comets,” Cushla murmured watching the
woman’s backside as she vanished into the nearby brush. “I was so
cosmic fucking close to escape this time.”

“I’ll follow her,” Rube told Scoac as they
neared to where Cushla still sat on the ground. “She may be heading
toward our target.” He chased after the woman.

A sneer creased Scoac’s lips as he turned
and snatched Cushla by the upper arm, hauling her to her feet.

Grimacing, Cushla turned her head aside as
Scoac brought his face offensively close to hers, his smelly breath
hot on her skin. The man reeked of drink. “You…bitch, will be
punished for this feeble escape attempt.” The royal jerked her even
closer. His grip tightened on her arm, his fingers digging
painfully into her flesh.

Cushla steeled herself against it, returning
an angry look instead.

“And I’ll be the one to address the issue of
punishment, Scoac.” Tarken approached, impinging the space around
Cushla and the royal. Being a head taller than Scoac, Tarken
loomed, his presence, his expression intimidating. “Release
her.”

Being the pompous sort, Scoac snickered.
Nevertheless, he withdrew his grip on Cushla though his mocking
smile remained. He then eyed Tarken. “You do realize I have every
right to fuck her if I please.”

Crossing one arm over the other, Tarken’s
demeanor visibly relaxed. “Take your pleasure if you wish royal,
but be assured she isn’t worth it.”

Cushla bristled. The comment hurt and that
dumbfounded her. Never before had she cared whether anyone thought
of her as good with the sexing, but from Tarken—
ach!
What
was wrong with her that she desired his approval? There was more
however that she found bothersome. It seemed the slavemaster
couldn’t care less if someone else bedded her. She wanted him to
care. She wanted him to be possessive of her. She wanted him
to…“Hellblazing sucking astral blackholes,” Cushla uttered.
Determination captured her. Somehow, she would banish Tarken from
her heart. She stomped back along on the path in the direction from
which she’d come.

Tarken was on her within a light flash, his
hand wrapping her upper arm even more tightly than Scoac had
gripped her. Without a skip in his pace, he began pulling her along
the walkway. He most certainly seemed to have a hankering about
forcefully hauling her all over the place.

“Do you have a yen for dragging women
around, master?”

One of his brows lifted as he glanced over
his shoulder. “Most women follow me wet and willingly,
mistress.”

“Ah, but never me,” Cushla responded. Her
mouth twisted to one side. “Never me,” she repeated while wondering
who she might be trying to convince.

Abruptly, Tarken halted. For a moment he was
stock still, but then Cushla saw his shoulders tense briefly as he
sucked in a breath. He swung her in front of him, causing her to
stumble over her own feet with the sudden change in movement.

Exhaling a sharp sound of exasperation,
Tarken glared at her, as he steadied her with his hands on her
shoulders. “Your stubbornness is becoming tiresome, Cushla. And I’m
none too pleased with your attempt at escape. For this you have now
lost your privileges. You will remain confined to the ship for the
rest of the journey.”

“I was not attempting to escape!” She
protested, resisting the tug on her as Tarken turned and started up
the path again. His stride increased in both speed and length,
launching Cushla into a near run—so much for his claim that he
never angered. “What is this now, thrice I’ve not seen you anger?”
she taunted.

“I do not anger, mistress.”

Recalling his expression when he chased
after her, Cushla went fishing. “Then I suppose what I saw on your
face when you were coming after me, was fear.”

Tarken didn’t respond. Instead, he continued
just a short distance more, reaching the busier section of the port
where Mecor’s spacecraft was docked. Releasing her, he stared down
at her for several starsecs before speaking, his eyes darting back
and forth as he seemingly searched her eyes. “I fear no one,
Cushla. I fear nothing.”

Tipping her head askew, Cushla asked, “Not
even the king?”

“Especially the king.” He extended an arm,
directing her to ascend the ramp to the space craft.

Cushla obliged, though she stopped half way.
“Then I think the fear was over losing me.”

Tarken gave her a blank stare, hesitating
before replying, “Not fear, though it would’ve been a shame to
misplace you. The cost at repaying Mecor for your purchase price
would’ve been annoyingly expensive.”

An emotion that Cushla was lost to explain
plowed through her, converging in her chest. The remark hurt, and
for the second time in solars her nose tickled with the first sign
of tears.

Well what in the hell pits did she
expect!

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Cushla
became irked at herself. She never cried. The anxiety of being
handed over to Mecor was taking a toll on her. That's what it had
to be. She refused to accept it had anything to do with feelings
she was developing for the slavemaster. Turning away from him, she
took the few steps remaining to reach the ship, and then waited for
Tarken to enter the cryptogram that would open the hatch. She
watched him punch the code into the pad, attempting to see the
sequence.

He blocked it with his other hand. With a
smirk on his face he shook his head at her. At the same time, the
hatch slid upward. Once inside, Tarken secured the entranceway and
then brushed passed her.

Cushla understood she was expected to follow
him. The reality of that put things in perspective, reminding her
of the station she’d been forced into…and once again she'd almost
escaped but failed! The anger she always held close, the anger that
seemed to sink far below the surface after she’d met Tarken,
reared. It was exactly what she needed to quell those ridiculous
stirrings inside of her.
Ach, yes!
Her usual confrontational
self was returning!

“Cushla.” Tarken halted at the entrance of
the corridor, leading from the bridge to the sleeping quarters.

“Did you want something, master?” She stood
her ground, a meek expression on her face. She batted her
eyelashes, though she gnashed her teeth with her true underlying
feelings.

Tarken tipped his head askew, his expression
accusing, but something beyond her attracted his attention.

Cushla turned to look.

At the same time, Tarken grumbled a
curse.

Through the navigation viewer aft of the
ship’s control panel, Rube and Scoac could be seen approaching the
vessel with Ayia just behind them.

Cushla tossed a sidelong glance in Tarken's
direction. “It appears Ayia has decided to continue on her journey
with us.”

“Piss portholes, she has,” the slavemaster
groused. “Over my dead body.”

“And what concern is it of yours?”

For several moments, Tarken studied her.
“You plotted your escape with the pleasure servant.”

“You have proof of this, master?”

“The Ferubian woman was in Ayia's company
before your attempted escape.”

“She's a Shalcar, if I may correct you.”
Cushla turned to the sound of the opening hatch.

The royals followed by Ayia entered.

“Then you admit it.”

“I admit to nothing, though it's no secret
my life's goal is escape.”

“Get clearance for departure.” Rube glanced
at them briefly, and then trudged heavily toward the control panel,
taking a seat in the pilot's chair. His hard footfall was a clear
indication that he was annoyed about something.

Scoac took the second seat at the bridge's
panel.

“She will not depart with us.” Tarken glared
at Ayia, her pursed lips revealing she was irritated as well. He
wondered at that but was more concerned with her presence among
them than anything else. “She cannot be trusted.”

“It's not for you to say, slavemaster,” Rube
answered without turning to look at him, instead concentrating on
setting the controls for departure.

“She conspired with the Ferubian to help the
slave escape.”

“Shalcar,” Ayia corrected. “And I did no
such thing.”

“I think you’re a liar Ayia,” Tarken
returned.

“We're cleared,” Scoac announced. He entered
a few settings into the console before swiveling in his chair to
face Tarken. Before looking at him however, the royal tipped his
head toward Rube and they exchanged glances.