Free Lois Greiman by The Princess Masquerade

have not, and I shall not. In fact, I will feed you well and regularly so long as you keep up your end of the bargain.”
    She straightened her back, eyed the bread longingly, and raised her gaze back to his. Then she took a seat in the upholstered chair and clasped her hands in her lap. Her fingernails, he noticed, were chipped and still remarkably dirty.
    Placing the table in front of the chair, he retrieved a bowl of soup and set it beside the bread. She gazed at it with obvious greed.
    “When I was searching for you I heard there was a Teleerian thief called Magical Megs.”
    “Really.” She eyed the meal.
    He nodded. “I shall call you Megs.”
    Her gaze never left the steaming tray, but she shrugged. “You can call me Bouzer if you like, just give me some supper.”
    He wanted to question her, longed to learn the truth. Which was strange, because there was no reason he should care about her past. His only real concern was the final product, after all. It made no difference if she was Magical Megs or the pope or no one at all.
    “This is soup,” he said, finally turning his thoughts aside and indicating a bowl of the steaming chowder.
    She tilted her head and stared at him wordlessly.
    “It is not to be slurped like ale nor sopped up like hog swill.”
    Her lips pursed in disapproval. Her hands were still clasped.
    “And this”—he raised the appropriate utensil—“is a spoon.”
    She looked truly peeved now, and for an instant, for just one second in time, he was stunned by the similarity between her and his Anna, regardless of the bruised eye and wet hair.
    “Do you know how to use a spoon?”
    The spark in her eyes suggested evil thoughts, but when she spoke, her words were soft and cadenced. “Indeed I do…my lord.”
    He almost smiled, but instead, he handed her the spoon.“Begin,” he said, but before the word was fully loosed, she had wrapped her fist around the spoon like an angry ditchdigger.
    “God’s balls!” he cursed, and stepped rapidly forward. It was not a simple task to pry her fingers from the metal and realign her grip.
    “Hold your utensils thus,” he said.
    She scowled at their hands. “This ain’t no way to ’old—”
    “Lass…” he warned.
    She fell silent, squirmed a little in the chair, eyed the soup, and looked up at him again. He waited.
    “God almighty,” she said finally. “What now?”
    “Now you may begin,” he said. She moved to shovel again, but he spoke before her spoon touched the soup. “But if you fail this test, this will be your last course until morning.”
    She looked past him toward the food that waited on the armoire. Then, nodding once, she dipped her spoon gently into the chowder and took a minuscule sip.
    Forty-five minutes later, she patted her mouth with a linen napkin and leaned back in her chair.
    Nicol watched her with some amusement. “Sated already?” he asked. She had eaten all her portions and most of his, but she had done it slowly.
    Perhaps a shadow of guilt crossed her gamine features. “Widow Barnes be— is a fine cook.”
    “Yes.” He rose to his feet. Sometime during the tutelage he had managed to finish off what was left of his own meal. “Will assured me she ran a tight ship.”
    “Will?”
    Striding to the fireplace, he squatted and added a pair of faggots to the flame.
    “William Enton,” he explained. “Baron of Landow. Perhaps you saw me with him when first we met.”
    “You were alone the whole while at the inn.”
    He straightened. “I am referring to the time we spent together in Teleere.”
    Pushing the table aside, she rose briskly to her feet. “I fear you’ve mistaken me for someone else…again.”
    “Tell me, lass, did you have the whole thing planned, or was I simply a lucky happenstance?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
    He watched her carefully. She was small of stature, but her back was as straight as a pin and her expression serene, if one could disregard the blackened