Free Keeper of the Dream by Penelope Williamson Page A

back; she was nodding her head vigorously.
    He eased down onto the folding wooden frame that supported his straw pallet. She’d cleaned herself up some since last he’d seen her—instead of reeking of the stables, she smelled of the sea. Though her disposition didn’t appear to have improved any. Using his dagger he sliced through the strip of linen that bound the gag in place.
    He watched as she worked her jaws, dredging the saliva back into her mouth. It was a wide, expressive mouth with very full, almost puffy, lips. He counted off the seconds, and got as far as three.
    “You filthy, murdering, bitch’s whelp—”
    He stuffed the gag back in her mouth.
    “You left off liar,” Raine said.
    Color crept up her neck to flood her face. She turned her head aside and he caught the glint of tears. His lips curved into a cynical smile as he said, “Shall I give you a second chance?”
    She nodded, very slowly, keeping her head averted, her face buried in the straw ticking. But when he didn’t remove the gag right away, she twisted her head back around to look at him.
    He had been mistaken about the tears; her eyes were dry.
    He took the gag out her mouth. He could practically see her thoughts churning behind her eyes. She wanted to curse him so badly, she was turning purple with the effort to hold it all in. “That’s better,” he said. “ ’Tis a most grievous sin, to break an oath like that.”
    She had been rubbing her swollen lips against her shoulder bone, but at his words, her head snapped up. “We have a saying in Wales. ‘An oath sworn to an enemy is made to be broken.’”
    She was quick, he had to grant her that, not that it mattered a whit. He didn’t care if his whores had straw between their ears, as long as they were fair and buxomand at least pretended willingness. This wench was none of those things. He wondered what misbegotten maggot had gotten into his squire’s brain, that the boy had thought to stow the wretched girl in his tent.
    “If you’ve come to ply your trade for England now,” he said, “then I should warn you that we prefer our whores with more honey and less spice—”
    She sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m not a whore!”
    “Aye? Then you will explain to me how you came to be here.” He paused, then added, “In my bed.”
    Her eyes opened wide and she blinked. “God’s death. Do I look like I arrived here willingly?”
    He laughed, not about to be taken in by her air of outraged innocence. The wench was after something—doubtless a new protector, or a second chance to bury a knife in his back. But Raine had no intention of becoming either her next
pimpreneau
or her next victim.
    He stood up to search through his coffer for a costrel of wine. He hooked a stool around with the toe of his boot and rested his foot on it, one arm draped over his bent knee. He pulled the flask’s leather stopper out with his teeth, and tilting back his head, drank deeply. Then he offered it to her with a lift of his brows.
    “I can’t very well drink with my hands tied behind my back.”
    “No, you can’t.” He wasn’t going to untie her until she asked him to do it. And all nice and humbly too. “Why did you have my squire truss you up like that in the first place? If you thought to gain my pity, it hasn’t worked. And I like my sex in the more conventional ways.”
    “He’s your squire? That wretched, God-cursed, traitorous boy—the liar told me he was a bard! When next I get my hands on him I’m going to gut him with a sword and feed his innards to the dogs.” She thought a moment, then added, “He must have lied about his birth as well. No true Cymro could stomach serving the likes of you.”
    “Isn’t that rather too fine a sentiment to be comingfrom a wench who serves any man for the price of a sop of ale?”
    She had a strong jaw for a girl, and she was clenching it so hard he could see the muscle throb. “I am … not … a whore.”
    Raine took another drink,