Keeper of the Dream by Penelope Williamson Page A

yard. His head was bare and the wind stirred his raven-black hair. His chainse showed white beneath the open neck ofhis tunic, contrasting with the sun-browned skin of his hard and ruthless face. His incredible arrogance was evident in the very way he walked, in his purposeful, long-legged stride and the sauntering sway of his lean hips.
    He stopped just below her window. Close enough to spit on. He stood in profile to her and the sun highlighted the sharp bones of his predatory nose and high cheekbones. He was close enough that if he tilted back his head he would see her. But he was in deep conversation with his squire.
    Though she was his prisoner, the only time they had been face-to-face since that day in his tent was last afternoon, when their paths had crossed in the bailey while she was on her way to Mass. She had made certain he knew just what she thought of him by allowing all the hatred she felt to show in her face, and he … he had looked right through her with those opaque gray eyes.
    She was of no importance to him beyond the ransom she could bring. In truth, she thanked God nightly that he had no desire to lie with her, for she would be returned to her father a virgin still. But for some reason she couldn’t begin to understand, his lack of interest stung her pride. Dozens of men had begged for her hand in marriage, but none had been deemed good enough for her. Yet this Norman knight, who was a drab’s by-blow without title or land, looked at her—when he bothered to look at all—as if she weren’t good enough to wipe his boots.
    Arianna started to push away from the window when her gaze fell on the laver nearby. The basin was filled with water covered by a soapy scum left over from her wash.
    Before she could lose her nerve, she picked up the basin and flung the contents out the window, shifting her aim at the last minute so that the water landed not on his head, as she’d originally intended, but at his feet. The water splattered on the wet ground, splashing mud onto his boots.
    The knight’s dark head snapped up and around. Ariannalooked right through him, then she shifted her gaze over to the squire, who was also staring up at her, surprise on his face, and she smiled at the boy.
    “Oh dear, forgive me, Taliesin,” she said in her sweetest voice. “I didn’t see you there. I hope I didn’t muddy you.”
    The squire had been standing well apart from his master and had not been touched by the flying mud. A big grin stretched his mobile face. “Nay, and good morrow to you, milady.”
    “Good morrow, Taliesin,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile in return.
    Arianna turned from the window, pleased with herself. That had certainly shown the Norman that if she meant little to him, he meant even less to her.
    A few moments later the sound of footsteps on the stairs caused Arianna to regret her rash impulse to put the man in his place. But when the door swung open it was Taliesin who entered.
    “Sir Raine summons you to the bailey, milady,” he said, his face blank, though she thought she caught a twinkle of gleeful anticipation in his eyes.
    Arianna’s mouth went dry. She nodded and, her spine rigid, her head held high, she followed the squire out the chamber. But it was the two burly guards, and not Taliesin, who brought her outside and into the bailey.
    The knight stood next to the hitching post beside the hall’s front stairs. She stopped before him and met his hard, gray eyes. “You wished to speak with me, Norman?”
    He braced one muddy boot against the rail. “Clean them.”
    Arianna’s chin jerked up. “Summon a servant.”
    “You dirtied them, wench. Now you will clean them.”
    There wasn’t a trace of inflection in his voice, and his eyes remained flat, inscrutable. They could have been discussing the weather.
    She gave him a freezing smile and cooed in a sing-song, “Clean your boots, sir bastard knight? Why, I would sooner eat them.”
    He bared his teeth back at her.