Lois Greiman by Seducing a Princess

looking for him. Who will pay handsomely for—”
    She hadn’t planned to threaten him physically. But she always had a knife hidden in her skirts, and suddenly it was in her hand and pressed up against his groin.
    She watched him jerk at the brief prick of pain.
    “Princess,” he said, “there’s seems to be a blade pressed into a rather sensitive part of my anatomy.”
    She gritted her teeth and pressed harder. He tensed. “Leave him be,” she warned. “He’s been hurt enough.”
    “Pardon me for saying so,” he said, “but speaking of another’s pain at this particular moment seems rather…ridiculous.”
    “Promise me,” she rasped. “And I’ll not tell Poke you plan to kill him.”
    “I didn’t say—”
    “Make the vow,” she ordered, and gave the knife a careful twist.
    He didn’t even flinch. “Is he yours?” he asked.
    She clenched her teeth and tightened her grip on the knife.
    “Is he?” he asked, and moved closer.
    She could answer or drive the blade home. “No,” she gritted, “he’s not.”
    His eyes narrowed as he watched her. “Why would the ice princess care about some ragtag lad with no hope of a future?” She almost dropped the knife, almost slipped to the floor, but she kept herself perfectly still. “There’s hope,” she whispered, and found she could say no more.
    Silence whispered into the room.
    “Because you’ll keep him safe,” he said.
    She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax, to find her cool persona, to pull back from the precipice.
    “You can’t harm Poke,” she reminded him. “But I can hurt you.”
    His lips curled. “That I believe.”
    “Then believe this,” she said. “If you so much as touch the boy, I’ll tell Poke you’re a spy.”
    His eyes widened as if shocked by such a ridiculous notion, then he laughed. “Tell me, Princess, why would I be here if I were a spy?”
    She shook her head at his naïveté. “So you still underestimate him. He is everywhere. Has his fingers in a thousand pies. Every government from here to France wants to know his plans.”
    “Is that pride I hear in your voice, lass?”
    She felt sick suddenly, weak and shaken, when he wasthe one who was wounded. “It’s truth, Dancer,” she said. “I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know what you want, but I suggest you go back to where you came from, before it’s too late.”

Chapter 8
    H e was healing. There was no doubt about that. His hands were all but steady and he could manage to make it unassisted to the privy, which was a huge improvement over the humiliation of the week past. More than a week by his calculations, and he felt certain his calculations were fairly accurate, for though he was still weak, his mind felt unusually clear, his perceptions startlingly sharp.
    It was almost frightening how crystalline things seemed when undulled by the haze of liquor. Not that he wouldn’t kill to find that haze again, not that he didn’t yearn for it with the very marrow of his bones, but now, after days of abstinence, he realized the lunacy of drinking in his current situation. Although the noble acquaintances of his past may have been less than trustworthy, at least they weren’t likely to put a knife between his shoulder blades if he turned his back. He glanced around the room. The same couldn’t be said here.
    Including himself, seven people sat around the dinner table. It was the first time he’d been asked to join in a meal. Indeed, it was the first time he realized there was a meal. But he had already learned that this was so much more than a simple dinner. It was the time when thethieves presented their loot. The time when Poke meted out humiliation or compliments, depending on the circumstances, or his mood. The tension was like the tide, pulling Will in, roiling him under.
    “Two oranges and a bouquet of wilted posies,” Poke said now. “I’m disappointed, Nim.”
    “Sorry, sir,” said Jack. The boy had grown since his time at