No Greater Pleasure (8 page)

Again, the intensity of his gaze rippled through her. She could admire his eyes, now showing flecks of gray and gold in them when the firelight caught them. Full black lashes fringed them, and thick but well-shaped black brows, a shade darker than the hair on his head, arched above.

He seemed to be scrutinizing her as much as she him, for his eyes traveled over her from head to her gown puddled around her on the floor.

“So, short of theft and murder, you have no limit to what you will do?”

“You make it sound rather ominous when put that way. But, the answer, I suppose, is yes.”

“Would you crawl on your hands and knees for me?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “If it would please you to have me do so, yes.”

“You would not find it degrading, to be treated so?”

“You cannot degrade me if I refuse to find humiliation in the task you set before me.”

“Many women would refuse to crawl willingly.”

“Many women are not Handmaidens,” Quilla replied.

Delessan set down his cup and rubbed his hands together, the long fingers twining and twisting. “And your limits have never been tested? Not ever?”

She smiled. “No, my lord. But should you wish to try, I am certain I will be able to accommodate you.”

This reply made him frown further. “I assure you, Handmaiden, I have no desire to force your limits. I brought you here for a purpose, and ’tis not to break you.”

She nodded. “Of course it is not.”

He scowled, running a hand through his hair and mussing the strands. “What of your family? What say they about this avocation?”

“My parents were less than pleased when I announced I meant to go into the Service.”

“I can imagine. Tell me.”

A smooth command. She obeyed. “I have three brothers older than I. Three sisters younger. My father is an ointment merchant who provides oils to the temples. My mother is beautiful and languid, and would never have been able to care for seven children without the help of an army of staff to help her cook, clean, and dispense order.”

This account made Delessan smile. He watched her. “Go on.”

“I grew up wanting for nothing except, perhaps, for deprivation. In our house, material goods expressed affection as much as hugs and kisses did. My parents love each other greatly, their children as well. They raised us with as much privilege as they could provide, and in return, I spent the first ten and five years of my life indulged and complacent.”

“And when you turned ten and six?”

“At ten and six,” Quilla answered with a small grin, “Venice Bengley asked my father for my hand.”

“Ahh.” Delessan nodded. “And you did not wish to marry him.”

“Venice Bengley was sixty years old and smelled of pickled cabbage.”

His eyes flashed. “And yet, your parents thought him a good match?”

“He is wealthy. Kindhearted. He’d had three wives already, and a passel of children he wanted me to raise. Mind, some were already older than I.” Quilla shook her head. “I could not marry Venice Bengley. No matter what my parents proposed, nor how they pleaded, and not even when they finally demanded it of me. Bengley, you see, in addition to marrying me, wished to join partners with my father. It would have been a good deal all around.”

“Selfish child.”

“I was, indeed, to disappoint my parents so. And it surprised them. I had, until this time, been most agreeable to all they’d wished for me to choose. Clothes, habits, lessons. I was the eldest daughter and had been perfect until then.

My mother gnashed her teeth and rent her sleeve. My father reacted more practically. ‘You have ever had a nurturing nature, Eysha,’ he said.”

“Eysha?”

“My birth name. Eysha Caden.”

Delessan sipped some of his tea. If her revelation had surprised him, he did not reveal it through expression or words. “So your father was more understanding?”

“To a point. He told me I could nurture my husband and children as well as, and better than, strangers.”

“I understand your father’s reasoning.”

Quilla nodded. “As do I, my lord, but the fact remained, I did not wish to marry Bengley, not for any reason. So I told my parents I had no wish to shackle myself to one place or one person forever, and that I wished to travel. And I would join the Order of Solace. My mother fainted. My father growled. But in the end, they had no choice. I was of age. I could choose.”

“And you did.”

“Yes. I did. I was given the name Tranquilla, and considered it an honor to be so named.”

“And the Order of Solace instead of any other? Why?”

Nobody had ever asked her that, not in all her years of Service. Quilla paused, thinking. “The Order of Solace is the only one that does not indenture its novitiates.”

“Is that so?” Delessan lifted his teacup, and she got to her feet to fill it again before he even asked. He watched her kneel again. “And this appealed to you.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Why?”

She did not need to hesitate to think on this one. “Because I choose how to live my life. I am free to leave any assignment, at any time. I am free to leave the Order at any time, and would be sent on my way with the blessing of the Mothers-in-Service, should I choose to no longer serve.”

“This independent nature would seem to be at odds with what your Order provides.”

She smiled. “My lord, the Order of Solace did not train me to accept the will of others over my own, but rather to re-create my own to match that of those whom I serve.”

“And you don’t feel this compromises your freedom?”

“No. It provides me with more of it. Serving in the Order allows me to travel. It allows me to contribute Arrows to Sinder’s Quiver.”

She thought he might show disdain at that, but he only nodded. “You really believe that?”

“I do.”

He sighed heavily. “I suppose if you can believe that Sinder walked through the Void and created valleys with his footsteps and rivers with his piss and winds with his breath, and if you can believe he found Kedalya in the forest and begat a son from her, I suppose you can believe his Quiver, once filled, will bring about an age of peace and prosperity to all the faithful.”

“Even if you don’t believe those stories as truth,” Quilla said, “is it such an awful thing to want to make people happy?”

His gaze locked upon her for so long and so hard she thought she had made him angry. He stood. “You’ve kept me from my work long enough. Less talking in the mornings, Handmaiden. Breakfast is an activity that should be undertaken as swiftly and efficiently as possible. I’m a very busy man.”

“As you wish,” Quilla responded, getting to her feet and beginning to clear away the dishes into the basket to take downstairs.

He huffed, then moved past her to head toward his worktable again. She watched him from the corner of her eye, thinking much upon what he’d said.

She had limits, indeed, though they were far broader than those of a woman not in the Service of the Order. But she had them.

 

 

 

D
elessan had been muttering for the past twenty minutes. Muttering and pacing. Quilla watched him from her place at the bookshelves, where she’d been taking down each book, cleaning it, and replacing it in alphabetical order. She’d been working as silently as possible, not taking all the books off at the same time in order to prevent making a mess. The work was slower that way, but she suspected if he turned round to see the floor piled high with texts he’d be rather more upset than if only one shelf was empty at a time.

Now he exploded into a string of colorful curses that made her bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at the sheer absurdity of the phrases.

She put down the book and the dustcloth and moved closer to him. Not too close. He was still pacing, hands on his hips, scowling and muttering.

“Surely that would be an awkward and uncomfortable experience, my lord,” she said in reference to the last string of curse words he’d spouted. “And it might possibly kill the duck.”

He stopped and glared at her. “What are you babbling about?”

She repeated his phrase. “I can think of a better way to solve your problems than that.”

Would he explode in anger or had she successfully diffused him? Quilla braced herself for a torrent of fury. For a moment, it appeared uncertain if Delessan himself knew how he was going to respond.

When he did, with a huge, utterly despondent sigh, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Her limits were broad, indeed, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed being berated.

“ ’Tis this last set of calculations,” he explained, waving his hand at his worktable. “I’ve done something similar hundreds of times before. The elements are all the same. And yet I cannot seem to re-create the results each time. In order for this formula to be valid, it must end up the same in every use. Else it’s worthless.”

He scowled again. “It’s making me bloody mad!”

Quilla took another step closer and held out her hand to him. “Come here.”

His wary look made her smile. “What?”

“I’m not going to bite you. Come here.”

His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, but he allowed her to take his hand and followed her a few steps toward the chaise lounge. She unbuttoned the front of his white coat and helped him out of it despite his protests.

“I need that—”

“Shh,” she said firmly, setting it aside and removing the vest beneath. “Sit.”

“I thought Handmaidens were supposed to be subservient,” he grumbled, but did. “You’re unbearably bossy.”

“So I’ve been told before, my lord. But perhaps ’tis not so unbearable, really. You seem to be surviving.”

He huffed, less grouchily than before. “You are interrupting my work.”

“Your work was at a standstill, unless you consider pacing and proposing illicit advances upon harmless waterfowl to be part of your work.” Quilla stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Now hush and let me help you.”

“Help me? What do you know about Alchemy?”

“Nothing,” she replied, her fingers finding the tension in his neck and beginning to work it. “But I know much about men.”

“I am not
men
,” he grumbled.

Quilla said nothing, just kept rubbing. He groaned under his breath, which made her smile. She dug in a bit harder.

“Damn it! Are you trying to incapacitate me?”

She rubbed harder and the knots beneath her fingers began to loosen. He sighed, tilting his head down to allow her greater access to his neck and shoulders. She changed from kneading to smooth, flat strokes, from his shoulders and up his neck, running her hands through his hair and stroking his scalp. Then down again, starting at his shoulders and moving upward. Slow, steady movements.

His breathing slowed, and every so often a small moan crept from his throat when she passed over a particularly tense spot. She worked his shoulder blades and along his spine, using her knuckles to press along the knobs of bone.

The smooth linen of his shirt felt good beneath her fingers, and Quilla lost herself in the repetitive movements. She could not have pinpointed the moment he finally relaxed beneath her fingers, only that one moment he seemed all coiled wires, and the next, soft feather pillow.

Quilla pulled a small vial from her waistpurse and uncorked it, dabbing scented oil on her fingertips and replacing the vial. She put her fingertips to his temples and began rubbing them. The smell of gillyflowers filled the air.

“What is that?” he asked in a voice that sounded like he wanted to be harsh but couldn’t quite manage. Instead, he sounded languorous, mouth full of syrup. Oozing, liquid.

“Gillyflower oil, my lord. ’Tis good for headaches.”

“And you knew I had a headache the way you know when to put the kettle on.”

She continued rubbing, smiling. “Yes, my lord.”

He sounded drowsy. “Because ’tis your purpose and your place to know it.”

“Yes.”

“And your pleasure.”

“That, too.”

He put a hand over hers to stop her from continuing. “My headache is gone, Handmaiden. And I think I have figured out the flaw in my equation.”

Quilla took her hands away and rubbed the oil into her skin until her hands were no longer greasy. “I’m glad.”

Delessan stood a bit unsteadily, and she reached out a hand to grab his arm. He looked down at her hand, then straightened. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He seemed unable to look at her as he began to shrug into his jacket. Quilla helped him slide it over his arms, then stepped in front of him to button it with swift and efficient fingers. He was looking at her face when she glanced up. She smiled. He did not return it, instead gazing at her with a look so pensive it made her ask, “Is there something wrong?”

“No, Handmaiden. There is naught wrong.”

She nodded. He was a puzzle, Gabriel Delessan. She thought she understood him, but then wasn’t sure.

“Tomorrow is seventhday,” he said abruptly. “You don’t need to come to my laboratory.”

“No?”

“No,” Delessan repeated firmly. “I do not work on seventhday, and neither should you. You’re free to do what you like.”

She nodded. “You’re very generous, my lord.”

“ ’Tis part of your contract, Handmaiden.”

She smiled. “My contract says I am to be given one half day of rest. You already provide me more than that by not requiring my service beyond the afternoon. To add a full day in which I am not required at all is beyond what is necessary.”

“You’d wish me to take it away?” He turned, frowning.

“Of course not. I’ll be glad to have it. ’Tis rare I have an assignment where I am allowed this measure of freedom. I’m grateful to you for it.” She looked into his eyes. “I am expressing my pleasure at your generosity. Does that make you uncomfortable? Would you prefer I didn’t?”