No Greater Pleasure (17 page)

Quilla raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t familiar with the local term,
brannigan
, but gathered from Florentine’s face that it was some sort of large party. “Forgive me, Florentine, but the thought of Gabriel holding a party for himself is even more absurd a thought than asking him to throw one for the staff.”

“Again, you don’t know the master as well as you think you do. He enjoys parties, with the right guests. They put him in a grand mood. He can be quite the host when it suits him. You just need to convince him it will suit him.”

“A brannigan, as you call it, will create much work for you and for the maids, the stable men . . . for all of you. How can that be entertainment? I should think the girls would far rather finish all their chores during the day and play their cards at night.”

Florentine gave a grunt. “Idle hands pall after a while. You have your purpose and your place, and we have ours.”

It made sense, put that way. “And why am I made the emissary to convince him to have a party?”

“Ahh, not only a party. A brannigan. An endless, grand affair with much carousing and entertainments, and food and drink and general merriment. With hunts and games and dancing, and illicit sex in the bushes.”

“Anyone who wants to have illicit sex in the bushes now would be mad,” Quilla said. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“You, my dearest popkin, are the emissary because you’re the one supposed to give him what he needs before he need it, not me. I feed his body. You feed his soul, remember?”

As if she could forget. “I’ll do my best.”

“Then I’ll start preparing,” answered Florentine, “because your best will leave him thinking ’twas all his own idea, of that I have no doubt.”

 

 

 

B
ring me that vial of crystallized quartz,” Gabriel asked, and Quilla left off the minor task she’d been doing to comply. He took it from her and added it to the mixture he’d been working with all morning. A brief, acrid scent filled the air, accompanied by a wisp of smoke. He muttered a curse. “It’s not working right.”

“Come sit,” said Quilla. “Have some tea and think on it for a while. Perhaps the solution will come to you.”

He nodded absently, and she noted how much easier it was to serve him when he wasn’t paying attention. He allowed her to unbutton his coat and lead him to the chaise lounge, where she’d placed the small table set with tea and biscuits. He took a biscuit and dunked it into the tea she poured, then ate it without relish. The set of his shoulders told her of his tension, and she moved behind him to begin kneading the sore muscles.

He bent his head forward to let her get to the knots at the base of his neck. “ ’Tis a simple enough formula. I can’t think of why I’m not able to re-create it.”

Quilla’s hand soothed and smoothed. “Perhaps you are discontent.”

His head lifted and he turned it to look at her. “What?”

“Discontent. Bored,” she repeated carefully. “You’ve been working with little surcease for weeks. The weather has meant even your walks have been curtailed.”

“My work has become somewhat tedious of late,” he admitted and let out a soft groan as her fingers found a particularly tense knot.

“Perhaps you would benefit from a change of pace, my lord.” She walked her fingers up his neck to rub along his scalp, the thick, dark hair tickling the backs of her hands. “Perhaps the company of like-minded companions would stimulate you intellectually.”

“Is that your professional opinion,” he said wryly, “or has Florentine put you up to the idea of convincing me to have a brannigan?”

She ought not have been surprised that he’d guess, but she was embarrassed he’d caught her out. She kept up her massage, glad he faced away from her so as not to see her pinked cheeks.

“Well, Handmaiden? Why so silent? ’Twould please me to have an answer from you.”

“Florentine did ask me to try and woo you toward having a party, yes. But I do think you might benefit from it, as well.”

He put his hand over hers, stilling it, and twisted his body to look at her. “Do you?”

“You know I do. Else I would not have been convinced to try.”

His fingers curved over hers. “And what of you? Would it please you to have a party?”

She twisted her wrist to put her hand palm up beneath his. “Aye, because I do think you could use something in your life other than work.”

His fingers tangled with hers and he pulled her hand until she came around to stand in front of him. It discomfited her to stand above him; it wasn’t her place to look down on him, so she moved to kneel. His grip stopped her. She looked at him, and he tugged her toward him, turning her sideways to sit upon his lap. Without letting go of her hand, he used his other one to anchor her waist.

“But what of you? Do you not have any desires beyond what you think will please me?”

“You know I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you don’t.”

She smiled, looking down at their clasped hands, then up to his face. “I should think by now I’d have convinced you.”

His smile tweaked the corners of his mouth and crinkled small lines at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t believe you have no desire beyond what you think will please me.”

His fingers had begun to trace a slow, circling pattern on her side.

“If it pleases you to think so, then I’ll do nothing to prove otherwise.”

“Clever.” He shifted her closer to him, took the hand in his, and looped it over his shoulder so she couldn’t help but lean close to him.

Gabriel tilted his head back, his eyes following the lines of her face and the curve of her mouth, before returning to hers. “ ’Twould please me to know you have desires of your own that are not hinged on mine, Handmaiden.”

His eyes caressed her. His hand continued its slow, smooth stroking, sliding inch by inch along the fabric of her gown, up her side until his fingers had almost reached the swell of her breast. Then back down again, just as slowly, to the jut of her hip. Slow. Smooth. Seductive.

She ran her tongue along her bottom lip to moisten it, and his eyes were drawn to the sight like a snake to a mouse in the grass. The expression on his face made her heart beat faster. Heat had kindled between them, an almost palpable flare.

“I have desires,” she whispered, throat hoarse. “I am human.”

“Are you?” He reached up to stroke his hand down the length of her braid, stopping at the ribbon tying off the bottom. “I thought maybe you were an angel sent from the Land Above to give me absolute solace.”

She smiled. “I am here to do that, my lord, but I assure you I am no angel.”

“No?” He shifted her yet again closer and tugged her braid to bring her face closer to his. “Can you assure me you are, indeed, made of flesh and blood?”

“I can,” replied Quilla with a smile that moved her lips close enough for him to capture with his own.

“. . . want my lord husband! You can’t keep me out!”

The door to Gabriel’s chambers flew open with a bang that caused a precarious pile of books to spill. Quilla was on her feet before she knew it, but whether she had leaped or he had pushed her, she wasn’t certain. He was on his feet as well, turning toward the door just as Saradin stumbled through the doorway, yanking her arm free of a very flush-faced Allora Walles.

“Let go of me, you silly bint!” Saradin jerked herself free of Allora’s grip. “Else I’ll slap you sillier!’

“My lady Saradin, please . . .”

The crack of Saradin’s hand on Allora’s face was as loud as a teapot shattering on the floor. Allora stifled a cry, but to her credit, did not step back. She tried again to grab her mistress’s arm. “My lady, please . . .”

“Let her go, Mistress Walles, ’tis well.” Gabriel stepped forward, hand extended. “My lady wife. What brings you to my chambers midday?”

As usual, Saradin’s hair was ornately styled and her cosmetics applied with a heavier hand than Quilla would have used, but expertly done for all that. Her gown, too, was a bit fancier for day wear than was usual, the dark blue underdress set off by an overdress of lighter blue shot through with gold threads.

Quilla was accomplished in fading into the background when necessary, to not calling attention to herself, to being unnoticed unless needed. Again, in Saradin’s presence she had no need to do so. Saradin’s eyes swept past Quilla as though she did not exist, as though the space in which she stood was empty.

“My lord, I tried to stop her.”

“Shut up, Allora.” Saradin’s pretty face didn’t even crinkle as she snapped the words. “My lord husband is pleased to see me, is he not?”

“Always, my lady wife.” Gabriel took the hand she extended and brought it up to brush his lips along the back of it. “And of course.”

Saradin smirked. “I told that bint the same, only she tried to get me to stay in my room. A prisoner in my own room! What stupidity! I’ve a mind to cast her out into the snow!”

Gabriel’s gaze flickered toward Allora, who wrung her hands. “No need for that, Saradin. She was only doing her job.”

Saradin sniffed, dancing forward on tiny, perfect feet shod in slippers finer than any Quilla had ever owned. Her dark, sooty lashes stood out like flakes of ash against her creamy pale cheeks. A single curl had fallen from its place atop her head and now hung in gleaming splendor to her shoulder, looking for all the world like a spiral of gold.

Quilla turned and glided away on silent feet to stand by the fire, the flames giving her something upon which to blame the heat in her face. She watched Allora out of the corner of her eye, but the lady’s maid was still wringing her hands, most likely awaiting another slap from her mistress.

“You may leave us, Allora.” Gabriel’s voice was kinder than it had been before, and kinder than Quilla thought she deserved. That thought made her chest constrict.

Saradin’s girlish giggle set Quilla’s teeth on edge. “Husband, isn’t it time for you to take leave of those potions and concoctions and spend some time with me?”

“You know my work is important, Saradin, and can’t be left off at a moment’s notice.”

Saradin flickered a look in Quilla’s direction, a mad, sly look that showed her the woman had noticed her, after all. Which made the extent to which she’d ignored her that much more of a slap . . . Quilla admonished herself not to think so.
What is wrong with you!

As she watched Saradin flirting with Gabriel, she knew.
You’re jealous, Tranquilla. Jealous of the man’s wife.

That thought so disturbed her she had to turn and face the flames. Behind her, she heard the low sound of Gabriel’s chuckle, the rustle of Saradin’s gown, the soft noise of skin on skin. Was he kissing her?

She didn’t turn to see, instead busying herself with sweeping up some of the ash that had crept free of the fire’s edge onto the white marble fireplace surround.

“You work so hard.” Saradin’s voice had a pout in it. “Too hard, my darling. You ought to give yourself some leisure time, too.”

“Actually, I was thinking of having a brannigan.”

The casual way he said it made Quilla drop the dustpan, which clattered and sent up a cloud of dust over her hands and hem.

“Honestly,” Saradin said with a sniff. “Your chambermaid is extremely clumsy, Gabriel.”

Chambermaid! Chamber
—Quilla clamped her tongue between her teeth, biting with such ferocity she tasted a squirt of bitter blood. The woman knew Quilla was no chambermaid, no fetchencarry, no body servant. Quilla knew Saradin knew the truth. Mistress Delessan was deliberately insulting her position, demeaning it.

I am his Handmaiden. I am his comfort. I am what he needs before he knows he needs it, not his bedamned chambermaid!

Yet Gabriel did not correct his wife, though he had to have known what an insult she’d given to Quilla. “Would you like a brannigan, my lady wife?”

Saradin giggled, the sound like fae chimes that nonetheless grated on Quilla’s nerves like gravel on a toddler’s knees. “A party! A brannigan! Who shall we invite?”

“Whomever you like,” replied Gabriel in a genial tone Quilla had never heard from him. It made her turn to look at him. He turned to Allora. “You may go, Allora. I will take care of my lady wife.”

Allora bobbed into a curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”

She left the room, and Saradin began chattering about guests and food and room arrangements, while Quilla merely stood by the fire with ashes on her hands.

After a moment, Quilla left the room as well, for even though he hadn’t said a word, Gabriel had dismissed her as thoroughly as if he’d shouted at her to get out.

Chapter 7

 

 

 

 

 

J
ericho looked like summer with his bright golden hair and eyes the color of a sky untouched by clouds. His ready smile, too, made brighter any room he graced, but he did not smile now. Jericho stared, pensive, out the window of the third-floor parlor, where Quilla had gone to do some mending while the rest of the house laughed belowstairs.

“Forgive me, my lord Delessan,” she murmured. “I did not know you were here.”

He looked up. She expected a glib remark. He gave her none, not even a hint of a grin. He gestured toward an empty chair across from him.

“Don’t leave on my account.”

Quilla took the seat, grateful for the sunshine. More snow had fallen overnight, but the day had dawned with brightness, and the glare off the white reflected through the windows. She lifted a stocking from her basket, then the needle and thread, and began to sew up a hole in the toe.

“The ladies here would throw that away and buy another. Not mend it.”

“I am not one of the ladies here, and I have not the luxury of such waste.”

He leaned back in his chair. “My brother would buy you another pair of stockings.”

She looked up at him. “I’m certain he would, my lord Delessan, however, my intent is not to waste your brother’s coin in buying me new stockings when I can easily repair the old.”