Pleasure and Purpose Read online

  "Prince Cillian. About this matter of the trade routes," Devain began without preamble, but Cillian held up a hand.

  "I discuss such matters when it's time. It's not time now." Devain had become one of the king's appointed ministers while Cillian had been what his father referred to as "recuperating," though Cillian had never been ill. Devain had been a magistrate of the province where Cillian had attended school, one of those called to decide the prince's fate after the prostitute's death. He'd been one who ruled Cillian should enter the asylum instead of hanging.

  Cillian supposed he ought to be grateful.

  Devain supposed so, too.

  Devain looked around the empty room, then gave a pointed glance to the herb bowl.

  "You're too busy, now?"

  Cillian swallowed the retort that rose instantly to his lips. This man had been there when they took Cillian to his cell. When they'd shorn his head and dressed him in rags. And when the board of medicuses had met to determine if the Prince of Firth, the king's only son, could be allowed to return to society, Devain had been there, too. Devain had been the one to ask the most pointed questions about Cillian's progress, to make the medicuses doubt. And when Cillian had at last come home after near two years in that pit, he found Devain sitting at his father's side and whispering in his ear.

  "I didn't say I was too busy. I said now was not the time." Cillian kept his voice steady, and also his gaze. Devain, like a jackal, could sense weakness. "If you wish to meet with me, you can take an appointment at court, the way the others do." Devain's smile crept into his eyes and yet was devoid of any humor. "As you wish. I merely thought it might behoove you to take the time to listen to my proposal without the jabber of all those others to distract you."

  "You meant you want me to put your interests over those of others, and you believe yourself above the protocol they're all required to follow."

  Devain drew himself up to his full height, head and shoulders above Cillian, who didn't give the other man the honor of tilting his head to look at his face. Devain let out a slow, hissing breath.

  "One might forget how one was once in a madman's rags, sitting in his own filth," he said in a voice meant to bring blood.

  Cillian had bent and been broken for love and would do it again for no less than that. He surely, by the Void, wouldn't do it for Devain. His fingers twitched into fists for but a moment before he straightened them, but Devain saw it, and smiled.

  "No, my lord," said Cillian in a voice as sickly sweet as joba syrup. "One might remember."

  Four days into this assignment, and Honesty was sure Cillian would send her away. That wouldn't please the Mothers-in-Service, but it would make Honesty happy. If he sent her away, she wouldn't have to abandon him.

  She'd expected to feel more guilt about her lack of enthusiasm for this assignment. After all, she was failing not only the prince, but the Order and the Holy Family. Herself, too, if she wanted to admit it. She'd taken a vow to do her best to serve her patrons, and this was not her best.

  Her sigh began in her toes. Honesty stared out the window. She'd been a veritable captive in these chambers, since it hadn't pleased her patron to take her out of them. Four days since her arrival, and he'd left her every morning after the first without a word of explanation about where he was going or when he'd be back.

  The nights had been interesting. Cillian slept on the chair in front of the fire and every night she fell into sleep waiting for him to join her. After that first night, he never had. She'd woken each morning before him but had forced herself to stay abed until he rose, often with a groan of protest at what must have been screaming muscles. He bathed and dressed and left, every morning, and left her there. Alone.

  No patron had ever ignored her. Especially not after she'd used her mouth on him. She might have made a mistake with that, she mused, though it had been delicious. He might not be the sweetest tempered man she'd ever met, but he was beautiful. Even so, it seemed she'd misjudged him, and despite her desire to quit this place and this career, she couldn't help but be a little ashamed.

  His abandonment had done one thing for her. Convinced her the apathy for her chosen field was no passing thing, that she was, indeed, no longer a Handmaiden in her heart. Oh, she'd been playing the role for so long she wore it like a costume, her smile a mask and her words of comfort dialogue in a play she'd memorized so long ago she no longer had to think about the plot.

  She knew the truth, now, no matter how much she'd like to pretend she didn't. She wanted to go home, and not to the Mother-house. Not to await her next assignment. Not to attend any more people so caught in their webs of sorrow and discontent they couldn't see clearly for even the single moment required to pass as solace. She wanted to go home, to Bellora, where she could sit in her father's orchards and smell the tart-sweet scent of ferlafruits and let the wind tug tangles into her hair.

  She wanted to return to the place that would not, in any likelihood, welcome her. She couldn't go anywhere without first finishing this assignment. Not unless she wished to run away, and she owed the Order the debt of her consideration, at least. She could flee her duties, but never her obligation.

  With nothing else to pass the time, she'd done a bit of tidying. And, since Cillian had apparently sent away all his maids, she was left to straighten the bedcovers and sweep up the dust and stoke the fire. She could and did ring for meals when she was hungry and had someone come to take away the dishes, but the rest of every long day she'd spent reading and looking out the window. She'd devoured all but three of the books on his shelves and memorized every blade of grass on the lawn outside.

  If this kept up, she'd have to go in search of him. She couldn't bring him to solace if he was never with her, nor could he send her away. And if he didn't send her away or give her the chance to give him what he needed, she'd have to decide to leave. She wasn't ready to decide it. Better, if more cowardly, to have him make the choice for her. Failure here would mean she'd have good reason to go to the Mothers-in-Service and tell them she was finished. Nobody would fault her for leaving if it was clear she was no good. No, she had to do what he'd already accused her of doing. She had to fail here. But, damn him to the Void, she couldn't fail him if he wouldn't give her the chance. Honesty had turned, deciding to grip the horse by the reins when the door flew open hard enough to slam into the wall and shake the pictures. Cillian kicked the door shut behind him. He stood there, seething, his eyes like storms in a face gone pale with fury. He looked at her, his mouth parted, but if he meant to speak, he bit back the words and looked away from her. That stung more than she'd have thought it could from a man she didn't even know. He strode to the table next to the fireplace and poured himself a cut-crystal glass full of whiskey and tossed it down his throat before taking another. Then he stood, shoulders slumped, and held the glass in his hand as though it were too heavy even to lift.

  Now was the time for her to succeed with failure.

  Witty words rose to her lips, a taunt designed to prick him to anger, but died there when he turned. She'd found him pleasing to the eye upon first sight, beautiful in laughter and arousing in his desire. Looking at him now, the bleak gaze, lips drawn to tight whiteness, Cillian broke her heart.

  "Tell me what happened," she said softly.

  Countless other men had taken what she offered, but Cillian did not. Indeed, he stepped back as though her touch were poison. He sipped slowly and set the glass down half empty. He shook his head and pushed past her without a word. He went into the bedchamber and shut the door.

  He didn't want her. Honesty gripped the back of the chair to steady herself. From inside the bedchamber came the sound of a single, strangled . . . sob?

  This had naught to do with her. Whatever wounds festered in the Prince of Firth, she wasn't meant to heal them. She didn't have it in her any longer to be what someone needed before they knew they needed it. To be someone's comfort. She had nothing left for anyone; she barely had enough for herself.

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