No Greater Pleasure Read online

  “You did.”

  “And Quilla and Jericho took you to the gallery to use them.” Gabriel looked at her, tone belying his next words. “How nice.”

  “She was already there when we got there,” Dane said. He struggled mightily with cutting his sliced meat, until Vernon leaned over to do it for him. “But then I skated and she talked with Uncle.”

  “And I wonder what they talked about,” said Gabriel, face turning stony.

  Quilla cut her own meat and sliced her potato before looking up at him, keeping her expression calm. If this dinner was going to disintegrate into ugliness, it would not be of her doing.

  “We discussed many topics, my lord.”

  “Did you?” His food remained untouched.

  “They always talk,” Dane said. “Mostly about boring things, Father.”

  “Not about gowns and poetry?” Gabriel asked.

  Dane laughed and shook his head, replying with his mouth full. “Sometimes he makes her mad and she cries. But other times he makes her laugh, so I guess that’s all right. Isn’t it, Quilla?”

  Gabriel’s expression now changed again, eyes narrowing. “Yes. Isn’t it?”

  “Your uncle Jericho and I speak on many subjects, Dane,” said Quilla, though her answer was really for Gabriel. “Your uncle and I are friends.”

  “A friend who makes you laugh and cry?” Gabriel’s question pitched low, but she heard it. “What sort of friend does that?”

  Quilla lifted her chin. “An honest one.”

  Dane kept up the chatter, eating his dinner without seeming to notice the sudden tension from his father. Likely because he’s used to the man’s mood swings. She had no reason to regret her conversations with Jericho Delessan. She had done nothing wrong. Whatever problems the brothers had were between them and ran far deeper than her presence in their lives.

  Quilla finished her food, though she had little appetite for it. Gabriel might think he needed to fight with her, but Quilla was supposed to know what he really needed. And it wasn’t to battle with her about his brother in front of his son, who loved his uncle but worshipped his father.

  When the pudding had been scraped clean from its bowl and Dane told firmly several times there was no more to be had, Jorja arrived to take her young charge away.

  “Thank you for having dinner with me, Father,” Dane said formally, holding out his hand for Gabriel to shake.

  “I am pleased with your behavior,” replied Gabriel with equal formality.

  Dane came around the table to say good night to her, as well. “Good night, Quilla Caden.”

  “Good night, Dane Delessan,” Quilla replied, but when he held out his hand for hers to shake, she pulled him into her arms for a hug, instead.

  He smelled of sweet little boy, like active play and too much dessert. His hair ruffled against her cheek, and when his arms came around her neck to hug her in return, she closed her eyes at the sudden rush of emotion that filled her.

  “Good night,” Dane whispered, and she felt the press of his lips against her cheek. “Sleep right, Quilla.”

  “Sleep right, Dane.” She hugged him again, then let him go.

  Jorja took him by the hand to lead him from the dining hall, but at the last second, Dane tugged free his hand and ran back to his father. Gabriel looked surprised at the way Dane threw his arms around him and hugged him, too, but after only a moment his arms went around his son and he hugged him back.

  “Sleep right, Father.”

  When the boy had gone, Quilla pushed away her plate, dessert untouched. Gabriel made no play at games. He dismissed Vernon and settled back into his chair after filling his glass with wine again.

  “Have I ever made you cry?”

  She held out her glass to be filled, and sipped before answering. “Do you measure my esteem by the amount of tears I’ve shed? Is that what you wish to know?”

  He said nothing, just sipped, watching her. Quilla matched his gaze. The wine was good. Strong. The color of rubies in her glass. The color of the gown he’d bought her. If he had questions, she could only wait for him to ask.

  “Have I made you cry, Handmaiden?”

  “You have not, my lord.”

  “And yet neither have I made you laugh.”

  Quilla sipped again, letting the sweet, rich flavor fill her mouth before swallowing. “What are you asking me?”

  “How did my brother become your friend, yet I have not?”

  The question, posed in a voice so honest, so vulnerable, made her put down her glass and go to him. She settled herself onto his lap, arm around his shoulder, fingers whispering through his hair.

  “You are more than a friend to me, Gabriel.”

  He put his face to the comfort of her bosom, his cheek hot on her bared flesh. “I am your patron. I know.”

  “You are. And I am your Handmaiden.”

  His arms tightened around her. “And ’tis your purpose to give me solace.”

  “And my pleasure, too. This you know.”

  He held her tighter against him. “And when you have brought me absolute solace, you will leave me.”

  Grief in his voice matched the fullness in her own chest and the burning of tears in her eyes. “That is the way it’s done. Yes.”

  “Then though it is wrong, I do not wish to be so soothed.” Incredibly, he shook a little, his arms holding her close to his body. His voice, muffled against her chest, broke. “I won’t be.”

  “Then I will have failed in my duty, my lord,” Quilla whispered, eyes overbrimming at last. She put her face into the springy, dark warmth of his hair and held on to him as tightly as she could. “Then I would have failed you.”

  He looked up at her, face bleak, dark eyes gone hollow. “You could never fail me, Tranquilla. You are—”

  “Oh, you gods-bedamned bitch!” The slurred voice from behind them made Quilla look up.

  Saradin looked rather less pulled together than she had during the brannigan, and only slightly less wild than she had the night she’d attacked Quilla in the kitchen. Her blonde hair looked weighted and lank, the tangled strands pulled into some semblance of style made sadder because of its lack of finesse. Allora Walles had been falling behind in her duties. Saradin’s gown, finely cut and adorned, nonetheless hung upon her like sackcloth. One belled sleeve had torn, and through the gash Quilla could see a long, angry scratch.

  “You smelly, oozing cunt,” Saradin continued, the ugly words falling from her lips like toads. “You bold and heartless prick!”

  “Saradin,” Gabriel said, as Quilla got up from his lap.

  “You. Shut. Your. Mouth.” Saradin sneered and advanced upon them. “I know what she is. She’s a whore. And you are a whoremonger.”

  Gabriel’s voice was cold. “Where is your nursemaid?”

  “I don’t need a nursemaid!” Saradin swiped a hand over her face, pulling it into a grim mask. She smiled, and Quilla saw with some disturbance that her teeth were yellowed. “I am not a child! I am your wife! Your lady wife!”

  “Then behave as a lady,” said Gabriel. “Though why I should expect you to start now, I don’t know.”

  This cold reply seemed to affect Saradin more harshly than his shout. Her face fell. She crumpled. She sank to the floor, skirts bunched around her knees. Her forehead hit the floor with a smack loud enough to make Quilla jump.

  “You don’t love me,” said Saradin in a voice made of jagged angles and pointed corners. “You. Don’t.”

  Quilla thought for sure Gabriel would soften at the sight of his wife’s despair, but he remained where he was. Saradin shook and a silver runner of drool strung from her lip. Several drops of blood beaded her forehead, and the white skin had already begun to purple with bruise. Her fingers twitched into claws and a low, guttural moan escaped her throat.

  It hurt Quilla to look at the woman, who, if not in physical pain, surely was experiencing mental anguish. She went to Saradin, who rightly should have been her enemy, and put her arms a