No Greater Pleasure Read online

  She could do little about the smell from the chemicals, but the scent of the brewing tea and the freshly baked simplebread at least covered it up somewhat. Today, he appeared dressed no less formally than the day before. Quilla paused, bent over the pan of simplebread, to look at him.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  He grunted and took two steps toward the worktable before pausing and turning back. “What do I smell?”

  “Tea and simplebread, my lord.”

  “What kind of tea?”

  “Something I brewed for you myself.”

  “The kitchen is the place for baking, not my studio.” Yet he took another step forward, as though his nose were leading him despite the protests of his mind.

  “It’s only simplebread,” Quilla explained, lifting the pan with the help of a thick towel. “Really no trouble at all.”

  Delessan’s mouth turned down, but he sat in his chair, smoothing his fingers over the throw. “And what’s this? And that?”

  He pointed to the kettle and cup she’d filled with tea.

  “I thought the blanket might look nice. The kettle and cups I found in the storage closet downstairs. The others were in disgraceful repair. I thought you deserved better, but these were the best to be had.”

  She’d been slicing the simplebread and arranging the thick, fragrant slices on a plate, not looking at him. When she looked up, she met his eyes. He was staring, lips parted. When her gaze met his, he closed his mouth, thinning the lips.

  “Think you I cannot provide my own repairs to my chair? Replace my own kettle when it needs replacing?”

  Quilla handed him the plate. “Think you can? Certainly. Think you would? Nay, else you’d have done so. ’Tis my duty to provide you with what you need, my lord, so you don’t need to ask for it. I saw the kettle was imperfect, and thought to replace it, but if you prefer the old one, I will bring it back.”

  He held up the plate of simplebread, smelling it. “No. The new one is fine.”

  She waited, watching while he took a bite of the firm, fresh bread. Then she handed him a napkin. He wiped his lips free of crumbs. “I’m surprised you didn’t offer to wipe my mouth for me.”

  “You didn’t care for me washing your hands,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “I would not assume you’d care to have me wipe your mouth.”

  That look again, as though she’d grown an extra eye. Quilla kept her expression serene as she swept the hearth clean, aware of his scrutiny. When she looked up again, he was still staring.

  “How might I serve you?”

  He looked momentarily startled. “I will arrange for you to have access to a credit account of your own. You will use it to purchase anything you think this room needs. And anything you need beyond what I’ve already given you.”

  Quilla inclined her head in acknowledgment of his generosity. “Thank you.”

  “In the afternoons, when I wish not to be disturbed, you will have time to go to the market, if you wish. Otherwise, tell Florentine or Bertram what it is you wish to order and they will arrange for the craftsman to come.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded abruptly and set the plate aside with only crumbs left upon it, then got up from his chair. “I don’t have all day to stand about chattering, Handmaiden.”

  He pushed past her and headed for his worktable. Behind him, as she tidied up the remains of his breakfast, Quilla smiled.

  I heard screaming in the night. This has been the third time.” Quilla watched Florentine roll out the thin dough, pat it with some flour, then cut it into strips and hang the finished noodles over the rack to dry.

  Florentine looked up at her. “You didn’t. You was dreaming.”

  “I wasn’t dreaming, Florentine.”

  “You might as well have been, for all the gossip you’ll pry from my lips.”

  Quilla smiled and handed the cook another ball of soft dough. “I wouldn’t dream of forcing you into telling tales. I’m merely telling you what I heard.”

  Florentine pausing in the rolling to give Quilla a narrow glare. “I thought Handmaidens was supposed to be respectful. You’ve got sassiness in every bone, you have.”

  Quilla laughed. “Handmaidens are trained to provide subservience of manner and provision. We are not required to be cowering mice. You can respect someone and still tease them, and likewise, treat a person with the utmost outward appearance of solicitude while inside you mock them.”

  “Either way, you’re sassy.” Florentine gestured at the young woman who’d just entered the kitchen. “You! Watch where you’re stepping, you’ll drag flour all over the place!”

  The young woman sniffed and lifted the hem of her skirts to show delicate ribboned slippers. “I merely came down to prepare the tea for my lady’s afternoon respite.”

  She smoothed a blonde curl over one shoulder and looked over at Quilla, who smiled though she could already tell this young woman was going to cause her trouble. “I’m Allora Walles, companion to my lady Saradin. Mistress of this house. And you are Tranquilla Caden, the master’s Handmaiden.”

  “You mean you came down to have me prepare the tea,” cut in Florentine, grumbling as she left off the noodle preparation and moved toward the fire to hang the kettle over the flame. “And Quilla, I daresay, already knows who the mistress of the house is.”

  “Does she?” Allora pursed perfect pink lips and stared at Quilla without bothering to hide her disdain. “I suppose a . . . Handmaiden . . . would.”

  The contempt she put into the word made Quilla grit her teeth, but she kept her smile pleasant when she replied, “I have yet to have the pleasure of making Mistress Delessan’s acquaintance.”

  “And ’tis quite unlikely that you will.” Allora moved closer to Quilla, looking over her clothes with a raised brow. “Our master has been generous with you.”

  Quilla looked at her plum-colored gown. “I brought this with me. It’s mine.”

  “Really? The fabric is exceptionally fine.” Allora reached a hand to pinch the cloth of Quilla’s sleeve. “The cut is rather elegant, too. Funny, I thought Handmaidens wore rather less than this.”

  Quilla pulled her sleeve from the other woman’s grasp. “This dress suits my preferences. If our lord Delessan chooses to clothe me differently, then I shall acquiesce to his wishes.”

  “Of course.” Allora’s smirk made Quilla purse her lips briefly, but long enough for the lady’s maid to see. The maid smiled, her blue eyes glinting. “You must tell me more about your work, Tranquilla. What a charming name, and so apt. It means calm, doesn’t it? And that’s what you do? Calm people?”

  “Yes, that is part of my function. Yes. And Allora means ‘devious beauty.’ ”

  Allora tossed her hair over her shoulders. “I need to bring my lady her tea. Otherwise she gets . . . disturbed.”

  “More’n she already is?” Florentine scoffed, but pulled the whistling kettle off the fire and poured the hot water into the teapot. “Allora, take the mistress some of those cinnamon biscuits from the cupboard. They’re in the tin with the hounds etched on top.”

  Allora heaved a sigh so great it lifted her shoulders, as though Florentine had asked her to walk a mile across broken glass, but she sauntered to the cupboard and pulled out the tin. “Extra sugar on the tray, Florentine. You know the mistress likes her tea sweet.”

  “I know you like it sweet, Allora Walles. The mistress could use a bit of sugar in her. You, on the other hand, could likely stand to cut back a bit.”

  Allora whirled, tin in hand, chin up, and eyes blazing. “A fine one to talk you are, you old fat cow!”

  Florentine only chuckled. “Fat I may be, but this is hard-earned. A badge of honor to my profession, like. You, on the other hand, my plumpy, should mayhaps concern yourself less with stuffing your face and more with some brisk walking round the gardens.”

  Allora’s mouth worked without sound while the spots of color in her creamy cheeks grew increasingly hectic. “You! I! N