No Greater Pleasure Read online

  “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?”

  “ ’Tis not necessary,” came the brusque reply. “I told you, I am fulfilling my contract. I fulfill my obligations.”

  “Would it please you better if I took what you offered for granted and did not thank you?”

  Delessan put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “Of course it would not. You are being impertinent.”

  Quilla inclined her head in apology. “I plead your mercy, my lord. I did not mean to be.”

  “Why do I not believe you?”

  “I’m certain I don’t know.”

  He scowled and huffed, though seemingly without fire. “Is that what you’re taught in the Order? To sass your patrons?”

  “Only if I think ’twill please them,” Quilla said and went back to the shelves of books.

  She waited for him to comment, smiling, back turned to him so he could not see her face. He didn’t, as she’d expected he would not. But he didn’t mutter quite so loudly after that, and once she even thought she heard the faintest sound of a chuckle.

  Seventhday had passed, for Quilla at least, in meditation. Glad Tidings had a small chapel that didn’t look as though it got much use. She hadn’t minded. A day to herself was luxury, indeed.

  The next morning, Delessan surprised her with conversation. “My son will be arriving this afternoon. My brother is sending him ahead and will arrive later.”

  “How lovely for you.” Quilla poured him another cup of tea, adding the sugar and lemon he preferred, and set it in front of him. “You must be looking forward to that.”

  Delessan frowned. “I shall have to put aside my work for the afternoon to greet him.”

  She slanted a glance at him as she sliced the simplebread she’d baked for his breakfast. “And this displeases you because you feel it will set you behind in your tasks.”

  He nodded, slowly, his eyes traveling over her face. “You know how to judge me, yet you seem to make no judgment.”

  “ ’Tis not my place to judge you, but to understand you.”

  “But surely you can’t help having an opinion,” Delessan said.

  “My opinion is irrelevant, my lord.” Quilla Waited at his feet on the rug before the fire.

  “What if I told you it would please me for you to give it?”

  She smiled. “Then I would provide it for your pleasure.”

  Delessan made a disgruntled noise. “Do most of your patrons find a mindless puppet pleasing?”

  “Actually, yes, my lord. Many of my patrons find their greatest solace in having their own opinions and feelings reflected to them.”

  “So you lie to them.”

  “I do my best not to lie, but rather to adjust my thinking to theirs in order to provide them the best service.”

  He frowned again, watching her over the rim of his teacup. “I love my son, yet I find it difficult to interact with him.”

  She nodded. “He is how old?”

  “Seven. No. Eight.”

  “And you feel you ought to be able to interact with him as you would . . .” She paused, allowing him to finish the sentence.

  “As I would my son.”

  She Waited. He looked at her, frowning, brow furrowed and mouth pursed. He gave a heavy, long-suffering sigh. “Or so I suppose. Why? How do you think I expect to interact with him?”

  “Perhaps you find yourself impatient with him because you feel you should be able to interact with him on a higher intellectual level than he is capable of maintaining. Perhaps you are impatient with yourself because you don’t have the patience to speak down to a child, or to wait for him to catch up to you.”

  He stared at her for so long she was certain he would not speak again, but when he did, she did not imagine the tone of respect in it. “How do you know this about me?”

  “ ’Tis my purpose and my—”

  “Yes, I know,” he interrupted. “And your place, I know this. But how? How do you do this?”

  Quilla sat back, thinking about it, really thinking about it for the first time in a long while. “It helps to know people collectively in order to know them individually. I have studied many people.”

  “I don’t find I much care for being compared to many people.”

  She smiled. “Most people don’t. They like to think of themselves as individuals.”

  That earned her a faint upward curve of his mouth. “You’re doing it again. Using what you know of other men to think you know me.”

  “I have no other choice,” she said, “until you allow me to know you, instead.”

  The fire lit his dark eyes as he watched her. Finally, he gestured. “Come here.”

  Obediently, she stood and went to him. He reached up to tug the cord holding her braid at the bottom. The weight of her hair sprang free, loose dark waves tumbling over her shoulders and back. He ran his fingers through it, catching them in the curls and pulling enough to make small, bright sparks of pain tingle along her scalp. Quilla said nothing, watching him, her eyes on his.

  “It would please me to see you wear your hair down upon occasion,” Delessan said.

  “Then I shall.”

  He took his fingers out of her hair and looked toward the fire. “My son. How do you suggest I interact with him?”

  “I would suggest, perhaps, that you play with him.”

  He gave her a slanted, assessing glance. “Play? I’m not sure I know how.”

  “I could teach you,” she said gently. “But I do think it would be better if you learned from him.”