No Greater Pleasure

by Megan Hart

  Her sudden lack of weapon did not deter Saradin, who screamed and sprang at Quilla’s face, her fingers hooked into claws as deadly as any from a beast. Quilla, on instinct, had raised her arm to shield her face after the knife missed her, and when the woman slapped at her, Quilla reached out and grabbed the offending hand, squeezing the fingers to prevent her from using it.

  “Whore! Whore! Whore!” Saradin slapped at Quilla. The heat of the woman’s breath laced with spittle stung like drops of acid on Quilla’s cheeks and forehead. Saradin reached around with her free hand and grabbed Quilla’s unbound hair, pulling so hard it bent Quilla forward.

  “Let me go!”

  “Whoooooooore!”

  The drawn-out scream hurt Quilla’s ears as she struggled with Gabriel’s wife, trying not to hurt the madwoman while desperately fighting not to get hurt herself.

  Fury and insanity had given Saradin a strength her petite size denied. She whaled away at Quilla, slapping and kicking, and Quilla stumbled back against the table, the mistress on top of her, fetid breath in her face like that of a rabid dog. Curds of spittle had gathered in the corners of the other woman’s mouth as she screamed and spat.

  Quilla turned her head to avoid being splattered with more of the woman’s spittle, and Saradin yanked her hair forward to slam her head down on the table hard enough that Quilla saw stars. Scrabbling up her body like a crawpappy in a creek bed, the screaming woman kicked and scratched and even tried to bite.

  “Get off me!” Quilla’s voice rang through Florentine’s tidy kitchen.

  The table beneath them moved beneath the force of the woman’s attack. It scraped the stone floor. Quilla couldn’t get purchase with her feet, no leverage to move herself against the woman who snapped her jaws.

  “Whore! Slut! Ruiner of households!”

  The insults were easier to take than the hitting, and Quilla focused on getting out from under the woman. The table moved again, pushed along by Saradin’s desperate attempts to climb on top of Quilla and what . . . beat her into submission? Harm her? Kill her?

  Because that was, she saw with sudden horror, exactly what Saradin seemed intent on doing. The table had moved so far across the floor the mistress could now reach a hand into the block of slotted wood that held the knives Florentine used for cutting and slicing vegetables. As fast as a striking snake, she yanked a blade from the block. A long one, and sharp, not serrated like the bread knife but its edge gleaming deadly sharp.

  Thanking the Invisible Mother that Saradin’s aim was no better than it had been the first time, Quilla rolled as the blade came down, missing her face by a scant handbreadth.

  “Whore!”

  Quilla didn’t bother replying, merely used the power in her shoulder to knock the woman back a bit. This time, the blade came down harder . . . and closer.

  “See how well you like the kiss of my knife,” panted the mistress. “See how you like it up your cunny, fucking you! See how it feels to have a blade fuck you instead of my husband!”

  Quilla had nowhere to go, no room to roll, and the mistress had effectively pinned her. The woman raised her knife again, all screaming done as she pointed it at Quilla’s face.

  “Get off her!”

  In the next instant, unseen hands yanked Saradin back, and Quilla rolled off the table, ending up on the floor. She looked up, her hands in front of her to protect herself. Saradin spit and squalled in Jericho’s grasp like a cat in a sack, her eyes focused with venom on Quilla, but the knife was now on the table and no longer in her hands.

  “Calm down or I’ll turn you on your arse!”

  Quilla stood, watching Saradin struggle in Jericho’s unforgiving grasp. Quilla smoothed her rumpled dress with shaking hands, feeling for injuries and finding the slice in her sleeve. Her fingers came away wet with blood. The metallic tang of it filled her nostrils and made her light-headed.

  Jericho shook Saradin until her golden hair flew. “Enough, you crazy bitch! Enough! Else I mean it, I’ll put you down!”

  Light filled the kitchen as Florentine came through the doorway and raised the flames on the oil lamps, something that Quilla ought to have done. If she’d been able to see the woman’s face and the madness in her eyes, she might have been better prepared. Or not, she amended herself, watching the mistress calm herself so quickly and completely it was as though she’d never held a knife in her hand at all.

  “What by Sinder’s Bloody Balls is going on in here?” Florentine shouted, tying her robe around her, hair askew, some sort of thick cream covering her face. “Quilla, what by the Void are you doing? And you?”

  Florentine pointed at Jericho, who still gripped the mistress’s arms so tight his fingers left red marks on her pale skin.

  “Keeping this one from killing the other.”

  “Manhandling your brother’s wife is a certain way to get him to kick your arse out to the street, Jericho. No matter what she’s done.” Florentine smoothed her hair back from her face, eyes taking in the disrupted kitchen and displaced table, the knife on the floor. Her gaze came up to meet Quilla’s, and the chatelaine crossed the kitchen to take Quilla’s arm.

  “You, sit.” She pushed Quilla into a chair, then pointed at Jericho. “You. Take her out of here. Billy!”

  Hanging the kettle on the fire, Florentine ordered Billy to run and get the master. To Bertram who’d appeared after Billy, she gave the command to find Mistress Walles.

  Jericho held Saradin, who was no longer struggling. He looked at Quilla. “She needs taking care of, Flora.”

  Any other time, Quilla would have been surprised at Jericho’s casual nickname for the cook. As it was, her head had begun to spin. The sight of the blood or perhaps the loss of it, or more likely, simply her body’s already wobbly defenses. Quilla promptly put her head between her knees, but the world still went first gray, edged with red and then black.

  A hand on her face made her flutter her eyes. That, and the raised masculine timbre of voices, shouting. She smelled something sharp and her eyes opened wide. She gasped and choked at the stench of something chemical.

  “Are you all right?” This from Jericho, whose concerned face hovered a handbreadth from hers.

  Quilla meant to speak, to at least nod, but couldn’t seem to manage.

  “Get her out of here!” Another masculine voice, deeper. Gabriel.

  “My lord,” Quilla struggled to say. She was not supposed to be the one in need of care.

  “Shh.” Jericho smoothed her hair from her face as she struggled to sit. “Don’t fret.”

  She looked to see Gabriel force a spoonful of something between his wife’s lips, then hold her jaws shut. Pinkish liquid trickled from the corners of her mouth, but when he let go of her face a moment later, she didn’t spit anything out. A moment or two after that the fire in her eyes, directed over her husband’s shoulder at Quilla, began to fade. And yet another passed before the mistress Delessan sagged in her husband’s arms, face going blank.

  Quilla pushed Jericho’s hand from her hair and sat, wincing at the way her dress, stuck to her with dried blood, pulled and stung the wound. “I’m fine.”

  “Just sit for a moment more.”

  “I’m—”

  The entrance of Allora Walles, who pushed Bertram out of the way when she stumbled into the kitchen, interrupted Quilla’s protest. At the sight of her mistress in her master’s arms, Allora’s face went the color of snow. She gathered her cloak around her—a cloak, not a robe, Quilla noticed shrewdly, also seeing how the maid’s hair was rumpled and strewn with bits of chaff.

  “My lady!” Allora cried, rushing to her.

  “Your lady has behaved most grievously,” said Gabriel. “Wandering about when she should be safe in bed, sleeping.”

  Allora ducked her head, bobbing a curtsy. “She was asleep, my lord, I swear.”

  “I want none of your oaths. She was not sleeping. She was out of bed and well enough, strong enough, to attack my—to attack her.” He barely g
lanced at Quilla, who had begun unbuttoning her dress in order to slip out of the sleeve and assess the damage left behind from Saradin’s knife.

  “I gave her the draught, my lord, I swear to you I did.” Allora had the good grace to blush and smooth her tangled curls back from her forehead. “Perhaps she didn’t drink it.”

  Gabriel looked at the woman sagging in his arms and passed her off to Florentine, who walked her to Allora. “Perhaps she did not. But ’tis your duty to make sure she drinks it at night, Allora Walles, to prevent this sort of thing from happening. If I had anyone else she trusted enough to care for her, I’d turn you out right now.”

  Gabriel in a normal mood was intimidating enough. Gabriel Delessan angry, truly angry, was enough to make Allora Walles burst into terrified tears. Not because he was screaming, no. A raised voice might be a tool for lesser men. All Delessan needed to do was turn his gaze upon his wife’s maid, to speak in a voice as cold as the depths of Loch Eltourna. It was more impressive and frightening than if he’d railed and yelled, and Quilla had no doubt that Gabriel knew the exact impact of not only each word, but each syllable he spoke.

  “My lord, I plead your mercy!” Allora got on her knees—actually got on her knees in front of him, which made Quilla grit her teeth before she noticed and forced her jaw to relax. “I put her to bed and went—”

  Gabriel reached down and plucked a piece of straw from her hair. “I don’t pay you to fuck. I pay you to tend my lady wife. Get off your knees and take her to her room, and do the job you’re paid to do.”

  Allora got up, nodding, and put her arm around Saradin’s waist. “Come, my lady. Let’s get you to bed.”

  Whatever Gabriel had given her had made Saradin pliant and docile, and she smiled, eyes closed. “Yes, Allora, yes, yes.”

  Quilla watched as Allora led Saradin out of the room. When she looked up again, she saw her patron staring at her with a look she couldn’t determine. In the next moment, she no longer had to guess, because his gaze grew stormy and he crossed the kitchen to snatch her now empty sleeve.

  “What are you doing?”

  “My lord, I—” She’d meant to say she’d been trying to take a look at the wound. The flash of his eyes stopped her. She pulled up her sleeve.

  “Leave her alone, Gabriel. She’s been hurt.” Jericho pushed his brother aside to stand in front of Quilla, who put her hand on his arm.

  “No, it’s all right.”

  “Get out of the way, Jericho.”

  Jericho looked at his brother, and stepped out of the way, inclining his head. “She’s yours, after all, though I do think you should take better care of her.”

  Quilla got to her feet between them, a hand on each of their chests. If she hadn’t still been so woozy, she might have found the situation amusing and surreal. She’d never had two men posturing over her before. And that was a ridiculous thing to have happen, because there could be no contest between them.

  She turned to face Gabriel. He was her patron. She belonged to him. Jericho’s kindness could not replace the simple fact of who she was. Gabriel’s Handmaiden.

  “My lord, I apologize. I was not thinking.” She tried to put her arm back in the sleeve, but the wound and dried blood made it too difficult. She hissed in pain. Gabriel’s eyes flashed again.

  “Stop,” he said. “Florentine, get a wet cloth for her, are you out of your mind? She’s bleeding all over the place.”

  Florentine gave a sniff, but did as she was told, pushing Jericho out of the way. “Move, you great git.”

  Jericho stepped away. Quilla could see him from the corner of her eye. He was watching her.

  “Do we need a medicus?” Gabriel’s voice was gentle and pulled her attention back to him.

  The fact he even needed to draw her attention embarrassed her. Her mind ought to be on him. She shook her head, looking at her arm. The wound had bled freely but didn’t appear to be deep enough to need stitches. “I don’t think so.”

  Gabriel took the wet cloth from Florentine and wiped away the smears with gentle hands. Quilla winced, but the pain was numbing. She’d bear a scar.

  “I’ll be all right.” The words came out more a reassurance than she’d intended, and she wasn’t certain whom she was reassuring: herself, or him. “Really.”

  She put her hand over his. He looked down at it for a moment, then back to her eyes. His gaze snared her for a moment and she could not speak.

  “Forgive me, brother, for overstepping my bounds.” Jericho gave a terse, well-executed bow, turned on his heel, and left the kitchen.

  Florentine handed Gabriel a length of towel, stripped to make a bandage, which he tied round the wound. A crimson rose bloomed on the white sackcloth at first, but a small one, and after a moment spread no farther.

  “If that’s all the excitement for now, I’m off to bed. The sun rises early,” Florentine said pointedly.

  “Go. I’ll be fine,” replied Quilla.

  Gabriel waited until the cook left the kitchen. “Can you stand?”

  She nodded, getting to her feet. The floor swayed beneath her, and she put out a hand to steady herself. He caught her by the good arm.

  In the next instant, he’d bent and put an arm beneath her knees to scoop her into his arms.

  “My lord—”

  He made an impatient noise. “I don’t want you falling down the stairs.”

  “Nor do I want you to fall down them,” she murmured, letting her cheek fall against his chest. “I am no feather pillow.”

  The deep rumble of a chuckle took her by surprise. “Indeed, you are not. But I’m not so weak that I can’t carry you at least part of the way.”

  As he put his foot to the first step, he shifted her weight more firmly in his arms. His fingers tightened on her. She kept her body relaxed, though a vision of the two of them tumbling down the stairs like broken dolls made her want to tense.

  “You don’t need to carry me to help me,” she told him quietly.

  He made it up to the first landing before pausing. His breath was heavier. Against her cheek the pounding of his heart grew fiercer.

  “You can put—”

  “Hush, Handmaiden.”

  “If it pleases you.”

  He shifted her again, and Quilla curled her arms around his neck to do what she could to ease the burden of her weight. She took her own deep breaths, using the meditations of the Order to keep her mind clear.

  Gabriel took a deep breath and started up the next flight of stairs, which were steeper and less decorative than the first had been. By the time they reached the second landing, his arms trembled and sweat dotted his brow. He stopped again to rest.

  “I’m feeling better, my lord.”

  He hitched her higher up, resettling her in his arms. “Only a bit farther.”

  She murmured a soft noise of assent and kept up her meditations.

  “What’s that you’re mumbling?” Gabriel’s voice came in breathy puffs, but they’d reached the top of the stairs. He leaned against the wall, but didn’t put her down.

  “And help me have the strength to deal with stubborn men,” she replied, sharing the last part of her meditation. “’Tis a prayer to the Invisible Mother.”

  He seemed too winded to have much ire. “I am not men, Handmaiden, must I tell you a hundred times?”

  Quilla wiggled until he allowed her to slide out of his arms. Her feet rested on the floor, but he still supported her. She allowed him, though she felt well enough to stand on her own.

  “No, my lord.”

  He grumbled. “I thought Handmaidens were supposed to be told only once.”

  She smiled, something he wouldn’t be able to see very well in the hall’s dim light. “I am not Handmaidens.”

  Gabriel wiped his face with the hand not around her waist. This hall, if taken to the right, led to the stairs to his workshop and studio. To the left, those to her garret.

  “I believe I can manage the rest of the way on my own, my lord.�
�

  “And I believe it necessary for me to be certain you get to your bed without further incident.”

  Quilla smiled again. “If it pleases you.”

  “Yes, it bloody pleases me.”

  He made to pick her up again, not quite as easily as he’d done in the kitchen. Quilla laid her head against his chest, aiding him with quiet and pliant nonresistance, though she felt his struggle. When they got to the end of the hall and the narrow doorway leading upstairs, it was very clear there would not be room for him to take her up in his arms.

  He set her down on the first step, his arm about her waist and her arm still behind his neck. She lowered it but kept close to him. He smelled good, and his effort to help her touched her more than it amused her.

  “You can follow me up,” she whispered, the dark and quiet seeming to invite silence. “To be sure I make it there all right.”

  “Yes.”

  She slipped her arm from his neck and started up the stairs, his presence at her back an unexpected comfort. Dizziness assailed her again by the time they reached the top, and she was grateful for his hand upon her. A tiny corridor led the way to her room, and she used both hands on the walls to help her get through it.

  She paused in the doorway to turn the oil lantern up, to give the room a brighter glow, then moved toward the bed.

  “This is your room?”

  She paused in turning down the covers, turning to look at him. He walked around the room, looking at everything. It didn’t take him long to catalog the contents with his eyes, for there wasn’t very much in it.

  “This is the room in your house to which I’ve been assigned.” He grunted, going to the door to the washroom and opening it, looking around inside, rattling the washbasin on its stand. Then he came out and peered into the wardrobe.

  He turned to face her, looking around the room with a frown. “This room is . . .”

  Quilla bent her head to hide a smile. “This is the room you provided for me.”

  “It’s very unwelcoming.”